Dick hastily inspected the patch of wood in which they had camped. As Toma had said, they soon would be out of firewood. And the nearest wood was three hundred yards away—outside the circle of death.
Dick and Sandy shuddered; Corporal Richardson stirred and moaned; Toma began quietly gathering the chips and twigs; half buried in the snow.
CHAPTER XX
SANDY DISAPPEARS
Sitting by the fire, conscious presently of a light step at his side and a friendly hand on his shoulder, Dick turned and looked up into Sandy’s face, as his chum spoke in a voice husky with emotion.
“I guess we’ve about played our last card,” said Sandy. “Right now it doesn’t look as if Fort Dunwoody was very close, does it?”
“No, not very close,” Dick was obliged to answer, as his tired eyes swept the narrowing circle of timber wolves.
“We’ve done the best we could anyway,” Sandy went on dejectedly. “I guess my Uncle Walter won’t receive a whole lot of help from us.”
“Sandy, I used to think you were an optimist,” declared Dick, “but now I know you’re a born pessimist. Why don’t you try to cheer up?”
Sandy glanced about at the wolves. A scowl puckered his usually placid brow. “Can’t be very cheerful with those fellows waiting for us,” he said shortly. “Do you know I sometimes think that big one with the shaggy head actually grins at me? If he thinks he’s going to pick a whole lot of meat off my bones he’s badly mistaken.”
Dick grinned in spite of himself. “Exactly what do you mean, Sandy?”