“I am teenking dat perhaps he stopped at your tepee. Is dat so?”
inquired old Joe, wise in the way of Indians.
Pegic nodded gravely.
“It is even so, my white brother.”
“Bon. And he was a small man and gray?”
“He was.”
“And carried skins on his sled?”
“Yes. Many skins and one he showed to me. It was the skin of a black
fox. Truly a fine pelt, my brother. You are wise in the ways of
trapping, but your eyes would have glittered and your fingers itched had
you beheld it.”
Old Joe nodded his satisfaction. Clearly, then, they were on the right
trail and the man had the skin with him.
“So de man showed you de skins? Yes?”
“He did. He was swollen with pride. But to Pegic he looked like a man
who is sick.”
“Seeck?”
“Yes, my brother. His eyes were overbright and his skin was flushed. He
was sick.”
“Boosh! He’ll be seecker yet when we find him, myself and de two
garçons. Pegic, dose skins were stolen!”
“Stolen, do you say, my brother?”
“Yes, Pegic, it is even so. And how long ago was he here?”
“About two hours before the dropping of the sun. I urged him to stay,
but he would not. He said he was in much haste, and truly his dogs
showed signs of being hard pressed.”
Old Joe chuckled grimly.
“Bon, so we close up the gap. Boosh! Mon ami, we shall meet before very
long. Voila!”
“It was while I was cutting up the deer,” volunteered Pegic, his reserve
now thawed by old Joe’s skillful way of leading him on. “I sat on my
blanket—so. My dogs barked, and, going to the door of the tepee, I saw
this white man coming. He wished food for himself and his dogs. I gave
to him, and then he asked the way to the nearest trading post. I told
him, and then he inquired for the one even beyond that.”
“For which he had good reason,” muttered old Joe. “He wished to gain on
us a good distance before he traded in his furs—bien!”
“His talk was smooth and without stoppage, like a deep stream,” went on
the Indian, “but he would ever and anon arise and go to the door of the
tepee and look back along his trail. Then I wondered much at this, but
now I know why this was so. Then he left, after pressing some silver
upon me which I would not have taken but for owing Jumping Rabbit much
money, which I lost when we did last play at ‘chuckstones.’ After he had
left I lay on my blankets, thinking of many things. But chiefly of how
my brother, Walking Deer, was killed at Old Squaw Rapids when his paddle
did break and left him to the mercy of the waters. If you like, I will
tell the tale to you. I am thinking that it is a story that would
delight you much.”
But old Joe, who well knew how an Indian can drag out a story to
interminable lengths, diplomatically pleaded fatigue and sought his
blankets. Long after he slept the Indian sat motionless, squatting on
his haunches, smoking without ceasing and gazing into the fire. Then he,
too, curled himself up, and the firelight in the tepee glowed upon four
slumberers.
Bright and early the next morning they took up the trail. Old Joe was in
high spirits. He flourished his aged rifle vindictively. He belabored
his dogs without mercy.
“Courage, mes camarades!” he kept crying to the boys. “Before long we
catch up by dis robber, for he is seeck and his dogs are weary. Bien.
Before long, we shall have a reckoning.”
At noon they stopped and ate a hasty lunch. A few miles back they had
passed the ashes of a cooking fire. Old Joe declared that the embers
were not more than a few hours cold. They were gaining on the man. The
boys began to feel the excitement of the chase gripping them more and
more every instant. The meal was eaten almost in silence. Then—on
again.
The day died out; but allowing only a halt for supper and to rest the
dogs, old Joe insisted on pressing on. It was a brilliant, starry night,
and onward over the creaking snow under the twinkling luminaries of the
sky the relentless pursuers of the man with the black fox skin pressed
steadily on. Had their excitement been less, or their frames more unused
to hardship and long “treks,” the boys might have felt the pace. As it
was, they hardly noticed the fatigue that was slowly but surely creeping
over them till it was almost midnight.
Old Joe was quick to notice the first signs of flagging. He called a
halt.
“Mes enfants, you are très fatiguè,” he exclaimed, “we must rest and
sleep.”
“We’re all right,” protested Tom, but his objections were feeble and
were not seconded by Jack, who, now that they had actually stopped, felt
about ready to drop in his tracks.
“Non, we will stop and camp here and you must get some sleep,” insisted
old Joe. “Let me see. We are now near end of Spoon Island. Bien! Just
below is Hawk Island. Many times have I camped dere, and dere I have a
petit cache in a tree. We will go on as far as dat and den rest and
eat.”
Two or three miles below the end of Spoon Island lay Hawk Island. They
took to the frozen surface of the river and soon reached it. It was a
small, rocky speck of land thickly wooded with balsam, spruce and
poplar.
“Long time ago many t’ous’and hare live here,” said Joe, “now not so
good. But I like camp here. Boosh! So now we will stop.”
While the old voyageur unharnessed his ravenous dogs and fed them, the
boys looked about them. Sticking up from the snow they could see the
ends of some poles set in a quadrangular form. This marked the site of
one of Joe’s former camps. Having unharnessed the dogs and left them to
fight and snarl over their supper, old Joe next set about making a camp.
The boys watched him with interest. It was the first camp of the kind
they had ever seen.
“Come help me dig,” admonished the old trapper. “Do like I do. Soon we
have fine camp. Warm and snug—bien!”
He set to work digging with a snowshoe, and the boys followed his
example, working under his directions. Before long they had excavated a
square hole some four feet deep in the snow. By the time they had banked
and patted it smooth they stood in a pit which reached about to their
shoulders.
This done, old Joe wetted his finger and held it up. The side to the
wind immediately grew cold and indicated to him from which direction the
light breeze came.
“Bien!” he exclaimed, when he had done this, “now four poles from dose
trees, mes amis, and we are snug lak zee bug in zee rug,—n’est-ce pas?”