The air breathed a mystery that they could not fathom. Their hearts
were weighted with a nameless dread.

Their pace never once slackened and not a word was spoken until after
several hours the first tilt came suddenly into view, when Dick said
laconically:

"No smoke. He's not here."

"An' no signs o' his bein' on th' trail since th' storm," added Ed.

"No footin' t' mark un at all," assented Dick. "What's happened has
happened before th' last snow."

"Aye, before th' last snow. 'Twas before th' storm it happened."

Here they took a brief half hour to rest and boil the kettle, and the
remainder of that day and all the next day kept up their tireless,
silent march. Not a track in the unbroken white was there to give them
a ray of hope, and every step they took made more certain the tragedy
they dreaded.

At noon on the third day they reached the last tilt. Bill was ahead,
and when he pushed the door open he exclaimed: "Th' stove's gone!"
Then they found the bag that Micmac John had left there with the fur
in it.

"Now that's Micmac John's bag," said Ed. "What devilment has th' Injun
been doin'? Now why did he _leave_ th' fur? 'Tis strange--wonderful
strange."