As they dashed past, both white men had one fleeting glimpse of a woman's
face beneath a furred hood, and then it was gone. For a moment they stood
and stared after the fast-dwindling team, while the breath of the Arctic
sea stiffened their garments and froze their boot-soles to the ice.

"Did you see?" Fraser ejaculated. "Good Lord, it's a _woman!_ A
_blonde_ woman!"

Emerson stirred himself. "Nonsense! She must be a breed," said he.

"Breeds don't have yellow hair!" declared the other.

Swiftly they bent in the free dogs and lashed the team to a run. They felt
the chill of death in their bones, and instead of riding they ran with the
sled till their blood beat painfully. Their outer coverings were like
shells, their underclothes were soaked, and although their going was
difficult and clumsy, they dared not stop, for this is the extremest peril
of the North.

Ten minutes later they swung over the river-bank and into the midst of
great rambling frame buildings, seen dimly through the falling snow. Their
trail led them to a high-banked cabin, from the stovepipe of which they
saw heat-waves pouring. The dogs broke into cry, and were answered by many
others conjured from their hiding-places. Both men were greatly distressed
by now, and could handle themselves only with difficulty. Another mile
would have meant disaster.

"Rout out the owner and tell him we're wet," said Emerson; "I'll free the
dogs."