When twilight descended, their task was nearly completed. Toma and Dick were tying the last log in place when a fervid, reverberating halloo sounded across the canyon. Dropping everything, the three boys darted to their feet.
“Yih! Yip!” screamed Sandy. “Who’s there?”
“Mounted police!” came the answering shout. “Is that you, Sandy?”
Sandy’s hysterical reply took the form of a screech that might have been heard for miles. Dick’s own contributing whoop was scarcely less powerful.
“Coming over?” Sandy’s question stirred up another battery of echoes.
“No raft! Everybody safe?”
“Yes, we’re all here. Wait just a few minutes. Own raft almost finished. Stand by, we’ll soon be there.”
Twenty minutes later they had made the crossing in safety and were joyfully helped ashore by the three men, Corporal Richardson, Factor MacClaren and Malemute Slade. Vocal confusion ensued. Everybody talked at once. With a strangled cry, Sandy threw himself in the outspread arms of Walter MacClaren. Malemute Slade and Corporal Richardson took turns in pounding Dick and Toma on the back.
“Thank God, we got here in time,” Corporal Richardson declared fervently. “We hardly expected to find you alive.”
“Why not?” asked Dick.