“I myself,” he announced proudly, “will lead the expedition which will set out this afternoon for the Mackenzie River. It is said.”
And with a stiff, formal bow, he turned with great dignity and strode out of the tepee.
A few minutes later Dick rose and followed Kantisepa outside. They proceeded to a far end of the village, where a poplar pole corral had been built. This corral or compound contained between thirty or forty Indian ponies. A number of youths had already entered it, carrying lassos. Following much shouting and stampeding of hoofs, they soon had a number of the little beasts saddled and bridled in preparation for the journey northward.
Kantisepa and Dick stood near the entrance of the corral, conversing in low tones. It was during this conversation that Dick learned for the first time that the place where the plane had crashed to the ground was not close to the village. This information had come as a result of his request that he be taken to the spot.
“Come,” he said to his Indian friend, “we will walk over there while the young men are packing the ponies.”
Kantisepa stared at the other in mild disapproval.
“Why do you wish to go now?” he asked. “It is far to walk.”
“How far is it?” asked Dick.
“Six miles,” came the astonishing reply. “Very soon we will go that way. The magic ship lies broken in a little meadow that lies straight in the direction of the noonday sun.”
“And you carried me here all that way?” Dick asked in amazement.