"About as fierce a blizzard as I remember," Sergeant Lane remarked. "We were held up three days, and thought ourselves lucky in making a ravine with a steep bank; but the wind couldn't have been quite so strong back north a piece. There'd have been two names less on the roster if we'd been caught down here."
Harding thought this was probable. He had had a protecting rock at his back, but in the valley there was no shelter from the storm that had leveled the stoutest trees. Even the four-footed inhabitants of the wilds could hardly have escaped. As he stumbled among the wreckage, Harding thought about the man whose footsteps they had seen near the Indian village. Unless he had found some secure retreat he must have had to face the fury of the gale. Harding felt convinced that the man was Clarke. It was curious that he should have been living alone among the empty tepees, but Harding imagined that he was in some way accountable for the Indians' departure, and he wondered where he was going when he crossed the range. There was a mystery about the matter, and if an explanation could be arrived at it would be of interest to him and his friends. Even before Clarke had sent them into the muskeg when he knew it was practically impassable, Harding had entertained a deep distrust of him.
Blake called him to help in dragging the sled over an obstacle, and the difficulties of the way afterward occupied his attention. When they found clearer ground they made good progress, and, late in the afternoon, seeing a rocky spur running out from the hillside, they headed for it to look for a sheltered camping place. There was still some daylight, but a cold wind had sprung up, blowing the loose snow into their faces.
As they neared the spur, the dogs swerved, as if attracted by something, and the half-breed struck the nearest dog and drove them on.
"That was curious," said Private Walthew. "It was old Chasseur who led them off, and he's not given to playing tricks."
"A dead mink or beaver in the snow," the sergeant suggested. "I didn't notice anything, but they have a keen scent. Anyhow, let's get into camp."
They found a nook among the rocks, and Emile loosed the dogs and threw them some frozen fish while the men had supper. It was a heavy, lowering evening, and the bitter air was filled with the murmur of the spruces as the wind passed over them. Though the light was fading, they kept their sharpness of outline, rising, black and ragged, from a sweep of chill, lifeless gray. When the meal was nearly finished, Lane looked round the camp.
"Where are the dogs?" he asked. "They're very quiet."
"I leaf zem la bas," explained Emile, waving his hand toward a neighboring hollow. Then, moving a few paces forward, he exclaimed: "Ah! les coquins!"
"Looks as if they'd bolted," Walthew said. "I think I know where to find them."