Moment after moment passed, the time seemed endless; but finally the
warm tongue and the insistent paw did their work; for there was a slight
movement, a flicker of the eyelids, and then "Scotty" lifted himself
upon his elbow and spoke to them.
He was hopelessly confused. What was he doing in the snow, in the bitter
cold, soaked in blood, and with his team beside him? Where was Kid?
Then it all came back to him; he remembered he was in a race--the
Solomon Derby, and Kid was dead. That with Baldy in the lead they had
gone ahead of the other teams at a terrific speed, when he heard
something snap. Thinking it might be a runner, he had leaned over the
side of the sled to look; there was a crushing blow, and he recalled no
more until he felt Baldy's hot breath, and an agonizing pain in his
temple.
Gazing about, he saw the cause of the mishap--an iron trail stake half
concealed by a drift, now red with his blood. All around, as far as the
eye could reach, stretched the vast snowy plains that merged into the
purple shadows of the distant mountains, outlined in dazzling beauty
against the azure sky. There was no sign of the other teams. He could
not tell how long he had been unconscious--whether minutes or hours; he
only realized that he had never entered Solomon.
Weakly he stumbled to his feet and fell helplessly into the sled. At a
word Baldy darted ahead, and Allan, wiping the blood from his eyes, saw
they were traveling in the wrong direction, toward the wireless tower at
Port Safety.
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