“Be prepared for an ambush,” the Corporal instructed Dick and Toma. “Mistak hasn’t taken Sandy all this distance for nothing. He knew we would follow.”
But minute after minute passed and there was no sign of Mistak or his band, nor of Sandy, with the exception of the clear prints of the snowshoes leading in and out and around the drifts and boulders. Like so many ghosts the three trailers hurried on in the pale moonlight, their snowshoes making scarcely no sound at all in the feathery drifts.
Suddenly, there broke upon the icy air a mocking laugh. The three stopped dead in their tracks, mouths agape.
“What was that?” whispered Dick.
“Him sounded like bad spirit,” Toma’s voice was subdued from sudden fright.
Corporal McCarthy said nothing, but his hands tightened on his rifle while he searched every black shadow with probing eyes.
Shaken by the eerie sound, they prepared to go on again, when once more the mad laugh pealed out, vindictive, vengeful and subtlely mocking.
“It must be a mad man,” quavered Dick.
“Nonsense,” grated the policeman. “It’s some of that devilish Mistak’s work. Anyway the sound came from ahead of us. Unlimber your rifles, lads, we’re going to see some action, I think. If I’m lucky enough to get a bead on Mistak, I’ll never get him to Canada alive, mark my word.”
Crouching, so as to make use of every bit of shelter, they now moved slowly forward, holding their breaths for a repetition of the cackle of laughter. The very boulders themselves now seemed to be moved in the deceptive moonlight under their imaginative eyes.