“Not snow enough,” Toma shook his head disapprovingly. “No use start out until catch ’em plenty snow for dog team. Mebbe no get snow for five, six days yet.”
“Nonsense!” Sandy looked up at the overcast sky with a critical but approving gaze. “It’s cloudy right now. I wouldn’t be surprised if it started to snow this afternoon.”
“Too warm,” Toma objected. “Wind blow southwest. Tomorrow chinook make like summer. Mebbe it rain, but no snow.”
“You might as well keep quiet, Sandy,” grinned Dick. “Toma is a better weather prophet than you are. He’s seldom wrong.”
“Just the same, I think there’s a storm brewing,” stubbornly persisted the young Scotchman. “This is the second week in October. Last year at this time there was seven inches of snow on the ground and the weather was ten below zero.”
“Don’t worry about it. I look at it this way: if the police are ready, we’ll be ready too. Let the chinook come. We’ll start out on foot and buy our grub-stake and dog team at Fort Wonderly, one hundred miles south of here.”
“Good idea! You’re talking sense now, Dick. Well—for the love of Pete!”
Sandy’s abrupt exclamation was caused by the sudden appearance on the trail ahead of four men. One of them they recognized instantly. It was the person who had attempted to pick a quarrel with Dick. Startled for a moment, the boys drew back to the side of the trail.
“Don’t say a word,” cautioned Dick in a low voice. “If they attempt to start trouble, try to keep away from them. We’re no match for them. Besides, they’re armed and we aren’t.”
Pretending a nonchalance they did not feel, the three boys strode forward again until they came abreast of the oncoming and ominous quartette. In the lead, Dick edged over to the side of the trail, hoping that no attempt would be made to prevent their passing. He was now within three feet of the nearest of the party, and had almost begun to believe that nothing would happen, when the four men spread out quickly, completely barring their progress. Dick looked across at two gray eyes that glinted evilly.