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Hardys.
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    Frank and Joe helped David harness the team, then they hit the trail. Out on the river the dogs set a fast pace, with their tails curled high and their red tongues hanging out the sides of their mouths.
    â€œWhere are we going?” Frank asked.
    â€œUp the Mink River,” David replied. He was standing on the rails at the rear of the sled and kicking the trail now and then to help the dogs past a bumpy stretch. “It’s not far.”
    â€œHow far?” Joe asked.
    â€œAbout five miles. That’s not far for this team,” David explained.
    â€œNot compared to an eleven-hundred-mile race like the Iditarod, that’s for sure,” Frank said. “How many dog teams enter the race?”
    David paused while the sled bounced over a protruding knot of river ice, then said, “About seventy or eighty.”
    Frank tried to imagine seventy or eighty teams like David’s, maybe a thousand sled dogs, all barking and mushing at once. It was going to be quite a sight when they got to Anchorage.
    Frank glanced across the river and said, “I’m surprised there isn’t more snow on the hills. Does it melt early?”
    â€œThere isn’t much to start with,” David replied. “It may sound funny, but technically, this region is really a desert. Most years we get less than twelve inches of precipitation.”
    â€œMaybe you should trade in your huskies for camels,” Joe said.
    David smiled. “Not me. I love my dogs.” The sled approached a fork in the trail, and he called out, “Ironheart—gee! Gee!”
    Ironheart confidently guided the team into the right-hand fork.
    A couple of miles farther on, David steered the team off the Yukon and onto a trail that led north on a much smaller river. “This is a shortcut to the Mink River,” he explained.
    Ten minutes later Frank realized that their pace had slowed to a fast walk.
    â€œI see it,” David called out to his lead dog. It was almost as if he had forgotten that Frank and Joe were sitting in the sled.
    â€œSee what?” Frank asked.
    David hesitated, then said, “Soft ice ahead.”
    Frank craned his neck. The ice looked fine to him.
    â€œSometimes a deep spring bubbles up from the stream bed and weakens the ice,” David added. “It happens a lot at this time of year.”
    â€œWhat do we do?” Joe asked. “Turn around?”
    That wouldn’t be easy, Frank realized. The trail they were following on the ice was barely wider than a dogsled. If they tried to get out and turn the sled and team, it would put them right on the thin ice Ironheart had spotted.
    â€œEasy, Ironheart, easy,” David called in a soothing voice.
    The team was now moving at a bare walk. The huskies looked uneasily from side to side. They must be aware, as Frank and Joe were, of the thin layer of water seeping up over the edge of the ice.
    â€œEasy, Ironheart,” David warned again.
    Ironheart stopped and looked around.
    â€œHike! Hike!” David shouted.
    Ironheart leaned his powerful chest into theharness and led the team toward the bank of the river.
    â€œIf anything happens—” David started to say.
    At that moment Frank heard a sound like a gunshot. He looked down and saw a crack widening in the ice, inches from the right runner of the sled. The dogs had made it safely to solid ice near the bank, but the weight of the sled was too much for the thin ice in the center of the river.
    â€œDavid, what do we do?” Frank shouted, pushing himself up into a crouch. “Bail out?”
    â€œNo!” David shouted back. “Hang on!”
    Another, louder crack echoed in the frigid air. David jumped onto the ice and grabbed the railing of the sled, trying to hold it steady.
    It was no use. Frank felt the sled tilt to the right. Before he and Joe could escape, it tipped and slid down toward the dark, freezing