“En avant!” shouted the missionary cheerily. “All aboard! See you later, Mother!”
There was little breaking trail for the dogs that day; for, in Thomas’ dramatic words, “de win’ she’s blow heem—poof!” So after the first half hour the party struck and held to the steady dog trot that devours the white miles in the north land and keeps the blood jumping in the teeth of forty below. The boy took his turn with the other two in leading. After two hours’ run the missionary would have swung off to a bold out-jutting headland, heavily wooded, dimly seen through the storm.
“There is the point beyond the Petite Traverse, Thomas,” he said.
“Oui!”
“No, that is not the camp,” said Paul. “Farther up, farther up.”
“Beyond the Grande Traverse, Thomas, eh?” said the missionary. “Another eight miles at least. Are you fit? Can you go on?”
The boy looked at him a moment with eyes that burned in their deep sockets like points of fire, then without answer he set off on a dog trot on the northward trail.
A twenty minute run brought them round the headland. They were on the edge of the Big Traverse, a bleak white plain, bare of mark or guiding sign, swept by bitter wind and driving snow. The missionary was for striking straight across the open, but Thomas after the Indian habit was for the more cautious plan of skirting the shore. “De win’, she no so bad, and de trail he’s no get los’.” Paul was for the shore line too.
They had not run for more than half an hour longer when old Skookum, who was leading, began to show signs of anxiety, sniffing, whimpering and uttering short yelps. The missionary pulled up his team short.
“Something coming, sure thing, man or beast,” he shouted to the others following. They all stood listening intently, but only the howling and hissing of the storm came to their ears. The dogs had all caught Skookum’s restlessness, sniffing and whimpering.