canvas bags that contained the mail, and the food and gear for
dogs and men. In front of it, in a single line, lay curled five
frost-rimed dogs. They were huskies, matched in size and color,
all unusually large and all gray. From their cruel jaws to their
bushy tails they were as like as peas in their likeness to
timber-wolves. Wolves they were, domesticated, it was true, but
wolves in appearance and in all their characteristics. On top
the sled load, thrust under the lashings and ready for immediate
use, were two pairs of snowshoes.

Bettles pointed to a robe of Arctic hare skins, the end of which
showed in the mouth of a bag.

"That's his bed," he said. "Six pounds of rabbit skins. Warmest
thing he ever slept under, but I'm damned if it could keep me
warm, and I can go some myself. Daylight's a hell-fire furnace,
that's what he is."

"I'd hate to be that Indian," Doc Watson remarked.

"He'll kill'm, he'll kill'm sure," Bettles chanted exultantly.
"I know. I've ben with Daylight on trail. That man ain't never
ben tired in his life. Don't know what it means. I seen him
travel all day with wet socks at forty-five below. There ain't
another man living can do that."

While this talk went on, Daylight was saying good-by to those
that clustered around him. The Virgin wanted to kiss him, and,
fuddled slightly though he was with the whiskey, he saw his way
out without compromising with the apron-string. He kissed the