They rose to their feet, sleepy and ill-humored. One of them
snapped at his hand. Another snarled viciously as he untwisted a trace.
Then one of the yawning brutes caught the new smell in the air, the smell
that Wapi had gathered when it was a mile farther off. He sniffed. He sat
back on his haunches and sent forth a yelping howl to his comrades in the
other team. In ten seconds the other five were howling with him, and
scarcely had the tumult burst from their throats when there came a
response from the fire half a mile away.
"My God!" gasped Peter, under his breath.
Dolores sprang to the gee-bar, and Uppy lashed his long whip until it
cracked like a repeating rifle over the pack. The dogs responded and sped
through the night. Behind them the pandemonium of dog voices in the other
camp had ceased. Men had leaped into life. Fifteen dogs were
straightening in the tandem trace of a single sledge.
Dolores laughed, a sobbing, broken laugh, that in itself was a cry of
despair. "Peter, if they come up with us, what shall we do?"
"If they overtake us," said Peter, "give me the revolver. It is fully
loaded?"
"I have cartridges--"
For the first time she remembered that she had not filled the three empty
chambers. Crooking her arm under the gee-bar, she fumbled in her pocket.
The dogs, refreshed by their sleep and urged by Uppy's whip, were tearing
off the first mile at a great speed.
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