“But we’ve already got it back,” Dick interrupted him.
“Got it back? What do yuh mean? See here, young feller—you’re not spoofin’ me. I think not!”
Bit by bit the story came out. Sandy, Dick and even Toma took turns in the telling. Eagerly, the three men gathered around them and listened, often interrupting the narrator to ply him with questions. Often Corporal Richardson, unable to follow the broken thread of the story’s sequence, threw up his hands in despair:
“Hold on there, Dick! Not so fast! Wait a moment, Sandy, you forgot to tell us what happened before that. Toma, why don’t you speak in Cree. We’ll understand you better. You’re too excited to talk ’em English tonight.”
It was so late when the tale was concluded, that by common consent the party decided not to cross the river that night.
“It will be perfectly safe to leave the ponies on the other side,” said Dick. “There’s plenty of grass where we have them picketed. I don’t believe anything will come to disturb them.”
“We have our own pack-horses on this side,” laughed Factor MacClaren. “We left them in charge of three half-breeds up there on the level ground above the canyon. I thought it would be better not to make the descent with the horses until we had looked around a bit.”
“Did you have much difficulty in following our trail?” Dick enquired.
“No, not very much. Malemute Slade is a good tracker and we found many of your campfires. Once we picked up an old pair of moccasins that we thought had been discarded by Sandy. They were small—about the size he usually wears.”
The camp was astir early on the following morning. When Dick and Sandy tumbled out of the blankets they had borrowed from Factor MacClaren, a pan of bacon sizzled over the fire and the odor of strong black coffee blended with the smell of spruce and balsam. Malemute Slade and Corporal Richardson nodded a cheery greeting as the two young adventurers, still rubbing their eyes, stumbled down to the river for an icy-cold plunge.