The dark colour dissolved. There were no abrupt movements, no noises,
but suddenly the caribou seemed to develop from the green shadow mist,
to stand, his ears pricked forward, his lustrous eyes wide, his nostrils
quivering toward the unknown something that had uttered the sound. It
was like magic. An animal was now where, a moment before, none had
been.

Crooked Nose raised the rifle, sighted steadily at the shoulder, low
down, and pulled the trigger. A sharp _click_ alone answered his
intention. Accustomed only to the old trade-gun, he had neglected to
throw down and back the lever which should lift the cartridge from the
magazine.

Instantly the caribou snorted aloud and crashed noisily away. A dozen
lurking Canada jays jumped to the tops of spruces and began to scream.
Red squirrels, in all directions, alternately whirred their rattles and
chattered in an ecstasy of rage. The forest was alarmed.

Crooked Nose glanced at the westering sun, and set out swiftly in a
direct line for the camp of his companions. Arrived there he marched
theatrically to the white men, cast the borrowed rifle at their feet,
and returned to the side of the fire, where he squatted impassively on
his heels. The hunt had failed.

All the rest of the afternoon the men talked sullenly together. There
could be no doubt that trouble was afoot. Toward night some of the
younger members grew so bold as to cast fierce looks in the direction
of the white visitors.