As MacShane pulled out of Gold Run, Allen overtook him, and without stopping, pulled out right at his heels. With hands glued to the handle bars, MacShane studied his dogs as he ran. Skookum, the superb leader, was apparently as fresh as when he started. One by one, he watched critically each dog’s work, but could detect no hint of lameness or lagging. Iron man that he was, MacShane was beginning to tire. His muscles did not lag, but it was requiring a conscious effort of mind to hold them to the work. Johnson was nowhere in sight, and behind him he could hear Allen urging on his dogs. The temperature was rising, and MacShane, bathed in sweat, and conscious of a terrible thirst, sucked the first of the dozen lemons he had provided for the purpose. He reached Candle Creek, the turning point of the race five minutes behind Johnson. Allen was nowhere in sight. MacShane fed and watered his dogs, and rolling up in his rabbit robe was asleep in two minutes. When he awoke, an hour and a half later, both Johnson and Allen had left. Johnson had rested an hour, and Allen a half-hour. There was no hint of snow in the air as MacShane headed his dogs over the back trail. Apparently as fresh as when he started he urged his dogs to a faster pace, and at Gold Run, twenty-four miles away, he overtook Allen. He had made the two hundred and thirty miles in forty-four hours flat. Here he learned that Johnson was an hour ahead of him and going strong when he pulled out of Gold Run. He left five minutes after his arrival, and once again Allen was right at his heels. MacShane noted that Allen had taken a dog on his sled. He made Haven, two hundred and sixty-six miles from the starting point, in fifty-eight hours and thirty-five minutes. The air was full of snow, and he learned that Johnson was only forty minutes ahead of him and that he, too, had taken a dog on his sled. As MacShane approached Death Valley Hill, the wind rose to almost hurricane violence, and the character of the snow changed from definite flakes to a fine powdery snow-fog that bit and stung the flesh of his face like a thousand needle-points. With the snow-fog came a drop in temperature. MacShane’s mittens froze to the handle bars. The dogs slowed to three miles an hour. There was no trail, and try as he would MacShane could not see his leader. The wind swung the sled dangerously, and time after time MacShane nearly lost his handle bars.