A flash of light had caught her eye, a gleam from the white reindeer’s ear. “A marker,” she exclaimed. “John Bowman’s marker! Ah, that’s different!” She had seen Bowman’s deer at Nome. “Come on, Phantom!” she called to the dog. “We’ll have to look into this.”
Inspired by this call to service, Florence climbed up the slope. Then, crouching low that she might not startle the reindeer, she followed back along the trail.
Behind her, sticking close to her heels, was the “Phantom Leader.”
“Good old Phantom,” she murmured. The dog let out an all but inaudible yap-yap.
A biting breath of air struck her cheek. Snow rattled against her parka. The storm was on its way.
Creeping down the slope, she peered through the branches. “Reindeer,” she muttered, “still more reindeer. There must be hundreds! Must be—”
Suddenly she drew back among the dark boughs. Had she caught a glimpse of a skulking figure? She could not be sure. The dog crowded close to her, trembling. Why did he tremble? Could he sense danger?
Creeping back up the ridge, she once more turned her back upon her camp. She must make some fresh discoveries. But the storm was beginning in earnest now. All about her were swirls of blinding snow. Now she could see for a distance of forty yards, and now but a few feet.
“Wild spot this,” she said to the dog. “Reindeer will be stampeded by the storm. They may rush over the ridge and perish.”
Slowly a plan was forming in her mind. She would get behind the herd, then drive it forward to the narrow sheltered valley at the edge of which their camp was made.