He would have wondered still more had he known that his companion, Curlie, was on that sled and that each mile he traveled brought him closer to the curly-haired young radiophone expert.
His wonder did grow apace when, mile after mile, the reindeer driver followed the trail of the outlaw.
“Wonder what he’s after,” he mumbled over and over.
When presently he saw the reindeer tracks suddenly swing to the right and down the ridge, and by straining his eyes he made out a large herd of reindeer feeding at the edge of the scrub forest, he was truly disappointed.
“Thought it meant something,” he grumbled, “his following along that way. But I guess he was just following the ridge for good going till he got to his reindeer herd. We might go down and buy some reindeer meat. I think I see a cabin at the edge of the forest. They might have other things to eat, coffee, hardtack and the like. Natives often do.”
“Can’t afford to use up the time,” said Joe. “We’re doing well enough on caribou meat. Got quite a supply of it yet. So we’d better mush along. All right, Ginger! Let’s go,” he shouted. His leader leaped to his feet and they were away.
It would be interesting to speculate on just what would have happened had they decided to descend the hill to trade with the natives. They might have been ambushed and slain, for Curlie Carson was at that moment in the cabin at the edge of the forest and he was far from free to go his own way.
So like ships in the night they passed, Curlie Carson and his pals. Only once Jennings paused to look back. Then as he shaded his eyes he said to Joe:
“Seems like I see something hovering up there about the tree tops.”
“White owl or raven,” said Joe.