"How was that?" Bob asked.
"Why, every time he jumped up two feet he fell back three."
"Well, we're more'n holding our own and that's better than he did."
Four more days passed and Saturday night came. In spite of the deep snow they had on the whole made fairly good time as their muscles were hardening and they were able to maintain a faster pace. There had been no more snow and that which had fallen had drifted so hard that in most places it held the sled and dogs though, of course, Lucky and the boys were obliged to wear snow-shoes. In view of the fact that they were on a trip where time might mean a man's life they had decided that they were justified in traveling on Sunday although under other circumstances they would not have considered it. The weather had been cold, the thermometer rarely getting above ten below zero and one morning it had sunk to thirty below.
Each night they had heard the howls of timber wolves and a number of times they had caught sight of a slim gray form in the distance. The knowledge that the pack was still following them was far from comforting but, being well armed with both rifles and revolvers, they had no real fear.
Thursday morning Jack had shot a small buck deer and the meat was a very welcome addition to their larder as they had brought with them only enough fresh meat for a couple of days. Their respect and liking for the Indian increased every day for they found him not only abounding in resourcefulness, but he had proved, as Jack put it, a mighty likeable fellow.
"I always thought Indians were solemn and never laughed or anything of that sort," he said to Bob one day as they were some distance behind the sled, Lucky leading the way.
"They usually are more or less that way, but Lucky can laugh as well as the next fellow."
"You bet he can. Probably it's the way he's been brought up," Jack suggested.
"We heet river one more day," Lucky told them that night as they were washing up after supper.