“Well,” said the girl, dropping to the snow, weak with excitement, “as you said before, we will eat to-night. As for the Eskimos, there must be some other way.”
“Yes,” said Johnny, “there must be some—some other way.” He seemed suddenly to have grown very weak and old.
“We-l-l, it’s not so bad.” It was the voice of an old man grown suddenly strong that sounded in Johnny’s ear. A moment more and Gordon Duncan, with Tico hitched to an improvised sled, stood beside them.
“As for yonder little brown people, God will provide in his own good way,” he said as he led them down the ridge.
That night between the sheltering banks of a narrow gorge, they built a shanty of willow bushes. The beds they slept on after a royal feast of roasted caribou steak were made of rustling willow leaves.
Next morning, after cutting a draw line from a caribou skin, Johnny piled all the remaining meat on the sled, and putting his own shoulder to the harness, bade Tico lead on.
It was hard, grinding toil, but he hung to the task until, after climbing a slight elevation, Faye let out a cry of joy. Before them in the valley, pitched in an irregular circle, were a half dozen skin tents.
“The Caribou Eskimos.” The words that came from the old Scot’s lips spoke volumes of joy. What did it matter now that the way had been long and hard, that they had faced death by water, storm and cold? What did he care that they had but two caribou on their sled and that the great caribou band had passed northward? They had found the people they had come to serve. God would find a way to perfect their labors.
“But where are the people?” Faye asked.
Where indeed? Not a living creature was stirring about the tents. Not a film of smoke curled up from the tent poles.