increasing pressure until the whole was supported ready for the next
step. He _flowed_ through the woods.

When the trail became fresh he often paused to scrutinise closely, to
smell, even to taste the herbage broken by the animal's hoofs. Once he
startled a jay, but froze into immobility before that watchman of the
woods had sprung his alarm. For full ten minutes the savage poised
motionless. Then the bird flitted away, and he resumed his careful
stalk.

It was already nearly noon. The caribou had been feeding slowly forward.
Now he would lie down. And Crooked Nose knew very well that the animal
would make a little detour to right or left so as to be able to watch
his back track.

Crooked Nose redoubled his scrutiny of the broken herbage. Soon he left
the trail, moving like a spirit, noiselessly, steadily, but so slowly
that it would have required a somewhat extended observation to convince
you that he moved at all. His bead-like black eyes roved here and there.
He did not look for a caribou--no such fool he--but for a splotch of
brown, a deepening of shadow, a contour of surface which long experience
had taught him could not be due to the forest's ordinary play of light
and shade. After a moment his gaze centred. In the lucent, cool, green
shadow of a thick clump of moose maples he felt rather than discerned a
certain warmth of tone. You and I would probably have missed the entire
shadow. But Crooked Nose knew that the warmth of tone meant the brown of
his quarry's summer coat. He cocked his rifle.

But a caribou is a large animal, and only a few spots are fatal. Crooked
Nose knew better than to shoot at random. He whistled.