cracked like a repeating rifle over the pack. The dogs responded and sped
through the night. Behind them the pandemonium of dog voices in the other
camp had ceased. Men had leaped into life. Fifteen dogs were
straightening in the tandem trace of a single sledge.

Dolores laughed, a sobbing, broken laugh, that in itself was a cry of
despair. "Peter, if they come up with us, what shall we do?"

"If they overtake us," said Peter, "give me the revolver. It is fully
loaded?"

"I have cartridges--"

For the first time she remembered that she had not filled the three empty
chambers. Crooking her arm under the gee-bar, she fumbled in her pocket.
The dogs, refreshed by their sleep and urged by Uppy's whip, were tearing
off the first mile at a great speed. The trail ahead of them was level
and hard again. Uppy knew they were on the edge of the big barren of the
Lacs Delesse, and he cracked his whip just as the off runner of the
sledge struck a hidden snow-blister. There was a sudden lurch, and in a
vicious up-shoot of the gee-bar the revolver was knocked from Dolores'
hand--and was gone. A shriek rose to her lips, but she stifled it before
it was given voice. Until this minute she had not felt the terror of
utter hopelessness upon her. Now it made her faint. The revolver had not
only given her hope, but also a steadfast faith in herself. From the
beginning she had made up her mind how she would use it in the end, even
though a few moments before she had asked Peter what they would do.

Crumpled down on the sledge, she clung to Peter, and suddenly the
inspiration came to her not to let him know what had happened. Her arms