Conversation gave way to silent watchfulness as the boat drifted on through the long, dark hours of the early morning. When daylight came the misty outlines of the hilly shores showed dimly through the driving snow. There was little to be feared from the Cossacks under such circumstances, so the fugitives continued to float down the center of the stream, keeping a sharp lookout, nevertheless, on each bank.
Soon after noon an island hove in sight in mid stream. Four tall pine trees stood on its crest, and when they had passed this and driven the boat far to the left shore, a dark, narrow ravine was visible, with wooded hills on each side. This was the place, beyond doubt, so they landed on the rim of firm ice, and were about to send the boat adrift when Sandoff interfered.
“We had better make sure, first, that the cabin is here,” he said. “I will go up the valley and search for it. If I am successful I will give a sharp whistle. Then turn the boat bottom up—so that the Cossacks, if they find it, will think we have perished—and send it adrift. Then follow my footsteps up the ravine.”
This wise plan was carried out. The others watched Sandoff as he plodded up the ravine, almost waist deep in the drifted snow, and ten minutes later a shrill whistle came distinctly to their ears. Taking out the bundles, they cast the boat adrift, bottom up, and followed the path Sandoff had taken.
Vera’s information proved to be correct. Slightly more than a quarter of a mile from the river, they met Sandoff just starting back to meet them.
“Yes, I have found the hut,” he said. “It is close by, and in a splendid location.”
He led them on for a few yards, and then turned up the hill to a thick cluster of pine trees and scattered rocks. In the very center of this was what they sought—a small, square cabin, strongly built. It was provided with a door and a window, both of which were tightly closed. An entry was effected with little difficulty, and the fugitives examined the interior with growing delight and amazement. In one corner of the floor lay a great heap of withered grass, and a rude closet in the wall held a plentiful supply of dried meat and a lump of brick tea. Everything was just as the former occupant had left it on the morning when he went away in search of game—never to return. A heap of ashes lay in the fireplace, and near by were some plates and a cup rudely fashioned out of wood.
“Nothing could be better suited to our purpose,” said Shamarin. “Here we can live in safety, for the ravine will soon be choked up with snow and no one can come near us.”
“Let us have something to eat,” suggested Sandoff. “I am nearly famished.”
That night was one to be remembered. In spite of the bitter cold outside, the interior of the cabin was snug and comfortable, and the fugitives slept in peace until the sun was far up. They were well provided with coverings, for in addition to their warm clothing each had a heavy blanket—Vera had brought one for herself—and Sandoff owned two overcoats, his own and the one taken from the Cossack.