Suddenly Skookum stopped dead still. In vain MacShane yelled to urge him on. One of the new dogs laid down, and MacShane took him to the sled. He hurried to Skookum and with a hand on the great dog’s collar tried to start him. But the dog was immovable. MacShane walked ahead, and not ten yards away he plunged over a cliff. The fall of twenty or thirty feet did no more than give him a shaking up, as he alighted in a huge drift of the new-fallen snow, but it was a good half-hour before he managed to regain the upper level. The dogs had made good use of the interval and all were lying down in the harness. MacShane was lost! He had been lost a hundred times, but never before had it mattered. Always he had camped until the conditions that had caused his predicament had righted themselves, but now to camp meant to lose the race. Over and over, as he had frantically tried to scale the cliff, he had kept repeating to himself, “I’ve got to win! I’ve got to win!” He reasoned that the trail lay to the westward, as the terrific wind had gradually forced them off the course. “Gee! Skookum! Gee!” he cried, “Mush-a! Mush! Hi! Mush-a! Mush-a!” This time the leader threw himself into the collar, and the whole team responded with a will. The air was an impenetrable wall of whirling, stinging fog, and gripping the handle bars, MacShane urged the dogs on, he knew not whither. On, and on, they bored through the seething smother. An hour passed--two hours, and suddenly MacShane felt the sled accelerate. He quickened his pace to keep up, and in a few minutes more he was running! There was only one explanation--Skookum had found the trail! “Go it, Skookum! Mush-a! Mush-a!” the wind tore the words from his lips and buried them in the fog--but the dogs ran on.