Toma swung open the cabin door, and Dick and Sandy followed him out. It was so cold their teeth commenced chattering almost immediately. They buttoned up their jackets and hurried off into the night.
“We’ll make Fort Dunwoody yet,” Dick shivered, almost gladly.
“I’ll say we will,” Sandy came back.
Then they fell silent as they took Toma’s tireless, jogging pace, beneath a cloudy sky. Again the Indian’s trail wisdom came in like a God-send. Dick and Sandy did not know where they were going, but they had a feeling that Toma certainly did.
How long they ran they did not know when they began to feel damp spots on their cheeks and hands.
“It’s snowing,” Dick panted over his shoulder.
“I know it,” wheezed Sandy.
“Ought to cover our trail,” Dick came back.
“I guess so, but I can’t talk. I’ve got to save my wind. You must be made of iron.”
Dick said no more, and presently Toma slowed down. It was snowing heavily now, and with the going getting harder underfoot, Dick and Sandy were grateful for the slackening of the pace. Yet they sensed something unusual ahead had been the cause of it, and were not perfectly at ease by any means.