Blake's Burden by Harold Bindloss

Harding, who knew there was no time to lose, had cause to remember the forced march he made to the Stony village. The light was faint and the low ground streaked with haze as they floundered through the muskeg, sinking deep in the softer spots and splashing through shallow pools. When they reached the first hill bench he was hot and breathless, and their path led sharply upwards over banks of ragged stones which had a trick of slipping down when they trod on them. It was worse where they were large and he stumbled into the hollows between. Then they struggled through short pine-scrub, crawled up a wet gorge where thick willows grew, and afterwards got entangled among thickets of thorny canes. Harding's clothes were badly torn and his boots giving out; his breath was laboured and his heart beat painfully, but he pressed on upwards without slackening his pace.

It was exhausting toil, and until he entered the North-West, he had undergone no physical training and seldom tried his muscles; being left to shift for himself at an unusually early age had prevented his even playing any outdoor games. His career had been a humble one, but it had taught him self-reliance, and when he was thrown into the company of men brought up in a higher station he was not surprised that they accepted him as an equal and comrade. There was, however, nothing assertive in the man; he knew his powers and their limitations. Now he clearly recognized that he had undertaken a big thing, but the need was urgent, and he meant to see it through. He was of essentially practical temperament, a man of action, and it was necessary that he should keep up with his Indian guide as long as possible. Therefore he braced himself for the arduous task.