“There is no smell of fire,” he whispered.
“No!” answered the corporal, his anxiety suddenly trebled by the thought that he had arrived too late.
They still crept forward, and then unexpectedly Sibou stopped, and pointed to the ground. Roger Bracknell looked down and saw a blackened circle in the snow where a fire had been lit.
“Here was the camp,” said the Indian, and then stopped and put his hand on the ashes. “The fire is cold,” he said, as he stood upright again. “It has been out for some time.”
For a moment they stood looking at each other, and then instinctively both turned to look for the cabin. It stood like a shadow against the deeper shadow of the woods behind it, silent, and with no sign of occupation about it.
“Perhaps the men we seek are in the cabin,” whispered the corporal.
Again the Indian sniffed the air and then shook his head.
“No! They are not there. There is no fire. But we will go and find out.”
Carelessly, in his assurance, Sibou led the way across the creek, and to the front of the cabin. The door was closed, and he hammered on it with his rifle butt. There was no answer, and, feeling for the latch string, he thrust a shoulder against the door. It did not yield.