It seemed to the young leader, as they fared forth across that ghastly moonlit field, that his life had been spent on trails. Daily he walked along some trail. At night he slept beside one. When chill morning broke across a bleak snow-covered land, it was only to resume that never-ending, continuous trek.
It was a sort of Nemesis that haunted him. Somehow he couldn’t get away from it. The trail!——It was there always. It beckoned to him. It defied him. It led him wearily, doggedly on to new dangers and disasters.
On the night in question, the four miles seemed inconceivably long. The feet of his party dragged. A moody silence hung about them. No one laughed. Conversation had ceased. Behind him came the monotonous crunch, crunch, crunch of scores of snowshoes, beating out a path. Crunch, crunch, crunch—tired, laggard feet moved hesitatingly, moved fearfully, ready at the slightest pretext to turn and flee.
Neither Dick nor his two chums believed that in case of an attack, any of the Indians, comprising their party, would make a stand. They were too fearful. In the final crisis, so Dick believed, he would be forced to depend solely upon his two friends and himself. Yet in numbers there is strength. Their imposing array would be sure to impress the enemy.
They reached the village. They bore down upon it, forty strong, shouting their defiance. With their rifles ready, they entered the outskirts, laggard steps becoming more laggard, frightened faces becoming more frightened as the crisis approached. They were offered no resistance. Could it be that the village was asleep? A few huskies sniffed at their heels. A papoose cried in one of the tepees they passed. Still they went on.
In the brilliant star-sprinkled sky a few clouds were visible. One particularly dark cloud passed across the moon. Shadows fell athwart the tepees. It was darker now. The forms of Dick’s followers became shrouded in gloom. Along the white snow surface crept a huge dark stain, an immensity of shadow that blotted the earth.
The tepees were black blotches now against a dark background. Out of this obscurity, coming as unexpectedly as a fire-siren, shrieking its warning, there rose a blood-curdling, hideous yell. Dick literally froze in his tracks. A cold sweat broke out upon his face. He had scarcely the strength to stand upon his tottering legs.
The yell was followed by the cracking of rifles, the whining of bullets. Appalled, his men drew back. For a brief moment they stood their ground, then broke and fled in confusion. The retreat became a rout. Panic spread, rifles were hurled to one side, and a few minutes later Dick’s valiant supporters disappeared from view, swallowed up in the semi-darkness.
Dick saw the absolute futility of attempting anything further that night. Moving more leisurely, he and his two chums followed his defeated column. Again the trail oppressed him. Hope had gone glimmering. He had reached the end of the road. He heard Sandy speaking in mournful tones:
“Well, I guess there isn’t much we can do now. It’s all over. I wouldn’t give one whoop for Dr. Brady’s chances now, or the priest’s either. What do you think about it, Toma?”