Two hours later the camp in the forest was once more in order. The meat had been piled high upon a hastily made cache of strong boughs, roped between trees. The dogs had been bedded down with spruce boughs. All was snug for the night.
They were preparing to turn in. To-morrow would be a busy day. They would spend the greater part of it in camp. The broken sled must be mended. Joe’s dogs must be allowed to recover from the first shock of the battle. Jennings would repair the sled. Curlie and Joe would go ahead breaking the trail on snowshoes for a few miles. This would be the day’s work; that and keeping a sharp lookout for the outlaw of the air.
“The outlaw of the air!” Curlie was thinking of him when there came a rattle from the loud-speaker attached to the receiving set tuned for long wave lengths.
Leaping to the tuner, he touched its knob, twisted it first this way, then that. He touched a second and a third knob, then bent his ear for the message.
“Another government affair,” he told himself. Then, suddenly, as if bursting out from the very room, came a loud, “Bar-r-r-r!”
Instantly his hands flew to the radio-compass as he muttered.
“That’s him, the outlaw!”
He measured the distance accurately, calculated the direction, then located it on the map.
“There!” he murmured. “He’s right there. Not forty miles. A little off the trail. For safety from discovery I suppose. Camped there for the night. By a forced march we could reach that spot before nightfall to-morrow. Question is, shall we do it?”
Throwing on his coat, he went out of the tent. There for ten minutes he bathed his temples, throbbing with excitement, in the cold night air. Pacing up and down on the narrow trail he debated the problem.