Nothing further was said.

Blake and Benson themselves were nearly exhausted, and their pinched faces were set and stern, and Harding's was drawn up in a ghastly fashion by suffering.
Still, their overtaxed muscles somehow obeyed the relentless call on them.
At last, when the light had almost gone, Benson stepped into a slight depression that slanted across their path.
"Hold on!" he cried hoarsely.

"Look at this!" Blake stooped, while Harding, swaying awkwardly with bent leg, held on to him.

The hollow was small: a smooth groove of slightly lower level than the rest of the snow.
"A sledge trail!" he cried in an exultant voice.

"Drifted up a bit, but they've been hauling lumber over it, and that means a good deal to us!" He indicated a shallow furrow a foot or two outside the groove.
"That's been made by the butt of a trailing log.