As I said at Forty
Mile, every inch of it was snow-shoe work. And the shoes made great
sores on our feet, which cracked and scabbed but would not heal. And
every day these sores grew more grievous, till in the morning, when we
girded on the shoes, Long Jeff cried like a child. I put him at the fore
of the light sled to break trail, but he slipped off the shoes for
comfort. Because of this the trail was not packed, his moccasins made
great holes, and into these holes the dogs wallowed. The bones of the
dogs were ready to break through their hides, and this was not good for
them. So I spoke hard words to the man, and he promised, and broke his
word. Then I beat him with the dog-whip, and after that the dogs
wallowed no more. He was a child, what of the pain and the streak of
fat.
"But Passuk. While the man lay by the fire and wept, she cooked, and in
the morning helped lash the sleds, and in the evening to unlash them. And
she saved the dogs. Ever was she to the fore, lifting the webbed shoes
and making the way easy. Passuk--how shall I say?--I took it for granted
that she should do these things, and thought no more about it.
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