THE RESCUE
Starting at daybreak, they reached a hillside overlooking the Stony village on the third afternoon. Surrounded by willows and ragged spruces the conical tepees rose in the plain beneath, but Blake, who was leading, stopped abruptly as he caught sight of them. They were white to the apex, where the escaping heat of the fire within generally melted the snow, and no curl of smoke floated across the clearing. The village was ominously silent and had a deserted look.
"I'm very much afraid Clarke's friends are not at home," he said with forced calm. "We'll know more about it in half an hour; that is, if you think it worth while to go down."
The others were silent a moment, struggling with their disappointment. They had made a toilsome journey to reach the village, their food was nearly exhausted, and it would cost them two days to return to the valley which was their best road to the south.
Then Harding said, "Now we're here, we may as well spend another hour over the job. It's possible they haven't packed all their stores along."
His companions suspected that they were wasting time, but they followed him down hill, until Benson, who was a short distance to one side of them, called out. When they joined him he indicated a row of footsteps leading up the slope.
"That fellow hasn't been gone very long; there was snow yesterday," he said. "By the line he took, he must have passed near us. I wonder why he stayed on after the others."
Blake examined the footsteps carefully, and compared them with the impress of his own snowshoes.
"It's obvious that they can't be older than yesterday afternoon," he said. "From their depth and sharpness, I should judge that the fellow was carrying a good load, which probably means that he meant to be some time gone. The stride suggests a white man."
"Clarke," said Harding. "He seems to be up here pretty often, though I can't see how he'd do much prospecting in the winter."