Everything had been planned with great deliberation.
Clarence McLeod had even been called upon to assist, in view of the race against time which the task these men had set themselves represented. Three days ago he had been despatched up the river to recall the Irishman. His immediate return was looked for. Chilcoot had hoped for it earlier. But this third day was allowed as a margin in case the gold instinct had carried Mike farther afield than was calculated.
The last of the brief day was almost gone. And only a belt of grey daylight was visible in the cloud banks to the south-west. Half way up to the camp Wilder paused and gazed out over the ruffled water, seeking to discover any sign of the man’s return in the darkening twilight. He stood beating his mitted hands while Chilcoot passed on up to the camp fire.
There was no sign, no sound. And a feeling of keen disappointment took possession of the expectant man. So much depended on Mike’s return. Under ordinary circumstances the season was not the greatest concern, and Wilder would have been content enough to wait. But the circumstances were by no means ordinary. There was that lying back of his mind which disturbed him in a fashion he was rarely disturbed. And it was a thought and concern he had imparted to no one, not even to his loyal partner, Chilcoot.
He moved on up to the camp, and the keenness of his disappointment displayed itself in his eyes, and in the tone of his voice as he conveyed the result of his search to his comrade.
“Not a dam sight of ’em,” he said peevishly.
He had halted at the fire over which Chilcoot was endeavouring to encourage some warmth into his chilled fingers. He removed his mitts and held his hands to the blaze.
“I was kind of wondering,” he went on, “about that boy, Clarence. Maybe he’s hit up against things. Maybe—Say—”
A faint, far-off echo came down stream. It was a call. A familiar cry in a voice both men promptly recognised. Chilcoot grinned.
“That’s Mike,” he said. Then he added: “Sure as hell.”
“I’m glad. I’m mighty thankful,” he exclaimed with a short laugh. “We’ll be away to-morrow after all.”
Chilcoot eyed his companion speculatively.
“I hadn’t worried fer that,” he said. “Guess we can’t make Placer in open weather.” He shrugged a pair of shoulders that were enormous under his fur parka. “It’ll be dead winter ’fore we’re haf way. It’ll be black night in two weeks, anyway. The big river don’t freeze right over till late winter, but ther’ll be ice floes ’most all the way. I can’t see a day more or less is going to worry us a thing.”