The trail had been heavy. They had made but fifteen miles. What of the stranger? How far had he come?
Curlie’s heart skipped a beat at the realization that he must be very near at hand.
At the same time there came a disturbing question. Had this man of evil intentions somehow stolen a march on them? Had he been in league with the Indian who had claimed to possess a supply of caribou meat? Had this been but a ruse to get them separated?
“Well, if it was, it’s been a complete success,” he exclaimed. “Three of us and not one of us knows where the others are.”
Turning, he reached for a box-magazine rifle. After examining the clip in the chamber, he slipped three other loaded ones in his pockets.
“You can never tell,” he whispered, “you sure can not.”
A great silence hovered over the forest which bounded the banks of the Tanana River. Such silences existed in these Arctic wilds as Curlie had never before experienced.
“Fairly spooky,” he whispered to himself. “Wish I could hear something—wind in the treetops, even. But there’s not a breath.”
The forest lay all about him. Everywhere the ground was buried in two feet of snow. Muffled footsteps might at this moment be approaching the camp.
At last, unable to bear it longer, he snapped off the radiophone for a moment to adjust a smaller set and tune it to 200, the wave length he and Joe had agreed to use if in distress.