"Come on, cap'n an' mates," interrupted Yardsley, impatiently. "Let's be off!"
In a few minutes, the party, with the trapper in the lead, were swiftly following the trail which led across the valley.
"Them tracks is purty fresh," said Yardsley, "an' we oughter gain on 'em fast. Every blessed pack of furs gone."
"You haven't lost 'em altogether yet," put in Hackett. "If this snow-storm doesn't turn into a blizzard, there's a chance of getting the whole bunch back."
"A blizzard's jest what I am afear'd of," commented the other. "It's blowin' purty fresh now."
Up-hill and down, scarcely slackening their pace, they kept along, the tracks of the sled being plainly visible. They were sunk to an unusual depth, showing how heavily it had been laden.
The snow was again coming down thicker, and in that steady fashion which indicated a deep fall. In through a dense pine woods the trail led, then turned abruptly toward the lake.
"The rascals will give us a purty chase," grumbled Yardsley. "Gittin' tired, boys?"
"I don't know about the others, but I'm not," replied Hackett. "I can give you ten feet start, and catch up, any time."
"Good for you," and Yardsley, bending forward, increased his pace.