“That is a bit of the Barren Lands that creeps down between those mountains off there, M’seur,” he said.  “Do you see that black forest that looks like a charred log in the snow to the south and west of the mountains?  That is the break that leads into the country of the Athabasca.  Somewhere between this point and that we will strike the trail.  Mon Dieu, I had half expected to see them out there on the plain.”

“Who?  Meleese and Jackpine, or—­”

“No, the others, M’seur.  Shall we have dinner here?”

“Not until we hit the trail,” replied Howland.  “I’m anxious to know about that one chance in a hundred you’ve given me hope of, Croisset.  If they have passed—­”

“If they are ahead of us you might just as well stand out there and let me put a bullet through you, M’seur.”

He went to the head of the dogs, guiding them down the rough side of the ridge, while Howland steadied the toboggan from behind.  For three-quarters of an hour they traversed the low bush of the plain in silence.  From every rising snow hummock Jean scanned the white desolation about them, and each time, as nothing that was human came within his vision, he turned toward the engineer with a sinister shrug of his shoulders.  Once three moving caribou, a mile or more away, brought a quick cry to his lips and Howland noticed that a sudden flush of excitement came into his face, replaced in the next instant by a look of disappointment.  After this he maintained a more careful guard over the Frenchman.  They had covered less than half of the distance to the caribou trail when in a small open space free of bush Croisset’s voice rose sharply and the team stopped.

“What do you think of it, M’seur?” he cried, pointing to the snow.  “What do you think of that?”

Barely cutting into the edge of the open was the broken crust of two sledge trails.  For a moment Howland forgot his caution and bent over to examine the trails, with his back to his companion.  When he looked up there was a curious laughing gleam in Jean’s eyes.

“Mon Dieu, but you are careless!” he exclaimed.  “Be more careful, M’seur.  I may give myself up to another temptation like that.”

“The deuce you say!” cried Howland, springing back quickly.  “I’m much obliged, Jean.  If it wasn’t for the moral effect of the thing I’d shake hands with you on that.  How far ahead of us do you suppose they are?”

Croisset had fallen on his knees in the trail.

“The crust is freshly broken,” he said after a moment.  “They have been gone not less than two or three hours, perhaps since morning.  See this white glistening surface over the first trail, M’seur, like a billion needle-points growing out of it?  That is the work of three or four days’ cold.  The first sledge passed that long ago.”

Howland turned and picked up Croisset’s rifle.  The Frenchman watched him as he slipped a clip full of cartridges into the breech.