"I don't see how we are going to get these loads down," said Roly. "It's awfully steep."
Long Peter, so far as his own sled was concerned, quickly solved that problem. He drew his load to the edge of the bluff, and then, with apparent recklessness, threw himself upon it just as it toppled over the brink. The others held their breath while man and sled went down, as Roly said afterward, "like greased lightning;" but the runners cut through the snow at the bottom of the hill, and the outfit brought up safely.
Mr. Bradford declared that might do for Long Peter, but he didn't care to risk it. He accordingly let his sled go alone, which it did gracefully enough until half-way down, when it swerved, upset, and rolled over and over, the gee-pole finally sticking in the snow and ending its wild career. It was necessary to repack the whole load.
Uncle Will's sled fared better. As for the boys, they ventured to coast down as Long Peter had done, and reached the bottom in a whirl of snow without any mishap.
Near the foot of the slide they entered a narrow ravine,—the bed of a mountain brook now buried deep under the drifts,—and followed it up for a mile or two, emerging at length upon an almost level expanse, which Uncle Will said was one of the highest places on the pass.
"Indeed," said he, "we may as well call this the summit, although for many miles we shall continue at about this height. There is a shallow lake in the little hollow ahead, Long Peter tells me, but you wouldn't guess it to look at this unbroken snow-field."
On their right they could now dimly see, through the falling flakes, an abrupt mountain peak, whose lower slopes they were already skirting. Its top was cut into several sharp points like saw-teeth. Uncle Will informed his friends that it was one of the best landmarks on the pass, being visible in fair weather for miles in either direction,—in fact, it was such a steadfast, reliable peak that it had earned the name, "Mount Stay-there." To the left was a low ridge of rounded hills, beyond which nothing could be seen in the thick air. It was here that the Bradfords discovered the first, or five-mile cache of the Mysterious Thirty-six,—a huge pile of boxes and sacks protected from the weather by oiled canvas.
Drawing their sleds into the lee of the goods, they seated themselves for a brief and much needed rest, for both of the boys were complaining of their backs, and Mr. Bradford suffered considerably in the same way. Their feet, too, protested with almost equal insistence against the present journey, coming as it did hard upon the excessive strain of the preceding week. No one thought of calling himself disabled, however, and the pain was borne patiently, and for the most part silently. The soreness in their faces and fingers continued too, but that was a minor evil.
Roly presently turned his head and listened intently. "What is that noise?" he asked,—"that clucking which sounds so near? I can't see anything, though I've heard it several times."
"You'll have to look sharp to see those visitors," answered Uncle Will. "What you hear is the call of the ptarmigan, a bird which in summer is brown, but in winter is white as the snow."