“My head feels as if it was too big for my parka,” said Dick, manfully fighting off a dizzy spell.
“Hurry into your tent and I’ll get the medicine kit,” said Corporal McCarthy. “I want to get going again in an hour anyway. We ought to locate some more drivers tomorrow, and if possible, overtake Mistak, the ‘white Eskimo,’ before he gets another lead on us.”
Dick’s head wound proved not serious. His heavy parka had protected his scalp from the blow, which had probably been made with a spear butt. There was, however, a large lump about the size of an egg over his left temple, and it was rather sore. But the young northman would not think of delaying the pursuit, and speedily forgot his slight wound as he hustled about making tea, while Sandy and Toma lent willing hands with the packs and dog harnesses.
Within an hour dog and man had partaken of an early breakfast and were mushing grimly along a fresh trail under the midnight sun.
“This was a wise move on our part,” Dick told Sandy as they woddled along on their snowshoes. “Mistak won’t expect us to start out so soon and we’ve a good chance to overtake him.”
“I get the creeps whenever I think of that Eskimo stealing into camp that way,” rejoined Sandy. “Suppose he is a kind of a devil.”
“Nonsense,” replied Dick, “just because these poor, superstitious Eskimos are frightened is no sign you should be. I’ll admit he’s a dangerous character, but he’s no more than a human being, and the mounted will get him in the end.”
Sandy was about to reply when an exclamation from one of the policemen silenced him.
They had come out on the rim of an ice-bound ridge and below them stretched a vast valley bounded by the sea on the north and filled with age-old ice formations.
Directly below them were two dog teams, the drivers of which had apparently not yet detected the mounted police.