He watched eagerly until the last dog came tumbling in and the door slammed shut. Then his face fell.
“Ginger,” he murmured dejectedly. “They must have done him in. He was my pal. They’d never get him alive. Poor old Ginger!”
“Was he your leader?” There was true understanding in the other boy’s tone. Born and bred in the North, he knew what a good dog leader meant.
“He was more than a leader,” Johnny said huskily. “For two years, ever since I was in Alaska, he was my companion and pal. But now—”
“Don’t be so sure they killed him,” said D’Arcy. “I haven’t heard a howl from any dog. Plenty of barking, though. He may have slipped his collar.”
“And gone back over the trail!” Johnny exclaimed. “There’s hope in that. If he makes his way back to our camp, then Sandy will know that something has happened to me. And he’ll never rest until he finds me. In his younger days Sandy was a Mountie. You know what they’re like!”
“They get their man.”
“Yes, and Sandy will get his.”
“Who’s Sandy?”
“He’s the man I’m with. We’re looking for pitchblende with radium in it.”