and the morning of the fourth day dawned bright and clear, with a wind blowing strongly.
"Well, where are we?" asked Brent, as he and Joe Pete ascended a nearby hillock to take observation of their surroundings.
For a long time the Indian studied the horizon, nor did he speak until every degree of the arc had been subjected to minute scrutiny.
"I'm t'ink, we com' too mooch far wes'," he observed, "I'm t'ink, we better strike eas', 'bout wan day, tomor'."
"Tomorrow!" cried Brent. "Why not today—now?"
The Indian pointed to the dogs. "Too mooch tired out. Too mooch no good. We got to res' today. Mebbe-so, travel tomor'!"
A glance at the dogs convinced Brent, anxious as he was to push on, that it would be useless to try it, for the dogs were in a pitiable condition from the three day fight with the storm. He wanted to make up a pack and push on alone, but the Indian dissuaded him.
"S'pose com' nudder beeg snow? W'at you do den, eh? You git los'. You trail git cover up. I kin no fin'. Dat better you wait." And wait they did, though Brent fretted and chafed the whole day through.
The following morning they started toward the southeast, shaping their course by a far-distant patch of timber that showed as a dark spot on the
dazzling snow. The ground was broken and hard to travel, and their progress was consequently slow. At noon they cut a dog loose, and later another, the released animals limping along behind as best they could.