“It’s only a short distance,” Dick answered, yelling at the top of his voice.
At a brisk canter, they passed the place of the recent ambuscade, soon afterward following the trail across an open meadow in the very teeth of the storm. For a moment a white, driving curtain of snow almost suffocated them. Only with difficulty could they drive their ponies into it.
“We’re licked!” shouted Sandy. “I dread to think of waiting for anyone in this blizzard. The pack-train will never be able to start tonight.”
When they had gained the woodland again, it was almost impossible to make out their surroundings clearly. Overhead was a gray impenetrable blur. Within the shelter of the trees, when Dick, straining his eyes against the whirling particles of snow, endeavored to get his bearings, he could see scarcely fifty yards ahead. Somewhere off to the right was Settlement House River. Judging from the distance they had already come, they must be close to their destination right now.
Dick drew up his horse sharply, calling a halt. His two chums came closer.
“I think we’ve gone far enough,” was Sandy’s opinion, as they sat huddled on their tired mounts, looking into each other’s apprehensive eyes. “My suggestion is to leave the trail here and strike off to the right in the direction of the river. What do you think, Toma?”
The guide did not immediately reply. His face was calm and expressionless. There was no outward manifestation of his secret, inner emotions. Just then he was not thinking of the bend in the river at all. Indeed, he had become so absorbed in his own thoughts that he was scarcely conscious even of the presence of his two companions. At that particular moment his mind was concentrated on a matter of extreme importance. He gazed sombrely at the trail at their feet, across which, plainly visible in the freshly fallen snow, were the imprints of moccasined feet.
Only a few minutes before someone had passed that way. The quick mind of the guide reverted to the shooting of Constable Pearly. From ambush, a man had deliberately shot down the mounted policeman. Were these tracks, which he saw now, made by that selfsame man? Was the half-breed planning a second attack?
Toma did not wish to alarm Dick and Sandy needlessly. Yet he was possessed of a feeling—intuitive perhaps—that the near presence of the man boded no good to them. If it was the same person who had wounded Constable Pearly, it was reasonable to suppose that he would not hesitate to draw a gun upon them.
It was a predicament indeed—and one fraught with danger. The footprints led away in the same direction that Sandy now proposed to go. It would be foolhardy for the three of them to take a chance. Turning the problem over and over in his mind, Toma came to a decision.