CHAPTER VIII
TRACKS IN THE SNOW
“How,” inquired Dick in bewilderment, “did you ever manage to find me here?”
Sandy sat down and put one arm around Dick’s shoulders.
“You miserable, deceiving old rascal,” he threatened, “if I could have got my hands on you this morning, when I discovered the scurvy trick you and Corporal Richardson had played upon me, you’d never be able to walk over another trail again. I really mean it, Dick. I think it was the most unfriendly act you have ever committed. If I wasn’t just naturally patient and forgiving by nature, you and I would never have seen each other again.”
“What would have happened to you?” grinned Dick.
Before replying, Sandy winked broadly and good-humoredly at Toma.
“I had a blamed good notion to go right out and join forces with the Henderson gang. They need a lot of new blood now that Corporal Richardson has taken so many of ’em into camp. Four dog teams and eight men! Just think of it, Dick! He captured the whole outfit—lock, stock and barrel—single-handed.”
“And the stolen fur?” Dick questioned breathlessly.
“He got that too,” answered Sandy, glad of the chance to tell the story. “But first of all, I’m going to start at the beginning. Three hours after you set out over the Run River trail, Toma and I, who were looking out of the window and suspecting nothing, saw the four dog teams coming into view. There is nothing unusual about a dog team up here in this country, so we weren’t much interested. I had just turned away from the window to start another search for you and the corporal—somehow, I hadn’t gotten over the idea that you were skulking somewhere about the place—when Toma poked me in the ribs. Dick, I wish you could have seen it. It all happened so suddenly that no one knew just what was up.”
“Yes! Yes!” said Dick a little impatiently. “Go on, Sandy. What happened?”