But one by one, and by
sheer strength, the sleds crept out and shot from sight in the darkness
of the overhanging banks.
Jack Harrington had anticipated this crush and waited by his sled until
it untangled. Louis Savoy, aware of his rival's greater wisdom in the
matter of dog-driving, had followed his lead and also waited. The rout
had passed beyond earshot when they took the trail, and it was not till
they had travelled the ten miles or so down to Bonanza that they came
upon it, speeding along in single file, but well bunched. There was
little noise, and less chance of one passing another at that stage. The
sleds, from runner to runner, measured sixteen inches, the trail
eighteen; but the trail, packed down fully a foot by the traffic, was
like a gutter. On either side spread the blanket of soft snow crystals.
If a man turned into this in an endeavor to pass, his dogs would wallow
perforce to their bellies and slow down to a snail's pace. So the men
lay close to their leaping sleds and waited. No alteration in position
occurred down the fifteen miles of Bonanza and Klondike to Dawson, where
the Yukon was encountered.
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