By eleven he
was at the foot of White Horse, and that night saw him camped
beyond the Box Canon, the last bad river-stretch behind him, the
string of lakes before him.
There was no let up in his pace. Twelve hours a day, six in the
twilight, and six in the dark, they toiled on the trail. Three
hours were consumed in cooking, repairing harnesses, and making
and breaking camp, and the remaining nine hours dogs and men
slept as if dead. The iron strength of Kama broke. Day by day
the terrific toil sapped him. Day by day he consumed more of his
reserves of strength. He became slower of movement, the
resiliency went out of his muscles, and his limp became
permanent. Yet he labored stoically on, never shirking, never
grunting a hint of complaint. Daylight was thin-faced and tired.
He looked tired; yet somehow, with that marvelous mechanism of a
body that was his, he drove on, ever on, remorselessly on. Never
was he more a god in Kama's mind than in the last days of the
south-bound traverse, as the failing Indian watched him, ever to
the fore, pressing onward with urgency of endurance such as Kama
had never seen nor dreamed could thrive in human form.
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