Three days out from the mounted police detachment the weather grew suddenly cold and the first snow fell. Without preliminary warning, winter had come. It swept down from the north, a mad trumpeter blowing his blast at the head of a vengeful, icy column. On the morning of the second day after the storm six inches of snow covered the earth.
Dick’s first act was to remove the packs from the ponies and place them on the dog sleighs. This task took less than an hour. With the malemute and husky teams transporting their supplies, they pushed on, discovering that, despite the cold, they now made better progress. Dick drove the mail sledge, while Sandy and Toma had charge of the team which conveyed most of the medicine, not to mention the worthy and genial Dr. Brady himself.
Brady was popular with everyone. Always in good spirits, he became known for his wit and humor. Although considerably past middle age, he had never contrived to outgrow the young man’s viewpoint. He felt like a boy again. He talked and laughed and played pranks like a boy. To him this incursion into a vast wilderness region was an experience long to be remembered. He insisted upon doing a share of the work, soon learned to drive a dog team and often took his turn in breaking trail.
For the most part, cloudy weather prevailed, with an occasional light snowfall. The country was new to Dick and he was compelled to leave the charting of their route to the guide who had joined their party just previous to their departure.
The guide’s name was Martin Lamont. He was probably of French extraction, although he claimed to be a full-blood Indian. For a native, his skin was too light, his cheekbones too low, and, what was most incredible of all, his dark hair was curly. His nose was large and unsightly, while his lips were thin—thin and bloodless. A slight cast in one hawk’s eye gave him a peculiar squint.
“He can’t help being so murderous-looking, I don’t suppose,” Sandy declared one morning. “Just the same, that eye of his chills me to the bone whenever he looks my way. And did you ever notice, Dick, that horrible scar on his left cheek?”
“Yes,” Dick replied, “I’ve noticed it. But I think I could endure his looks if only he had a more pleasant disposition. He seldom talks. When he does, it’s usually a grunt or a snarl. A while ago he acted queerly when I asked him to relieve one of the drivers, who was breaking trail.”
Dr. Brady was walking right behind the two boys and evidently had been listening to their conversation, for, at this juncture, he suddenly broke forth:
“He did act queerly—only I think I’d call it defiant. There was a mutinous look in that squint eye of his.”
“It was unprovoked,” said Dick, a little bitterly. “I asked him in a friendly way. It’s only fair that we should all take turn in breaking trail. He’s the only one that seems to object.”