“We will take our bows and arrows and hide in one of the little runs,” Johnny had explained.
“When that throng is passing we surely can pick off a number of caribou. The Eskimo village must not now be far away. We will build a cairn for the meat and can return for it.”
Johnny wondered now as the sound of thousands of crackling hoofs grew louder, whether his words would prove true. Was the Eskimo village near? Would they succeed in shooting enough caribou to be of real service? Could the meat be kept away from the wolves?
“At least we shall eat again,” he whispered stoutly.
“Yes,” the girl whispered back, as with nervous fingers she gripped her bow. She had been loath to leave her grandfather back there alone on the tundra. He had insisted. So here they were. And here, coming closer, ever closer, was the moving island of brown.
“There! There is one!” she whispered as a pair of massive antlers appeared above the ridge’s crest.
A splendid young buck, having climbed the ridge, had risen above the snow. There for a moment he stood, head high, sniffing the air. That moment was his last, for with the speed and precision that would have done credit to a daughter of William Tell, the stout hearted Scotch girl sent an arrow unerring to its mark.
The next instant Johnny and Faye were on their feet making the most of their opportunity.
That the opportunity was poor enough they were soon to learn. Like a mighty stream that breaks its bonds to race over land, this mass of brown flowed away before their very eyes.
A dozen arrows shot, half of them lost forever, and only two caribou to show for it all. This was their score.