Even Toma seemed tired. They did not bother to get supper, but rolled into their sleeping bags, and fell into heavy slumber, not even keeping watch.
Dawn found them awake. They finished their provisions for breakfast, and again took to the trail on the last lap to Fort Dunwoody. They had no time to hunt, but kept watch among the trees for a ptarmigan or partridge, or bigger game if they ran across it. But they had bad luck and the entire day passed with no more than two ptarmigan to show for their pains.
The birds made a slender meal for the three hungry young men. Toma chopped out some roots that proved succulent when stewed, and they managed to fill their stomachs with this, though within an hour afterwards they were as hungry as ever.
Twenty miles from Fort Dunwoody, at noon of the third day since the rescue of Sandy, they came abruptly upon a friendly Indian village at the edge of a tiny lake.
“Now we’ll eat!” cried the haggard Sandy.
And eat they did, in preparation for the last lap of their eventful journey, for they felt it would be a hard day on the trail.
CHAPTER XXIII
GRAY GOOSE LAKE
“The fort! The fort!” cheered Dick, as the following evening they came to the edge of a vast plain.
Sandy was overjoyed, so much so that he could not speak.
Sure enough, a half mile ahead frowned the stockade of Fort Dunwoody, under the rippling flag of the king. Toma did not express himself in words, but hastened his tireless pace.