Toma shook his head.
“No,” said the guide, with assurance. “I find way all right. Best thing we go.”
Somewhere in the back of Dick’s mind there was some doubt as to the advisability of facing such a storm, yet he had implicit faith in the prowess of Toma, and he did not question the young Indian’s ability.
“It’ll be great to get near a warm fireplace again,” said Dick. “What do you say, Sandy?”
Sandy’s answer was to spring up out of his blankets and commence immediate preparations for breakfast. A fire was started with considerable difficulty, and less than an hour later the three boys were on the trail again, walking Indian file with Toma in the lead.
But the storm was worse even than they had anticipated. It was fury unleashed, it sucked the very breath out of their mouths and blew through their mackinaws as if they had been cheesecloth. Dick imagined that the weight of the snow-laden air alone was sufficient to prevent any long continued trek across that blinding field of white.
Taking turns breaking trail, they proceeded at a slow pace, puffing with exertion. And always they kept the wind on their left, Toma calling out encouragement from time to time to keep up the spirits of his less-hardened and less-experienced comrades.
Moisture froze on their coat collars, formed by the warmth of their breath against the freezing wind. Breathing became more and more difficult, and Sandy, the weaker physically of the three, began to complain of aching muscles and finally stopped short, panting heavily.
“I’m tired out,” he gasped, “——all in. Dick, I don’t believe I can go a step further. Can’t we sit down and rest?”
Dick was on the point of acceding to Sandy’s request, when Toma, several paces in the lead, came back, crying out his disapproval.