their tump-lines. Then all rubbed their faces with the broad
caribou-leaf to keep off the early flies, and lay back, arms extended,
breathing deep, resting like boxers between the rounds. Once at the top
of the ridge Dick climbed a tree. He did this, not so much in
expectation of seeing the water-courses themselves, as to judge by the
general lay of the country where they might be found.

In a bare open space under hemlocks Sam indicated a narrow, high, little
pen, perhaps three feet long by six inches wide, made of cut saplings.
Dick examined it.

"Marten deadfall," he pronounced. "Made last winter. Somebody's been
trapping through here."

After a time a blaze on a tree was similarly remarked. Then the
travellers came to a tiny creek, which, being followed, soon debouched
into a larger. This in turn became navigable, after the north-country
fashion. That is to say, the canoe with its load could much of the time
be floated down by the men wading in the bed of the creek. Finally Sam,
who was in the lead, jerked his head toward the left bank.

"Their winter camp," said he, briefly.

A dim trail led from the water to a sheltered knoll. There stood the
framework of a pointed tepee, the long poles spread like fingers above
their crossing point. A little pile of gnawed white skulls of various
sizes represented at least a portion of the season's catch. Dick turned
them over with his foot, identifying them idly. From the sheltered
branches of a near-by spruce hung four pairs of snow-shoes cached there
until the next winter. Sam gave his first attention to these.