“No. I not understand, corporal.”
Twice, during the next two days, the incident was repeated. They passed other trappers’ shacks where there were ponies. However, now the thing had become such a commonplace occurrence that they ceased to marvel at it. New interests occupied their attention. The trail had widened and had become almost a road. Indian villages were passed. They saw totem poles. They crossed a river. Obliterated now were the tracks of the pack-train. More and more traffic with each succeeding day. One morning Dick made a suggestion.
“Don’t you think we ought to hurry along and catch up to them, corporal? They may be travelling faster now and may give us the slip. We can slow down again as soon as we catch sight of them.”
“Good idea,” responded Rand.
There ensued a long period of forced marching, during which the little party hardly took time to eat or sleep. Hour after hour, they hurried on. The pace began to tell. Nearly fifty-four hours later, climbing to a height of land, they saw stretching out before them, perhaps not more than ten miles away, the huge, broad expanse of the ocean. But nowhere along the trail ahead was there a sign of the pack-train. Corporal Rand’s face shadowed with apprehension.
“Something mighty queer about this,” he pronounced. “I can’t understand it. I’m beginning to feel like a fool.”
“But what do you mean, corporal?”
“The pack-train—” the policeman’s voice caught.
“Yes. Yes,” persisted Dick. “What about it?”
Rand rubbed a hand across his troubled forehead.