At the end of a quarter of a mile he desired to rest. But the
Indians kept on. He stayed with them, and kept his place in the
line. At the half mile he was convinced that he was incapable of
another step, yet he gritted his teeth, kept his place, and at the
end of the mile was amazed that he was still alive. Then, in some
strange way, came the thing called second wind, and the next mile
was almost easier than the first. The third mile nearly killed him,
and, though half delirious with pain and fatigue, he never
whimpered. And then, when he felt he must surely faint, came the
rest. Instead of sitting in the straps, as was the custom of the
white packers, the Indians slipped out of the shoulder- and head-
straps and lay at ease, talking and smoking. A full half hour
passed before they made another start. To Kit's surprise he found
himself a fresh man, and 'long hauls and long rests' became his
newest motto.

The pitch of Chilcoot was all he had heard of it, and many were the
occasions when he climbed with hands as well as feet. But when he
reached the crest of the divide in the thick of a driving snow-
squall, it was in the company of his Indians, and his secret pride
was that he had come through with them and never squealed and never
lagged. To be almost as good as an Indian was a new ambition to
cherish.

When he had paid off the Indians and seen them depart, a stormy
darkness was falling, and he was left alone, a thousand feet above
timber line, on the back-bone of a mountain. Wet to the waist,
famished and exhausted, he would have given a year's income for a
fire and a cup of coffee. Instead, he ate half a dozen cold flap-