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.
The time came when Kama was unable to go in the lead and break trail, and it was a proof that he was far gone when he permitted Daylight to toil all day at the heavy snowshoe work.
Lake by lake they crossed the string of lakes from Marsh to Linderman, and began the ascent of Chilcoot.
By all rights, Daylight should have camped below the last pitch of the pass at the dim end of day; but he kept on and over and down to Sheep Camp, while behind him raged a snow-storm that would have delayed him twenty-four hours.
This last excessive strain broke Kama completely.
In the morning he could not travel.
At five, when called, he sat up after a struggle, groaned, and sank back again.
Daylight did the camp work of both, harnessed the dogs, and, when ready for the start, rolled the helpless Indian in all three sleeping robes and lashed him on top of the sled.
The going was good; they were on the last lap; and he raced the dogs down through Dyea Canon and along the hard-packed trail that led to Dyea Post.
And running still, Kama groaning on top the load, and Daylight leaping at the gee-pole to avoid going under the runners of the flying sled, they arrived at Dyea by the sea.
True to his promise, Daylight did not stop.
An hour's time saw the sled loaded with the ingoing mail and grub, fresh dogs harnessed, and a fresh Indian engaged.
Kama never spoke from the time of his arrival till the moment Daylight, ready to depart, stood beside him to say good-by.
They shook hands.
"You kill um dat damn Indian," Kama said.
"Sawee, Daylight?
You kill um."
"He'll sure last as far as Pelly," Daylight grinned.
Kama shook his head doubtfully, and rolled over on his side, turning his back in token of farewell.
Daylight won across Chilcoot that same day, dropping down five hundred feet in the darkness and the flurrying snow to Crater Lake, where he camped.
It was a 'cold' camp, far above the timber-line, and he had not burdened his sled with firewood.
That night three feet of snow covered them, and in the black morning, when they dug themselves out, the Indian tried to desert.
He had had enough of traveling with what he considered a madman.
But Daylight persuaded him in grim ways to stay by the outfit, and they pulled on across Deep Lake and Long Lake and dropped down to the level-going of Lake Linderman.
It was the same killing pace going in as coming out, and the Indian did not stand it as well as Kama.
He, too, never complained. Nor did he try again to desert.
He toiled on and did his best, while he renewed his resolve to steer clear of Daylight in the future.
The days slipped into days, nights and twilight's alternating, cold snaps gave way to snow-falls, and cold snaps came on again, and all the while, through the long hours, the miles piled up behind them.
But on the Fifty Mile accident befell them.
Crossing an ice-bridge, the dogs broke through and were swept under the down-stream ice.
The traces that connected the team with the wheel-dog parted, and the team was never seen again.
Only the one wheel-dog remained, and Daylight harnessed the Indian and himself to the sled.
But a man cannot take the place of a dog at such work, and the two men were attempting to do the work of five dogs.
At the end of the first hour, Daylight lightened up.
Dog-food, extra gear, and the spare ax were thrown away.
Under the extraordinary exertion the dog snapped a tendon the following day, and was hopelessly disabled.
Daylight shot it, and abandoned the sled.
On his back he took one hundred and sixty pounds of mail and grub, and on the Indian's put one hundred and twenty-five pounds.
The stripping of gear was remorseless.
The Indian was appalled when he saw every pound of worthless mail matter retained, while beans, cups, pails, plates, and extra clothing were thrown by the board.
One robe each was kept, one ax, one tin pail, and a scant supply of bacon and flour.
Bacon could be eaten raw on a pinch, and flour, stirred in hot water, could keep men going.
Even the rifle and the score of rounds of ammunition were left behind.
And in this fashion they covered the two hundred miles to Selkirk.
Daylight travelled late and early, the hours formerly used by camp-making and dog-tending being now devoted to the trail.