“What time do you think we’ll reach Todds?” asked Paul Bird.
Frank suggested that they should reach the little settlement on the upper reaches of the Harrapin late in the afternoon—it should not be more than a four-hour ride.
Finally they passed the last of the spots along the river to which they had become accustomed, and now Frank was more watchful of his helmsmanship.
“There’s the snow starting!” cried Buster Billings, reaching out for a tiny flake which drifted around in the wind.
In ten minutes more the cohorts of which that small flake had been the forerunner came upon them, and the wind’s velocity increased slightly.
“Wow! Looks at if we’re going to plow the snow to the lake!” remarked Lanky, dancing from one foot to the other on the deck.
“It has every appearance of it right now,” replied the boy at the wheel. “But it ought to begin snowing. Goodness knows it’s about time for winter to start. We’ve been having little flecks of snow for several days.”
“Well, it’s started now,” and Lanky pointed up-river where, as rain often does, the snow was falling heavily. It appeared, from this distance, as if a wall of impenetrable thickness was built up against them.
The gray clouds came lower and lower, seemingly hanging almost to the water, darkening the river so that it looked as if evening were upon them, but, as a compensation, the wind died down somewhat. Another hour passed. The deck of the Rocket was well covered with snow, but the motor had not missed a single stroke.
As evening drew on, as the clouds continued hanging low, the boys saw, through the snow, the place which had been described as Todds—little more than a landing place at the upper stretches of the river, the outpost ahead of the trails across the mountains to the east.