He says， ‘Get the dogs ready； we start.’ No more do I askquestions， so I get the dogs ready and we start. We godown the Yukon. It is night-time， it is November， and itis very cold—sixty-five below. She is soft. He is soft. Thecold bites. They get tired. They cry under their breathsto themselves. By and by I say better we stop and makecamp. But they say that they will go on. Three times Isay better to make camp and rest， but each time they saythey will go on. After that I say nothing. All the time， dayafter day， is it that way. They are very soft. They get stiffand sore. They do not understand moccasins， and theirfeet hurt very much. They limp， they stagger like drunkenpeople， they cry under their breaths； and all the time theysay， ‘On！ on！ e will go on！’
“They are like crazy people. All the time do they goon， and on. Why do they go on？ I do not know. Only dothey go on. What are they after？ I do not know. They arenot after gold. There is no stampede. Besides， they spendplenty of money. But I ask questions no more. I， too， goon and on， because I am strong on the trail and because Iam greatly paid.
“We make Circle City. That for which they look is notthere. I think now that we will rest， and rest the dogs. Butwe do not rest， not for one day do we rest. ‘Come，’ saysthe woman to the man， ‘let us go on.’ And we go on. Weleave the Yukon. We cross the divide to the west and swingdown into the Tanana Country. There are new diggingsthere. But that for which they look is not there， and wetake the back trail to Circle City.
“It is a hard journey. December is most gone. The daysare short. It is very cold. One morning it is seventy belowzero. ‘Better that we don’t travel to-day，’ I say， ‘else willthe frost be unwarmed in the breathing and bite all theedges of our lungs. After that we will have bad cough， andmaybe next spring will come pneumonia.’ But they areCHECHA-QUO. They do not understand the trail. Theyare like dead people they are so tired， but they say， ‘Let usgo on.’ We go on. The frost bites their lungs， and they getthe dry cough. They cough till the tears run down theircheeks. When bacon is frying they must run away fromthe fire and cough half an hour in the snow. They freezetheir cheeks a little bit， so that the skin turns black andis very sore. Also， the man freezes his thumb till the endis like to come off， and he must wear a large thumb on hismitten to keep it warm. And sometimes， when the frostbites hard and the thumb is very cold， he must take off themitten and put the hand between his legs next to the skin，so that the thumb may get warm again.
“We limp into Circle City， and even I， Sitka Charley， amtired. It is Christmas Eve. I dance， drink， make a goodtime， for to-morrow is Christmas Day and we will rest. Butno. It is five o’clock in the morning—Christmas morning.
I am two hours asleep. The man stand by my bed. ‘Come，Charley，’ he says， ‘harness the dogs. We start.’
“Have I not said that I ask questions no more？ They payme seven hundred and fifty dollars each month. They aremy masters. I am their man. If they say， ‘Charley， come，let us start for hell，’ I will harness the dogs， and snap thewhip， and start for hell. So I harness the dogs， and we startdown the Yukon. Where do we go？ They do not say. Onlydo they say， ‘On！ on！ We will go on！’
“They are very weary. They have travelled manyhundreds of miles， and they do not understand the way ofthe trail. Besides， their cough is very bad—the dry coughthat makes strong men swear and weak men cry. But theygo on. Every day they go on. Never do they rest the dogs.
Always do they buy new dogs. At every camp， at everypost， at every Indian village， do they cut out the tired dogsand put in fresh dogs. They have much money， moneywithout end， and like water they spend it. They are crazy？
Sometimes I think so， for there is a devil in them thatdrives them on and on， always on. What is it that they tryto find？ It is not gold. Never do they dig in the ground.
I think a long time. Then I think it is a man they try tofind. But what man？ Never do we see the man. Yet arethey like wolves on the trail of the kill. But they are funnywolves， soft wolves， baby wolves who do not understandthe way of the trail. They cry aloud in their sleep at night.
In their sleep they moan and groan with the pain of theirweariness. And in the day， as they stagger along the trail，they cry under their breaths. They are funny wolves.
“We pass Fort Yukon. We pass Fort Hamilton. We passMinook. January has come and nearly gone. The days arevery short. At nine o’clock comes daylight. At three o’clockcomes night. And it is cold. And even I， Sitka Charley，am tired. Will we go on forever this way without end？ Ido not know. But always do I look along the trail for thatwhich they try to find. There are few people on the trail.
Sometimes we travel one hundred miles and never see asign of life. It is very quiet. There is no sound. Sometimesit snows， and we are like wandering ghosts. Sometimes itis clear， and at midday the sun looks at us for a momentover the hills to the south. The northern lights flame inthe sky， and the sun-dogs dance， and the air is filled withfrost-dust.
“I am Sitka Charley， a strong man. I was born on thetrail， and all my days have I lived on the trail. And yet havethese two baby wolves made me very tired. I am lean， likea starved cat， and I am glad of my bed at night， and in themorning am I greatly weary. Yet ever are we hitting thetrail in the dark before daylight， and still on the trail doesthe dark after nightfall find us. These two baby wolves！
If I am lean like a starved cat， they are lean like cats thathave never eaten and have died. Their eyes are sunk deepin their heads， bright sometimes as with fever， dim andcloudy sometimes like the eyes of the dead. Their cheeksare hollow like caves in a cliff. Also are their cheeks blackand raw from many freezings. Sometimes it is the womanin the morning who says， ‘I cannot get up. I cannot move.
