“Wait for the morning, eh?” he said, his dark eyes imploring.
“No, I must get through. The blizzard may last three days, then it will be too late for any of us. You see?” The boy nodded silent assent.
“When the fire burns low twice wake me up.” Again the boy nodded.
“Good boy! We’ll get through,” said Paul, putting his hand on his shoulder. The boy’s face flushed red, then grew grey again. The chances for getting through he knew well were very slim indeed.
With but a moment’s further delay Paul lay down near the fire. Round the little snow-banked shelter the storm howled its wildest, but through all its strident and threatening voices another voice came, calm and serene and heart-stilling, “He rideth upon the wings of the wind,” and Paul hearing that voice was instantly asleep.
CHAPTER XVI
The Hudson’s Bay Post stood at the southern end of the lake, as did most Hudson’s Bay Posts in the North Country, and consisted of a group of log buildings, well constructed, neat in appearance and well adapted to their purposes of trade and defence. The store, with the Factor’s house attached, was the most imposing of the group, and next in size was the Mission House, which did for dwelling for the missionary, the church and the school, all under one roof and within four walls. Straggling outhouses were scattered about where boats and canoes and tackle of different kinds were stored. A few Indian wigwams and well built huts near the forest line completed the picture.
It was early morning and the air was bitter cold and thick with driving snow. About the Post there was not a sign of life except at the door of the Mission House, where a six-dog team hitched to a toboggan waited for their master. In their harness they lay curled up, backs to the wind, a nondescript lot, of varied and altogether doubtful ancestry but mostly husky.
Suddenly the leader raised his head, pricked up his ears, sniffed the wind and uttered a short sharp bark. Instantly the remaining five were on their feet, vigorously barking, indignant that they had missed something and protesting that they knew quite as much as old Skookum, who after his first warning bark had remained standing stiff-legged and bristled as to his back, sniffing the wind. The door of the Mission House opened and a little man, fur-clad as for a journey, looked out.
“What’s up, Skookum? Lie down, you old idiot,” he said. The other five looked foolish, but old Skookum maintained his posture, with ears alert and hair stiff and bristling. He knew that down the wind a definite and authentic scent had struck his nostrils. His was no second-hand knowledge, and he was not to be browbeaten into denial of a veritable experience.