At noon of their seventh day of travel, the eighth after the storm, Brent, who was in the lead, halted suddenly and pointed to a small lake that lay a mile or more to the southward.
"I know that lake!" he cried, "It's the one where Snowdrift killed a caribou! The river is six or seven miles east of here, and we'll strike it just below our cabin."
"You sure 'bout dat'?." asked the Indian. "De dogs, w'at you call, all in. I ain' lak' we mak mor' travel we kin help."
"Yes—sure," exclaimed Brent, "I couldn't be mistaken. There is the point where we ate lunch—that broken spruce leaning against those two others."
"Dat good lan' mark," the Indian agreed, "I ain' t'ink you wrong now."
Joyously, Brent led off to the eastward. The pace was woefully slow, for of the seven dogs, only three remained, and the men were forced to work at pulling the sled. "We ought to make the cabin a little after dark," he figured, "And then—I'll grab a bite to eat and hit out for Snowdrift. Wonder if she's looking for me yet? Wonder if she's been thinking about me? It's—let's see—this is the nine
teenth day—nineteen days since I've seen her—and it seems like nineteen years! I hate to tell her I didn't make a strike. And worst of all I hate to tell her about—what happened on the Belva Lou. But, I'll come clean. I will tell her—and I'll show her the bottle—and thank God I didn't pull the cork! And I never will pull it, now. I learned something out there in the snow—learned what a man can do." He grinned as he thought of Claw and the Captain of the Belva Lou, searching the Copper Mountains for his camp, so they could kill him and steal his dust. Then the grin hardened into a straight-lipped frown as he planned the vengeance that was to be his when they came after the girl.
"They won't be in any hurry about starting up river," he argued, "They'll hunt for me for a week. Then, when they do come—I'll kill 'em as I would kill so many mad dogs. I hate to shoot a man from ambush—but there's two of 'em, and I don't dare to take a chance. If they should get me—" he shuddered at the thought, and pressed on.
As he swung onto the river, a sharp cry escaped him and he stooped in the darkness to stare at a trail in the snow.
The cry brought Joe Pete to his side. "Those tracks!" rasped Brent, "When were they made? And who made 'em?"