But although they had failed to discover the White Squaw, she was by no means forgotten. A certain sense of relief had followed their first moments of keen disappointment, but it was only a revulsion of their strained nerves; thoughts of her which were, perhaps, less fiery and reckless, but consequently more enduring, still possessed them.
Ralph was especially calm. He had thought the whole thing over in his deliberate fashion, and, finally, admitted to himself that what had happened was for the best. Nick was less easy. His disappointment had slightly soured an already hasty, but otherwise kindly, disposition. He needed something of his brother’s calm to balance him. But, however, in both cases, somewhere deep down in their hearts the fateful flame so strangely kindled was still burning; a deep, strong, unquenchable fire.
They were almost home. Before them lay the frozen waterway. Beyond that, and above, rose the hill, on the face of which stood their shack; and about them was the brooding silence, still and portentous, but familiar.
The lead-dog plunged down the bank and the rest followed, whilst Ralph and Nick steadied the laden sled. The brief passage was made, and Nick’s whip drove the fierce, willing beasts at the ascent beyond. Then, ere the sled had left the river, and while the dogs still struggled in their harness to lift its nose over what was almost a cut-bank, and when Nick’s attention was most needed, the whip suddenly became idle, and his stock of driving-curses changed to a shout of alarmed surprise.
Down he dropped upon his knees; and, with head bent low, examined the disturbed surface of the snow. In an instant Ralph was at his side. The dogs had ceased to pull and crouched down in their traces. A strange and wonderful thing had happened. In their absence their valley had been invaded, and the indications were those of human agency.
Nick pointed, and his outstretched forefinger moved slowly over a footprint indicating the sharp, clean outline which the surface of the snow still retained. A moccasin-covered foot had trodden there; and the mark left was small, smaller than that of an ordinary man. And the two heads, almost touching, bent over it in silent scrutiny.
Presently Ralph raised his eyes and looked ahead. Step by step he traced the marks on up the hill in the direction of the dugout, and, at last, silent speculation gave place to tense, low-spoken words.
“Injun moccasins,” he said.
“Guess so, by the seamin’.”
“’Tain’t a buck neche, neither.”