It had been a ticklish operation, requiring nice skill and dexterity, but
now that his footing was sure the runner exerted his whole strength, and
as the dogs scratched and tore for firm foothold, the sled came crunching
closer and closer through the half-inch skin of ice. Then he reached down
and dragged Emerson out, dripping and nerveless from his immersion.
Together they rescued the outfit.

The person in the sledge had watched them silently, but now spoke in a
strange patois, and the breed gave voice to her words, for it was a woman.

"One mile you go--white man house. Go quick--you freeze." He pointed back
whence the two men had come, indicating the other branch of the trail.

Fraser had emerged meanwhile and circled the water-hole, but even this
brief exposure to the open air had served to harden his wet garments into
a crackling armor. With rattling teeth, he asked:

"Ain't you got no dry clothes? Our stuff is soaked."

Again the Indian translated some words from the girl.

"No! You hurry and no stop here. We go quick over yonder. No can stop at
all."

He hurried back to his mistress, cried once to the pack of gray dogs,
"Oonah!" and they were off as if in chase. They left the trail and circled
toward the shore, the driver standing erect upon the heels of the runners,
guiding his team with wide-flung gestures and sharp cries, the rush of air
fluttering the many squirrel-tails of his parka like fairy streamers.