Old Joe Picquet came to an abrupt halt. All that morning they had
followed the trail of the thief and had now arrived at a small lake,
Dead Rabbit Lake.
“Boosh!” exclaimed the old man angrily, “I am one fool. Someteeng I jus’
see I nevaire notice before.”
He pointed down at the trail of the man they were pursuing.
“You look! You see something funny 'bout dat snowshoe?” he asked.
Both Tom and Jack examined the footmarks without seeing anything odd in
them. It was then that Joe gave them an exhibition of his skill in
trailing.
“His toe turn oop,” he said. “Dese snowshoes mooch broader, too, than
dose we wear here. Dese shoes made in some factory. See! They no good.”
“Like the man that wears them,” sniffed Jack. “Then you think, Joe, that
he must be a stranger up here?”
“I not know,” rejoined Joe with a shrug, “no can tell. But dose
snowshoes no made oop here. Come from south, maybe. Boosh!”
“If he is a stranger, he is a good traveler anyhow,” was Tom’s comment.
Not long after, they came upon a spot where the man had halted and built
a fire. Joe Picquet felt the ashes, running them slowly through his
gnarled fingers.
“Boosh! He still long way in front of us,” he said disgustedly. “Dis
fire been cold long time. He keel his dogs, he no look out. Boosh!
Allez, Pete! Hey, Dubois!”
On they went again on the monotonous grind of the chase. They passed
small lakes, sections of muskegs, swamps, rocky hillsides and deep
valleys. But all lay deep under snow and ice. The sun beat down, and the
glare from the snow began to affect Jack’s eyes.
“I soon feex that,” said old Joe.
“How?” asked Jack, winking and blinking, for everything looked blurred
and distorted.
“I get you pair of snow-glasses. Boosh.”
“Snow-glasses. Have you got some with you?” asked Tom.
Old Joe shook his head.
“Non. But I get some vitement. Very quickly.”
“Are we near to a store, then?” asked Jack.
“No, Otter Creek is twenty miles away.”
“Then I don’t see——”
“One second, mon ami. You shall see. Old Joe live long in the woods. He
can do many teeng. You watch.”
Near the trail they were still following with the same pertinacity stood
a white birch clump. Old Joe called a halt, and with his knife stripped
off a big slice of bark from one of them. This he fashioned into a kind
of mask. But instead of cutting the eye-holes all round, he left part to
stick out like shelves under the orifices. These were to prevent the
light being reflected from the snow directly into Jack’s eyes. A bit of
beaver skin from the load formed a string to tie the odd-looking
contrivance on, and from that moment Jack was not bothered with his
eyes.
“In wilderness men do widout many teengs; except what dey make for
demself,” quoth old Joe, as they took up the trail once more.
Soon after noon they stopped to eat. It was a hasty meal, for they felt
that they could ill afford to waste any of the daylight. Then on again
they went, old Joe urging his dogs along remorselessly.
“They look pretty tired,” suggested Tom once.
Old Joe gave one of his shrugs and took his pipe from his mouth.
“Dey what you call beeg bluff,” said he. “All time dey play tired.
Boosh! Dey no can fool me. Allez!”
Crack went the whip, and the cavalcade moved on as briskly as before.
It was twilight when, on rounding a turn in the trail in a deep valley,
they suddenly heard the barking of dogs. Those of their own team
answered vociferously, old man Picquet yelling frantically at them above
the din.
The cause of the noise ahead of them was soon apparent. From the midst
of a clump of second growth Jack-pine proceeded a glow of firelight. It
was a camp. They soon saw that it consisted of one tepee. From the
opening in the roof of this, sparks were pouring and smoke rolling out
at a great rate, telling of a good fire within.
The barking dogs rushed at them savagely, and old Joe had all he could
do to keep his own from attacking the strangers. In the melee that would
have been sure to follow such an attack, the sled would certainly have
been upset even if one or two of the dogs had not been killed; for when
mamelukes fight, they fight to the death.
In the midst of the uproar, the flap of the tepee was thrust aside and a
figure came toward them. It was an Indian. He called to his dogs, who
instantly crept back toward the tent, growling and snarling and casting
backward glances at the invaders.
“Boosh!” exclaimed old Joe as he saw the Indian coming toward them, “dat
Indian my fren’ long time! Bon jour, Pegic. How you do to-day?” Then
followed some words in the Indian dialect which, of course, the boys did
not understand.
The Indian invited them into his tepee. He was camping alone and had
killed a small deer that morning. The meat hung in the tepee, and as
soon as his guests were seated, he set about cutting steaks and frying
them over the fire.
Then, on tin plates, he handed each of the boys and old Joe a portion,
accompanied by a hunk of baking powder bread. The long day’s journey in
the cold, nipping air had made them ravenously hungry. They fell to with
wolfish appetites on Pegic’s fare. The Indian, his jaws working
stolidly, watched them eat. He was a small man and rather
intelligent-looking.
After the meal, the dogs were fed and old Joe told the boys that they
would stay with Pegic for the night. As both lads were just about tired
out, this arrangement suited them down to the ground, and in the glow of
Pegic’s fire they lay down and were soon asleep.
Then old Joe began to ask the Indian questions. Indians must be dealt
with calmly and above all slowly, and in a roundabout way. Haste or
undue curiosity upsets them. To ask an Indian a brief question is in all
probability to have it unanswered. Hence old Joe proceeded with caution.
The conversation was carried on in Pegic’s dialect, which the old
French-Canadian understood perfectly.
First of all he asked the Indian how long he had been camped there.
“Two days,” was the reply.
“To-day a man passed here?”
The Indian nodded gravely, staring into the fire.
“It is even so. Just as you say, my friend.”