It was a solemn thing, this cutting loose from friends and supplies and braving the unknown interior, and it made them thoughtful of observances that they had neglected in igloo and topek. Harry took from his inner pocket the little Bible that he had carried all through the trip, and, opening its pages, stained with Bering Sea water, at random, found the book of Psalms. He read aloud to Joe, and the simple grandeur of thought and eloquent beauty of phrase steadied and heartened them both. Then they talked long of their home and friends, and, resting in the shelter of their tent while the dogs lay content in the snow outside, felt that the observance of the day had been worthy, and a wise thing. They made it their custom thereafter. Yet in all this talk of home Harry never mentioned Maisie to Joe. But that is not saying he did not think of her.
The fourth day of the next week carried them over a range of hills to a second, higher table-land. They had been helped in their journey by a river, on whose level, snow-covered ice they worked southward at a good rate of speed. Its course seemed fairly direct, and they made in speed what they lost by not going in a straight line. The four days must have added nearly another fifty miles to their journey, and Joe was jubilant. He began to predict that they would reach the Yukon in good season, and get out by steamer from St. Michael that fall.
The very next morning they waked cold, in spite of their furs, and found a gray and sunless dawn, across which a keen north wind sang. They hitched up and pressed on, but the sky grew grayer, and soon the world was a whirling mass of snow. They drifted before this wind for a mile or two, the snow getting deeper, and their progress slower every moment. Soon it was half knee deep, and the load began to be heavy for the dogs. Now and then they looked up at the boys wistfully, as if wondering why they did not seek shelter. For two hours they struggled on, not so much because they wished to as that on the level plain there seemed to be no cover.
By and by Harry began to wonder if he was dreaming. The snow under foot seemed to be trodden and the walking easier. Then he began to have what he thought were fleeting glimpses of shadowy forms that surrounded them, yet never came near enough to be really seen. He spoke of this to Joe, who had been plugging along in a sort of weary daze behind the sled while Harry led the way for the dogs.
Joe waked up at this, and together they examined the ground. There certainly were countless tracks of hoofs under foot, though the rapidly falling snow blotted them out very soon.
“They are caribou tracks,” said Harry.
“But where are the caribou?” asked Joe.
“All about us,” replied Harry. “I keep thinking I see them, but the snow is so thick and blinding that I can’t be sure. See!”
They had stopped during this consultation, and, looking directly back, they could see dim antlered forms that divided as they approached, and went to the left and right of them, passing on into the blur of snow. An immense herd of caribou, perhaps miles long, was drifting before the gale, and by some strange chance had inclosed them within itself. The animals, stupid, and dazed by the snow, paid little attention to them, but pressed aimlessly on, as if blown by the storm. It was a strange experience, this being the centre of an invisible herd that made a path for them in the wilderness of snow. It lasted for another hour, and yet they had hardly a glimpse of the deer. It came to an end when they reached a broad gully that marked the course of a stream. In the shelter of the bank of this the snow had drifted deep, and here the tracks swerved and left them in the snow.