In a dozen brief sentences, he outlined the situation. The craps-player, his money still lying on the table and his slippery Joe Cotton still uncaptured, had come over to Smoke, and was now the first to speak. “We gotta do something. That's straight. But what? You've had time to think. What's your plan? Spit it out.” “Sure,” Smoke assented. “Here's what I've been thinking. We've got to hustle light sleds on the jump. Say a hundred pounds of grub on each sled. The driver's outfit and dog-grub will fetch it up fifty more. But they can make time. Say we start five of these sleds pronto--best running teams, best mushers and trail-eaters. On the soft trail the sleds can take the lead turn about. They've got to start at once. At the best, by the time they can get there, all those Indians won't have had a scrap to eat for three days. And then, as soon as we've got those sleds off we'll have to follow up with heavy sleds. Figure it out yourself. Two pounds a day is the very least we can decently keep those Indians traveling on. That's four hundred pounds a day, and, with the old people and the children, five days is the quickest time we can bring them into Mucluc. Now what are you going to do?” “Take up a collection to buy all the grub,” said the craps-player. “I'll stand for the grub,” Smoke began impatiently. “Nope,” the other interrupted. “This ain't your treat. We're all in. Fetch a wash-basin somebody. It won't take a minute. An' here's a starter.” He pulled a heavy gold-sack from his pocket, untied the mouth, and poured a stream of coarse dust and nuggets into the basin. A man beside him caught his hand up with a jerk and an oath, elevating the mouth of the sack so as to stop the run of the dust. To a casual eye, six or eight ounces had already run into the basin. “Don't be a hawg,” cried the second man. “You ain't the only one with a poke. Gimme a chance at it.” “Huh!” sneered the craps-player. “You'd think it was a stampede, you're so goshdanged eager about it.” Men crowded and jostled for the opportunity to contribute, and when they were satisfied, Smoke hefted the heavy basin with both hands and grinned. “It will keep the whole tribe in grub for the rest of the winter,” he said. “Now for the dogs. Five light teams that have some run in them.” A dozen teams were volunteered, and the camp, as a committee of the whole, bickered and debated, accepted and rejected. “Huh! Your dray-horses!” Long Bill Haskell was told. “They can pull,” he bristled with hurt pride. “They sure can,” he was assured. “But they can't make time for sour apples. They've got theirs cut out for them bringing up the heavy loads.” As fast as a team was selected, its owner, with half a dozen aids, departed to harness up and get ready.