Reluctantly the driver deposited the bag of mail on the designated shelf.
“Now, keep going. And, remember, the trail is straight ahead. I can see you both for a mile. Try to double back and I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Nevertheless I’ll see you—again.” Hardy’s voice was still cool, dispassionate. It was as though he said, “this is fine traveling weather.”
“Mush on, King,” Hardy urged in a low voice.
The trail lay clear. Not a dark spot broke its gleaming covering.
Repeatedly Hardy looked back. The fur-clad figure of the man stood motionless. He had descended from his rocky perch, and now stood on the trail watching the swiftly moving dogs, sled and men.
Eagerly he bent over the mail.
Hardy, in a swift backward glance, saw that stooping figure. Instantly he fell out of the dog train.
“Keep going. Notify district headquarters. I’m going back for my man.” The words came with shot-like swiftness.
Keith Morely straightened from the mail bags, gazed ahead. Surely there was but one man with the team! Yet the trail still led straight, unbroken by any dark object, save the one man, the dogs and sled.