The going on the wind-packed snow of the Seward Peninsula was the fastest of the entire trip. The fastest, and by far the most trying and disagreeable, for the wind never for a moment ceased to harness and to buffet them. Nowhere in the known world does the wind persist with such malevolent, devilish force as upon the treeless waste of ridges and flats that lie between Nome and Candle. Forty, sixty, eighty, a hundred miles an hour it roars down upon the struggling traveler, seemingly endowed with intelligence and a certain devilish ingenuity for the annihilation of his outfit. To pitch a tent, or indeed to erect a shelter of any kind is an absolute impossibility. And there are times when the whole outfit is pushed, skidding and sliding off the trail to bring up with a crash against the first natural obstruction. Luckily, during the three days’ traverse of the one hundred and thirty miles to Council, the Gordons had the wind at their backs, so that on numerous stretches both father and daughter rode the sled with the dogs tearing along at full speed to keep from being run down. At Council Lou again had hard work to persuade her father to push on, for here, as at Candle, they were thawing with steam. After one day’s rest, which was no rest at all for Old Man Gordon, who visited every steam boiler within five miles of town, they pulled out early in the morning on the last lap of their long journey. “Only ninety miles to Nome!” cried the girl, as they flew over the crusted snow. “Soloman tonight, and tomorrow night--Nome!” “Aye,” answered the old man, “But ’twill be too late to see the big dumps. They tell me they’re several miles out. I’ll have to wait till next day to go out there.” At Topkok the two got their first view of the vast Pacific, its deep blue waves tossing their white manes high in the everlasting wind. The dogs were halted, and for a long time both stared in awed silence upon the mighty vastness of the scene. The dazzling whiteness of the snow in the bright sunshine, the cold green glitter of the great ice crags that reared their heads along the coast, and the warm blue of the ocean beyond held them in rapt admiration until the stinging wind tugging at parka hoods, and forcing its cold breath beneath their clothing, caused them to push on. The wind was at their side now, and the difficulties of the trail were innumerable, the heavily loaded sled turning over every few miles, or crashing sidewise into the telephone poles that lined the trail. The following day the wind blew even harder and it was not until long after dark that the weary travelers pulled into Nome, where too tired to even attempt the exploration of her brilliantly lighted wonder city, Lou Gordon gave her dogs into charge of the hotel dog keeper, and retired to her room where a few moments later she crept between the first white sheets she had ever seen, and sank into a deep and dreamless sleep. CHAPTER XIX ON DEATH VALLEY HILL