Moisture had gathered in Dick’s eyes. Through a glistening film, he looked up at the corporal.
“Will you let me go? This inactivity, this suspense is killing me by inches. Corporal, I’ll promise to be very careful. But please let me go.”
“All right, Dick, you can start. Take your blankets and a few supplies—if you can find any. If you have not discovered any trace of him by noon tomorrow, come back and report to me.”
Dick lost no time in making his departure. All that afternoon he trudged through the snow, sometimes picking up the track of a pony and losing it again, on other occasions, coming across human footprints or the charred remains of a campfire. When darkness descended, he was miles back from the coast, with nothing more encouraging to buoy up his spirits than the thought that he must soon reach the main-travelled trail. His aching legs carried him along the slope of a hill—up, up interminably; then he struck out north by east in the direction he knew must eventually lead him to the place he sought. But as the miles slipped past, he grew so weary and footsore that he decided to make camp for the night. Just ahead he could see what appeared to be the edge of a coulee—and he struggled on with the intention of entering it, thereby gaining protection from the chill, moist wind that blew in from the sea.
Imagine his surprise, upon approaching closer, to discover that it was not a coulee at all, but a deep-set basin, looking somewhat like the ancient bed of a lake. It was nearly three miles across, several hundred feet deep, and thickly overgrown with red willow. Near its center, he saw the twinkling light of a cabin.
An hour later, he approached the cabin and knocked timidly at the door. A squint-eyed native, so old that his yellow face was a curious net-work of wrinkles, admitted him.
“I want drink and food,” Dick informed the man, stumbling over the Indian words.
The old man nodded acquiescence, leading the way into the house. He clapped his hands together sharply and waited. From the loft above, there came immediately the sound of shuffling feet, then a form, even more senile than that of Dick’s host, slowly descended a rickety ladder, emitting as it came a series of rheumatic groans. The woman, following instructions from her husband and a half-timid stare at Dick, hobbled into the adjoining room and returned presently, carrying an earthern pot, which she placed upon the floor in front of her visitor. It was a cold but not unsavory mixture of fish and vegetables and Dick, weak from hunger, carried the food to a bench at one side of the room and began eating with avidity.
Thus far, he had not been successful in finding any trace of Toma. Neither had he seen any of the outlaws, although he was sure they must be somewhere in the vicinity. Probably a few of them had even passed by this cabin. Dick had learned a little Cree and he decided to question the old Indian. After several unsuccessful attempts, he finally gained the information that a number of pack-horses, in charge of three men, had crossed the basin only a few hours previous.
Dick received the news with a joyous quickening of the heart. From the native’s description, Toma was one of the party.