Corporal Bracknell recognized the wisdom of the Indian’s words, and condemned to inaction until daylight, decided to make the best of it.
“Then there is nothing for it but to camp. And we may as well use the cabin. Slip through the window, Sibou, and unbar the door, whilst I go across for Jim and the dogs.”
Half an hour later a fire was roaring in the improvised stove, and by its light Roger Bracknell wandered round the cabin, searching for anything that would give him a clue to the mystery. He found nothing. The hut, save for a couple of rifles reposing in the corner, and some odds and ends of no importance, was quite empty. He looked at the rifles and addressed himself to Sibou.
“Evidently the ammunition was exhausted.”
“Yes! Therefore the rifles were left. But the food was taken. Behold!”
The Indian pointed to a roughly made shelf, which corresponded to the ordinary larder of a Klondyke cabin. There was nothing there but a coffee-sack and an empty syrup-tin.
“They run from the men in the camp, and leave the rifles because they are useless, but they take the food, and they have a start—one hour—two hours—who can tell? But we follow in the morning and we find both. That so?”
“Please God, yes!” answered the corporal earnestly.
Tired out with the labours of the day, Roger Bracknell slept long and well, and woke a little after dawn with the smell of frying bacon in his nostrils. The boy Jim was preparing breakfast, but Sibou was nowhere to be seen. Questioning Jim, he learned that the Indian had gone outside an hour before and had not yet returned. Hastily throwing on his furs, the corporal passed outside, and as he did so, Sibou appeared at the edge of the woods at the back of the cabin. There was an impassive look on his mask-like face, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction.
“Well?” asked the corporal eagerly.