“There! There! Don’t you hear them?”
Johnny listened and, as he held his breath, above the dry rustle of dead willow leaves, he did catch the unmistakable crash and rattle of an oncoming army of caribou.
“God grant that they may not turn back!” said Gordon Duncan as he whispered a fervent prayer to his God that He might prove that day that He, the great Father, and not the spirit of some dead animal, directed the flight of wild birds and the courses of the herds of all wild creatures.
Johnny thought again of the chilling water where a film of thin ice was forming, and shuddered.
Knowing that their wait might be long, he had spent much time in preparing a comfortable place of concealment. He had cut armfuls of slender willow shoots to which the dry leaves still clung. From these he had made a soft cushioned resting place. About this he had built a tight wall of leafed branches. This wall kept out the wind. Here, huddled close together, they were comfortable indeed. Compared to this, the very thought of the sweeping north wind and the cold black water sent a chill to his very marrow.
“Perhaps,” he whispered hesitatingly, “perhaps it might be that you’d do well to stay here.” He was speaking to the girl.
“Stay here?” The girl’s tone showed surprise.
“It—it’s going to be hard out there, and—and a bit dangerous. There are enough native hunters. We have supplied them with weapons.”
“I—” The girl hesitated. There can be no doubt but that there was an angry retort upon her lips. She, after all, was but human, and the moments that had just passed had been tense ones.
One look at Johnny’s honest, earnest face, and the remark died unuttered.