With the possible exception of Dick and Malemute Slade, no one believed that Sandy had seen anything out of the ordinary, notwithstanding the young Scotch lad’s angry protestations. In the hurry and bustle of the morning, the incident was soon forgotten. Sandy himself soon recovered his usual cheerfulness, assisting Dick and Toma in the work of rafting the supplies of the police party to the opposite side of the river.
The trek over to the mine commenced early in the afternoon. On this occasion it was an imposing cavalcade that wound its way up through the rocks to the wide plain that stretched away to the westward. In advance, went the three half-breed packers with the ponies; behind them, Corporal Richardson and Malemute Slade, while Factor MacClaren and the three boys, chatting animatedly, brought up the rear.
“We feel a lot different than the last time we went over this route to the plateau,” Dick remarked. “It was raining and we slept part of the night in that thicket you see just ahead.”
“You must have had a terrible experience,” said the factor. “I doubt very much whether I could have endured the nervous tension had I been with you. Looking at it from a selfish viewpoint, I can see now how very fortunate I was that that pesky inventory prevented me from coming along. I might not have been as lucky as the three of you were.”
“It wasn’t good luck at all, Uncle Walter,” grinned Sandy.
“Well, what was it?”
“Courage and good management,” declared Sandy, as he winked slyly at Dick.
CHAPTER XXVI
DEBTS OF GRATITUDE
Malemute Slade kicked a branch of burning wood into the center of the roaring campfire and turned eagerly to address the scarlet-coated figure of Corporal Richardson.
“It couldn’t o’ come out any better if we’d done the thing ourselves,” he drawled complaisantly. “I guess there ain’t anybody what can deny that. Here’s the mine—an’ there’s Dick an’ Sandy an’ that young scamp of a Toma—all as safe an’ happy an’ contented as if nothin’ had ever happened.”