My first thought was for them, so I drew out my hunting knife and cut them loose from the sled. They scrambled out as best they could, dragging themselves to solid ice. I next tried to haul the sled out of the water, but found it impossible, so I cut the ropes, let the load sink under the ice, and pulled out the empty sled. With all my food, clothes, dog-feed, and everything else lost, I managed to flounder through the water with the sled on my shoulder. When I got to solid ice once more I began to reflect upon the serious nature of my position. I was at least six miles from any cabin; from feet to neck I was covered with a solid coat of ice; and when I tried to light a fire the green wood refused to burn and my fingers began to freeze. Owing to the ice upon my clothes, I found it impossible to bend my knees, and I realized that my only chance of salvation lay in reaching Faith Creek, six miles away. Without wasting any further time, I fastened the dogs to the sled and started off. The wind commenced to blow again, and the trail was completely obliterated. The only thing I could do was to trust to the instinct of Nellie, my leading dog. She struggled on gamely through drifts and snow-banks, and the other dogs and myself followed her. The trail was so bad and my clothes were frozen so stiff that I could only travel at about a mile an hour. [Illustration: “THERE WAS A LOUD CRACK, AND MYSELF, DOGS, AND SLED WERE PRECIPITATED INTO THE WATER.”] The night grew darker, and it was soon almost impossible to see the trees on either side of the river, except at such times as the trail veered to one side or the other; then the trees would be discernible, standing up stark and naked, like gigantic skeletons rising from the snow. In the zenith the Polar star glowed brilliantly, while as far as the eye could reach the snow lay like a gleaming shroud on the earth. Not a sound was to be heard save the panting of the dogs, the crunch of snow under my frozen moccasins, and, somewhere in the distance, the howl of an animal. I cared for nothing, thought of nothing, desired nothing, save to reach Faith Creek. Time and again I was ready to drop, but I still kept on, spurred by the thought that I was fighting for my life, for I knew that once I gave way to the lassitude that seemed to be gripping my senses, my life would pay the forfeit. I had heard so much of lone “mushers” on the trail, who had lain down on the snow for a sleep from which they never awoke, that I was prepared to struggle on to the last. Soon the dogs began to tire, and it was only by persistent effort that I could keep them from lying down in the snow. They were so weary, poor brutes, that it was cruelty to whip them; all I could do was to pat them and encourage them with my voice. Nellie tried to lick my frozen gauntlet, or, half in play, to bite my numbed hand.