things, personifying the wilderness in his imagination of the old man,
arranging half-consciously his weapons of craft in their due order.

Somewhere out beyond in those woods, at any one of the thirty-two points
of the compass, a man was lurking. He might be five or five hundred
miles away. He was an expert at taking care of himself in the woods.
Abruptly Sam Bolton began to formulate his thoughts aloud.

"We got to keep him or anybody else from knowin' we's after him, Dick,"
said he. "Jest as soon as he knows that, it's just too easy for him to
keep out of our way. Lucky Jingoss is an Ojibway, and his people are way
off south. We can fool this crowd here easy enough; we'll tell 'em we're
looking for new locations for winter posts. But she's an awful big
country."

"Which way'll we go first?" asked Dick, without, however, much interest
in the reply. Whatever Sam decided was sure to be all right.

"It's this way," replied the latter. "He's got to trade somewheres. He
can't come into any of the Posts here at the Bay. What's the nearest?
Why, Missináibie, down in Lake Superior country. Probably he's down in
that country somewheres. We'll start south."

"That's Ojibway country," hazarded Dick at random.

"It's Ojibway country, but Jingoss is a Georgian Bay Ojibway. Down near
Missináibie every Injun has his own hunting district, and they're
different from our Crees,--they stick pretty close to their district.
Any strangers trying to hunt and trap there are going to get shot, sure
pop. That makes me think that if Jingoss has gone south, and if he's