He stopped, for Mukoki had thrown himself on his knees in the snow a
dozen feet in front of the teams. From that point there ran straight
ahead of them the trail of the dog mail. For perhaps a full minute he
examined the imprints of the dogs' feet and the smooth path made
by the sledge. Then he looked up, and with one of those inimitable
chuckles which meant so much when coming from him, he said:

"We catch heem--sure! See--sledge heem go _deep_. Both ride. Big load
for dogs. We catch heem--sure!"

"But our dogs!" persisted Wabigoon, his face still filled with doubt.
"They're completely bushed, and my leader has gone lame. See how
they're bleeding!"

The huskies, as the big wolfish sledge-dogs of the far North are
called, were indeed in a pitiable condition. The warm sun had weakened
the hard crust of the snow until at every leap the feet of the animals
had broken through, tearing and wounding themselves on its ragged,
knife-like edges. Mukoki's face became more serious as he carefully
examined the teams.

"Bad--ver' bad," he grunted. "We fool--fool!"

"For not bringing dog shoes?" said Wabigoon. "I've got a dozen shoes
on my sledge--enough for three dogs. By George--" He leaped quickly to
his toboggan, caught up the dog moccasins, and turned again to the old
Indian, alive with new excitement. "We've got just one chance, Muky!"
he half shouted.

"Pick out the strongest dogs. One of us must go on alone!"