And Ralph had no answer to make.
Then presently they turned to where the Moosefoot squaw had stood. She, too, had gone; vanished as completely as had the Hooded Man. There was the trail of her snow-shoes ruffling the snow, and the men ran following it as far as the forest edge; but here they stood. They could follow no further. Night was upon them. Slowly they returned to camp.
The next day they continued their journey with almost fanatical persistence. They found no sentry-trees such as the squaw had described. Forest, yes, but where in that region could they fail to find forest? The abode of the White Squaw was nowhere to be found.
That night they decided upon their next move in the quiet, terse manner of men who cannot bring themselves to speak of the strange feelings which possess them; who are ashamed of their own weakness, and yet must acknowledge it to themselves.
“An’ to-morrow–” said Nick, glancing apprehensively around beyond the fire, over which they were sitting, fighting the deadly cold of the night.
“To-morrow?” echoed Ralph.
“Where?” asked Nick, looking away towards the south.
Ralph followed the direction of his brother’s gaze.
“Um.” And he nodded.