The far shore
was a full mile away, while between the island and the near shore lay a
back-channel perhaps a hundred yards across. At first sight of this,
Montana Kid was tempted to take his dogs and escape to the mainland, but
on closer inspection he discovered a rapid current flooding on top.
Below, the river twisted sharply to the west, and in this turn its breast
was studded by a maze of tiny islands.
"That's where she'll jam," he remarked to himself.
Half a dozen sleds, evidently bound up-stream to Dawson, were splashing
through the chill water to the tail of the island. Travel on the river
was passing from the precarious to the impossible, and it was nip and
tuck with them till they gained the island and came up the path of the
wood-choppers toward the cabin. One of them, snow-blind, towed
helplessly at the rear of a sled. Husky young fellows they were, rough-
garmented and trail-worn, yet Montana Kid had met the breed before and
knew at once that it was not his kind.
"Hello! How's things up Dawson-way?" queried the foremost, passing his
eye over Donald and Davy and settling it upon the Kid.
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