“It’s a shame to shoot such quiet, peaceful brutes,” said Sandy as they hurried up to the brownish forms in the snow.
“That meat means life for us,” replied Dick, “and maybe God put them here for just that purpose.”
Sandy’s feeling of remorse over the shooting of the musk-oxen soon disappeared after they reached the fallen herd. As zoological specimens the musk-oxen were food for thought, and when the boys had finished examining the huge gnarled horns and the broad, rounded backs, there was the cutting up of the meat to be performed. So intent did they become upon the latter task that for a time they forgot entirely their surroundings.
It was Toma whose sharp ears first sensed that they were not alone. He spoke a few guttural words to Dick and Sandy in an undertone, and all three reached for their rifles. When they turned to face the ravine up which they had climbed just before sighting the musk-oxen, they could hear the crunch of snowshoes. Prepared for the worst, they brought their rifles to their hips and cocked them.
A scowling, fur-bordered face appeared over the edge of the ravine, paused a moment, then finished the climb followed by two more unprepossessing individuals clad in worn, soiled furs. The three paused on the brow of the ravine, silently inspecting the boys.
Dick recognized the one who was in advance of the others as the white man he had seen in Mistak’s band. He was certain the other two were likewise outlaws.
“What do you want?” called Dick.
“Nothin’ pertic’lar, yonker,” replied the white man. “It just happens we’ve been a-huntin’ these here musk-ox you’se has shot.”
“It happens we saw them before you did,” returned Dick suspiciously.
“Wal, I guess you wuz luckier than we’ns, but that’s no call f’r us to hold a grudge against each other,” said the man, starting forward.