Toma had nothing more to say. His only answer was to slip the breast band of a dog harness over one shoulder and start the sled. Dick and Sandy followed his lead and presently they were mushing slowly out on the trail.
It was exceedingly tiresome business, and within an hour all were leg weary. The snow had begun to thaw a little, and was soggy underfoot. The sled runners cut down deeply, making it exceedingly hard pulling, even with so light a load as they had.
Long before noon they were resting frequently. And it was with great thankfulness that they at last made camp.
“Phew! That was a stiff jaunt,” Dick panted, lying flat on his back, even his iron endurance tested to the utmost. Sandy was too winded to reply. Toma alone seemed to make no note of it. Long since the boys had ceased being surprised at any of Toma’s feats of muscular endurance.
They were about ready to dine on cold baked beans and coffee, when Toma called their attention to a movement ahead of them from the direction of Fort Dunwoody. It proved to be a man and a dog team.
“Honestly, we’re going to meet somebody!” Sandy exclaimed incredulously. For days they had seen few save enemies.
“Well, maybe this isn’t a friend,” said Dick, dubiously.
Toma studied the man intently as he drew nearer. Finally they could hear the cries of the driver to his dogs and the occasional cracking of his long whip. It was a white man; they could tell even at that distance by the tail to tail hitch of the dogs. Most of the Indians drove in fan formation, each dog attached to separate tugs of varying lengths.
The stranger stopped some distance from them, and came on more slowly. Evidently, he himself was not too certain whether or not he was meeting a hostile party.
They hailed each other.