“What? Where?”
“Why, they’re gone!” exclaimed Patsy. “There were three men. Indians, they looked like. They seemed to be watching the Scarberry herd from a hilltop some distance away.”
“But look!” cried Marian. “It’s gone!”
To their great astonishment, the herd had vanished. As it had appeared to march out of the clouds, so it seemed now to have receded again into them.
“Were we dreaming?” Patsy asked in an awed whisper.
“No,” said Marian thoughtfully, “It was a mirage, a mirage of the great white wilderness. We have them here just as they do on the desert. By the aid of this mirage, nature has shown us a great secret; that we still have a splendid chance to win the race. Let’s get down to camp and be away.”
“But the three Indians?” questioned Patsy. “What were they about to do?”
“Who knows?” said Marian. “We have little to do with the Scarberry herd. Our task is that of getting to Fort Jarvis.”
Two hours were consumed in reaching the edge of the forest. After that, for hours they passed through the wonder world of a northern forest in winter. Deep and still, the snow lay like a great white blanket. Black as ebonite against this whiteness stood the fir and spruce trees. There was something strangely solemn about the place. The crack of reindeer’s hoofs, the bark of dogs, all seemed strangely out of place here. It was as though they stood on holy ground.
“It’s like a church,” Patsy said in an awed voice.