“Lead on there,” Malemute sang out to the spy. “We’ll be a’ter the factor now—double quick.”
Led by the spy, the five left the stockade in the hands of the mounted police, and hurried off into the night.
It was hard going through the deep snow, but the spy seemed to be sure of the way. Only once did the Indian seem confused. Then he paused while the rest waited impatiently. Then they were off again.
Presently they came to a narrow canyon. Dick, Sandy and Toma were running close together. Malemute Slade and the Indian spy were slightly in the lead.
Suddenly the spy stopped dead, emitting a guttural exclamation.
“Down!” cried Malemute.
Scarcely had all five dropped flat when a hoarse voice sounded, seemingly out of the wall of the canyon:
“Who’s there?”
“You’ll shore find out in a minute,” retorted Malemute boldly. “Jest come out where we can see the color o’ y’r whiskers.”
“If you think much of y’r hide you better skidaddle,” replied the voice, threateningly.