It was broad
daylight, the storm had ceased, and a woodpecker was hammering loudly on
a hollow shell over their heads when they started up, wondering vaguely
where they were. Then while Noel broke out of the _commoosie_, which was
fairly buried under the snow, to find out where he was, Mooka rebuilt
the fire and plucked a ptarmigan and set it to toasting with the last of
their bread over the coals.
Noel came back soon with a cheery whoop to tell the little cook that
they had drifted before the storm down the whole length of the great
barren, and were camped now on the opposite side, just under the highest
ridge of the Top Gallants. There was not a track on the barrens, he
said; not a sign of wolf or caribou, which had probably wandered deeper
into the woods for shelter. So they ate their bread to the last crumb
and their bird to the last bone, and, giving up all thought of hunting,
started up the big barren, heading for the distant Lodge, where they had
long since been given up for lost.
They had crossed the barren and a mile of thick woods beyond when they
ran into the fresh trail of a dozen caribou.
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