Up they scrambled, slipping and sliding, but holding on in some way and keeping close to the terrified musk ox herd.
Nor did the three Eskimos pause when they reached the bottom of the hill and looked up its shining slippery slopes. It was a climb for which a white man would have needed creepers and an Alpine staff, but not so the hardy Eskimo. He had come seventy-five miles through the snow and the storm, and now he was not going to be held up at the very hour of victory by any ascent, no matter how hard or dangerous. Up the three intrepid hunters went, Eiseeyou leading the way. How they found foothold was a mystery. They clung where there was seemingly nothing to cling to. Like flies their feet and hands seemed to cling to the slippery slopes. Higher and higher they went as the musk ox herd fled.
Once Eiseeyou stopped for a moment and looked down. It made a shiver run through even his steely nerves. What if he should slip or ever get started down the mountain. There would certainly be mourning in his
