"Well, of all the doggone, ornery tricks I eveh heahed tell of—that takes the cake!" cried Waseche. "Pulled out on us! Jes' plumb pulled out! An' them's good dawgs, too!"
"Where did you get that team?" asked Connie excitedly.
"Picked 'em up off a man in Eagle," answered Waseche. "He aimed to go outside, come spring. He got 'em off a breed, a yeah back."
"Where do you s'pose they've gone?" asked the boy.
"Sea'ch me! I cain't onde'stand it."
"Ut's th' Lillimuit!" croaked O'Brien. "Ut wuz th' same wid Craik an' Greenhow!" The man shuddered and drew closer to the fire. "They's things here that ondly some c'n see! An' phwin they see um—always they head into th' Narth!"
"Sho'! Quit yo' calamatatin', O'Brien! Dawgs has pulled out on folks befo'."
"Thim wans ain't," returned the Irishman, and relapsed into gloomy silence.
With the first sign of dawn the outfit was again on the trail. The bulk of the pack had been removed from Waseche's sled and added to the other two, and the sled and harness cached in the bush. For several miles Connie, who was travelling in the lead, followed the trail of the stampeded dog-pack, when suddenly he paused where a narrow creek canyon clove the rock-wall of a mountain. The trail led into the gorge, which appeared to be a mere crack in the mighty wall.
"Follow 'em up, son!" called Waseche from his sled. "We need them dawgs."