The shouts of the following Indians died away.  Familiar landmarks leaped past, and save for an occasional word of encouragement MacNair let the dogs set their own pace.  For, consumed as he was by anxiety for what might lie at the end of the trail, he knew that the homing instinct of the wolf-dogs would carry them more miles and in better heart than the sting of his long gut-lash.

At daylight the man halted for a half-hour, fed his dogs, and boiled tea, which he drank in great gulps, hot and black, from the rim of the pot.  At noon one of the dogs showed signs of distress, and MacNair cut him loose, leaving him to follow as best as he could.  When darkness fell only three dogs remained in harness, and these showed plainly the effects of the long trail-strain.  While behind, somewhere upon the wide stretch of the Yellow Knife, the other four limped painfully in the wake of their stronger team-mates.

An hour passed, during which the pace slackened perceptibly, and then with only ten miles to go, two more dogs laid down.  Pausing only to cut them free from the harness, MacNair continued the trail on foot.  The hard-packed surface of the snow made the rackets unnecessary, and the man struck into a long, swinging trot—­the stride of an Indian runner.

Mile after mile slipped by as the huge muscles of him, tireless as bands of steel, flexed and sprung with the regularity of clockworks.  The rising moon was just topping the eastern pines as he dashed up the steep bank of the clearing.  For a moment he halted as his glance swept the familiar outlines of the log buildings, standing black and clean-cut and sombre in the light of the rising moon.

MacNair drew a deep breath, and the next moment the long wolf-cry boomed out over the silent snow.  As if by magic, the clearing sprang into life.  Lights shone from the barrack windows and from the windows of the cabins beyond; doors banged.  The white snow of the clearing was dotted with swift-moving forms as men, women, and children answered the clan-call of MacNair, shouting to one another as they ran, in hoarse, deep gutturals.

In an instant MacNair singled out Old Elk from among the crowding forms.

“What’s happened here?” he cried.  “Where is the white kloochman?”

Old Elk had taken charge of the thirty Indians MacNair had despatched for provisions, and immediately upon learning from the lips of the Indian women of Chloe’s disappearance he had left the loading of the sleds to the others while he worked out the signs in the snow.  Thus at MacNair’s question the old Indian motioned him to follow, and, starting at the door of the cottage, he traced Chloe’s trail to the banskian, and there in a few words and much silent pantomime he explained without doubt or hesitation exactly what had taken place from the moment of Chloe’s departure from the cottage until she was carried, bound and gagged and placed upon Lapierre’s waiting sled.