“That means we’ve got to make a raise of a dog team,” Dick said, tearing off a huge hunk of cold bear meat.
“Good thing Mr. MacLean gave you that money,” Sandy observed.
Dick agreed with his chum, stifling a yawn. Already his eyes were closing. Toma consented to take the first watch, and in a few moments Dick and Sandy were sound asleep in their blankets.
The night passed without incident, Dick and Sandy taking their turns on watch. At dawn they were on the trail again, leaving camp hungry. They hesitated to shoot at any small game for fear Govereau’s men might be near. Toward noon, however, Dick’s gnawing stomach got the better of his caution, and he knocked over a partridge. They made a short stop, broiled the partridge and divided it.
Appetites a little appeased, they were off again, hoping to make the cache of provisions on Limping Dog Creek by nightfall. Late in the afternoon they trudged down into the canyon designated by MacLean on the map.
It was twilight when the canyon walls widened and grew less precipitous. Toma said they were nearing Limping Dog Creek. Sandy was hobbling from a slight sprain received when he tripped over a root, and Dick was far from fresh.
“Flapjacks will sure taste good,” Dick murmured.
“Amen,” Sandy groaned in answer.
When at last they came in sight of the creek, Toma stopped to compare landmarks with the map.
“There um three trees,” Toma pointed to some huge balmagiliad trees that stood out from the smaller jack pines like giants.