He had halted at the fire over which Chilcoot was endeavouring to encourage some warmth into his chilled fingers. He removed his mitts and held his hands to the blaze.
“I was kind of wondering,” he went on, “about that boy, Clarence. Maybe he’s hit up against things. Maybe—Say—”
A faint, far-off echo came down stream. It was a call. A familiar cry in a voice both men promptly recognised. Chilcoot grinned.
“That’s Mike,” he said. Then he added: “Sure as hell.”
Wilder breathed a deep sigh of relief.
“I’m glad. I’m mighty thankful,” he exclaimed with a short laugh. “We’ll be away to-morrow after all.”
Chilcoot eyed his companion speculatively.
“I hadn’t worried fer that,” he said. “Guess we can’t make Placer in open weather.” He shrugged a pair of shoulders that were enormous under his fur parka. “It’ll be dead winter ’fore we’re haf way. It’ll be black night in two weeks, anyway. The big river don’t freeze right over till late winter, but ther’ll be ice floes ’most all the way. I can’t see a day more or less is going to worry us a thing.”
“No.”
Bill was searching the heart of the fire.