“Dogs,” said Gordon Duncan, “are sometimes wiser than humans. There may be something in his actions that is worth investigating. Let us be going.”
In this he was more right than he knew.
They had not gone a hundred yards when the trail widened. Another hundred yards, and a dark bulk loomed through the whirling snow.
“A cabin or a boulder,” said Johnny a little breathlessly.
“Either will prove a boon,” said the old Scot. “A shelter in the time of storm.”
“A cabin! A cabin!” the girl cried joyously as the dog came bounding back to meet her.
And such a cabin as it proved to be! Built of massive logs, with a door that required the strength of two to swing it wide, what a haven! It was equipped with rude bunks, a hand hewn table and chairs and a massive stone fireplace.
“This,” said Gordon Duncan, a note of deep, silent joy creeping into his voice, “is the very place we were to leave the canoe and strike away across the tundra. Truly we have been guided by a great good God.”
“God, and Tico,” whispered the girl as she sank down upon a chair. There was no suggestion of irreverence in her tone.
“Aye, and the dog,” said the old Scot. “I doubt not that many times the great Creator finds a dog’s course more easy to direct than that of a human.”