The reindeer had suddenly paused in his flight to sniff the air. The next instant he had gone plunging down the snow-covered ridge.
This was no time to think of stopping or turning him. Should either be accomplished, Curlie and his sled would have gone spinning in a circle, at last to go rolling over and over in the snow, in which event Curlie would beyond doubt find himself at the foot of the ridge, very much bruised and minus both sled and reindeer.
The most he could do was to hold back the sled with his foot to prevent its overtaking his mad steed, and to allow the deer to continue in his wild race.
The ridge here was long and steep. A half mile away it ended in a forest of scrub spruce trees which beyond doubt lined the bank of a stream.
But what was this he saw as they neared the dwarf forest?
“A herd of reindeer!” he murmured in astonishment. “Five hundred or a thousand of them. Old Whitie, my friend here, smelled them and yearned for company. So he—”
What was that? From the edge of the forest there leaped a tongue of fire, a rifle cracked, a bullet sang over his head, then another and another.
“Say! Do they think I’m a reindeer rustler?” he groaned. “Want to kill me?”
Instantly he dropped from the sled to hide behind a snow bank.
“Not much use,” he told himself, “but it’ll give a fellow time to think? Maybe those fellows are rustlers themselves and they think I’m an officer or something.” His blood ran cold at the thought.