At dawn they were off again. To their disgust the weather now was
dead calm; there was no drift to hide their tracks; the trail was
as plain as a highway wherever they went. They came to a beaten
road, followed that for half a mile, then struck off on the true
line. But they had no idea that they were followed until, after
an hour of travel, the sun came up and on a far distant slope,
full two miles away, they saw a thin black line of many spots, at
least a dozen British soldiers in pursuit.
The enemy was on snowshoes, and without baggage evidently, for
they travelled fast. Rolf and Quonab burdened with the sled were
making a losing race. But they pushed on as fast as possible --
toiling and sweating at that precious load. Rolf was pondering
whether the time had not yet come to stop and burn the packet,
when, glancing back from a high ridge that gave an outlook, he
glimpsed a row of heads that dropped behind some rocks half a
mile away, and a scheme came into his mind. He marched boldly
across the twenty feet opening that was in the enemy's view,
dropped behind the spruce thickets, called Quonab to follow, ran
around the thicket, and again crossed the open view.
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