A cold bitter wind hurled its defiance along the slope, its shrieking voice trumpeting through the pines. In the sky—a vast canopy flung over a frozen world—the sun shone wanly. On either side of the sun hung sun-dogs. In the air—frost. Below, a limitless, monotonous expanse of snow.
In the sledge, which flew along over the hard snow-surface, Dick and Toma sat muffled to their ears. From time to time, they beat their arms about their shivering bodies and urged on the dogs. Already they had come eight or ten miles along the faint trail they had made on the previous day.
In their pursuit of the Indian they had expected, quite naturally, to go southwestward in the direction of the Indian encampment. With their lighter load and swifter team; they would rapidly gain on him. Before night, surely, they would overtake him. It was all simply a matter of time and patience and perseverance. In the end, they would be successful.
Much to their surprise, the thief chose a different route entirely. Apparently he had no intention of returning to his home and friends with his ill-gained booty. A few miles farther on, he had set his course to the west, following a hill-chain that ran parallel to the Wapiti River.
The boys turned sharply and continued the pursuit. The sledge tracks of the thief could be discerned quite plainly.
“I can’t imagine where he’s going,” mused Dick. “It isn’t to his own home. Where do you suppose, Toma?”
“Mebbe up in the hills somewhere to another encampment. Mebbe him ’fraid to go back to his own people.”
“Or,” guessed the other, “perhaps his purpose is to make a secret cache up there in the hills. He thinks, no doubt, that the mail sacks and medicine chests are filled with valuable provisions. I’d like to see his face when he opens one of them.”
Toma broke into a low chuckle.
“It make me laugh if he try drink medicine an’ get very sick. Mebbe him fool enough to think medicine some new kind of whiskey.”