Harbinson did not reply. Stillness fell over the room again. Davis resumed his seat on the rough bench and sat with his head in his hands until Baptiste announced that the meal was ready. As he ate, the young prospector could hear Harbinson’s asthmatic breathing and the scraping of the half-breed’s moccasined feet across the floor.
Hungry though he had been, he had little taste for food. His mind was too much upset. The disappointing news he had brought back to his partner, he well knew had been a heavy blow indeed.
Later, the three men walked outside, seeking the warm sunshine that fell aslant across the land. The lake still shimmered under the bright glare. A few birds winged their way across the sky. Desolate at all times, the sleepy valley now held no trace of life anywhere. Off to the westward the hills and rocks formed a dun labyrinth, and from the crest of the nearest slope one looked down over heights and depths, broken ridges, crooked valleys—all pervaded, choked with an awful solitude.
“Well,” croaked the old prospector finally, “what’s to be done? We’ve not only ourselves to think about—but others. It’s late in the fall now. By spring there won’t be a single soul north of the Mackenzie.”
Davis studied the problem, as he had done almost continually since he had left Fort Garrison a week before.
“Only one thing we can do,” he answered quietly.
“What’s that?”
“Notify the police. It’s our only hope.”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” said Harbinson brightening. “You’d go to the Mackenzie River Barracks?”
“Yes, I’ll carry the news there. It will be much quicker than to wait for their regular patrol. I know Inspector Cameron. He’ll act promptly.”