“Yon sled and its load,” the leader concisely replied.
“Stand clear!” cried the voice. “Go right ahead, Bill!”
A man sprang forward and seized the near horse’s head.
“Stop where you are!” he cried. “We’re not looking for trouble, but we want the sled!”
Two others ran out from behind the horses, but the leader of the expedition raised his hand.
“It’s six to three, Mitcham, and that’s long odds. Ye’ll get sled and team when ye claim them in camp. Lift a fist and ye’ll give the boys the excuse they’re wearying for. I’ll ask nothing better.”
Mitcham turned to his companions.
“They’ve got us, boys. Leave them to it,” he said.
“Lead the horses, Kermode,” directed one of the party, and the team moved on again while the leader, walking beside the sled, hastily examined its load. Several small cases lay beneath a tarpaulin.
What became of Mitcham and his friends did not appear, for they were left behind in the snow; but the night grew wilder and the cold more biting. For minutes together they could see nothing through the cloud of flakes that drove furiously past them; it was hard to urge the tired horses forward through the deeper drifts and all were thankful when they came to reaches which the savage wind had swept almost clear. They could not, however, leave the creek without their knowing it, and they had a fringe of willows, into which they stumbled now and then, as guide. When, at length, the gorge opened out, there was a high ridge to be crossed, and they had cause to remember the ascent. The route led up through belts of brush and between scattered pines, and leaving it inadvertently every now and then, they got entangled among the scrub. Two of them plodded at the stumbling horses’ heads, four pushed the sled, and at the top of every steeper slope every one stopped and gasped for breath. It was now near dawn and they had marched all night after a day of heavy toil.