“No.”
There was an impressive pause, and the silent land seemed weighted down as with an atmosphere of gloomy presage. Nick broke it, and his voice had in it a harsh ring. The fire of passion was once more alight in his eyes.
“It’s a squaw’s,” he added.
“Yes, sure; a squaw’s,” and Ralph swallowed a deep breath as though his surroundings stifled him.
A thrill of emotion moved both men. There had leapt within them, in one great, overwhelming tide, all the old reckless craze for the shadowy creature of Victor’s story. At the mere suggestion of a squaw’s presence in that valley their blood-tide surged through their veins like a torrent of fire, and their pulses were set beating like sledge-hammers. A squaw! A squaw! That was their cry. Why not the White Squaw?
Whilst Ralph gazed on ahead Nick still bent over the footprint. The delicate shape, the deep hollow of the ball of the foot, the round cup which marked the heel, and, between them, the narrow, shallow indentation which formed the high-arched instep. In fancy he built over the marks the tall, lithe, straight-limbed creature Victor had told them of. He saw the long flowing hair which fell in a shower upon her shoulders; and the beautiful eyes blue as the summer sky. In a moment his tanned face was transformed and became radiant.
Ralph, the quiet and thoughtful, was no less moved. But he turned from his brother, hugging his own anticipations to himself, and concealing them behind a grim mask of impassivity. His eyes were bright with the same insistent idea, but he told himself that the thing was impossible. He told himself that She lived in the north, and not even the chase of the far-travelling moose could have brought her hither from her forest home. These things he said in his caution, but he did not listen to the voice of his doubt, and his heart beat in great bounding pulsations.
Suddenly Nick sprang from the ground, and short and sharp came his words.
“Let’s git on.”
“Ay,” replied Ralph, and he turned back to the sled.