No one answered. Peter and the redskins had shared Pearson's anxiety, but to Harold and Cameron the disappointment was a terrible one; as to Jake, he left all the thinking to be done by the others. Harold stood gazing helplessly on the expanse of ice which covered the water. It was not a smooth sheet, but was rough and broken, as if, while it had been forming, the wind had broken the ice up into cakes again and again, while the frost as often had bound them together.
They had struck the river within a few hundred yards of the place where the canoe was hidden, and, after a short consultation between the Seneca chief, Peter Lambton, and Pearson, moved down toward that spot.
"What are you thinking of doing?" Harold asked when they gathered round the canoe.
"We're going to load ourselves with the ammunition and deer's flesh," Peter said, "and make for a rocky island which lies about a mile off here. I noticed it as we landed. There's nothing to do but to fight it out to the last there. It are a good place for defense, for the redskins won't like to come out across the open, and, even covered by a dark night, they'd show on this white surface."
"Perhaps they won't trace us."
"Not trace us!" the trapper repeated scornfully. "Why, when daylight comes, they'll pick up our track and follow it as easy as you could that of a wagon across the snow."
They were just starting when Harold gave a little exclamation.
"What is it, lad?"
"A flake of snow fell on my face."
All looked up. The stars had disappeared. Another flake and another fell on the upturned faces of the party.