"A man, a woman, and two well-grown children," he pronounced. He ran his
hand over the bulging raquette with the long tail and the slightly
up-curved end. "Ojibway pattern," he concluded. "Dick, we're in the
first hunting district. Here's where we get down to business."

He went over the ground twice carefully, examining the state of the
offal, the indications of the last fire.

"They've been gone about six weeks," he surmised. "If they ain't gone
visiting, they must be down-stream somewheres. These fellows don't get
in to trade their fur 'till along about August."

Two days subsequent, late in the afternoon, Dick pointed out what looked
to be a dark streak beneath a bowlder that lay some distance from the
banks on a shale bar.

"What's that animal?" he asked.

"Can't make her out," said Bolton, after inspection.

"Ninny-moosh," said the Indian girl, indifferently. It was the first
word she had spoken since her talk with the older man.

"It's a dog, all right," conceded Sam. "She has sharp eyes."

The animal rose and began to bark. Two more crashed toward him through
the bushes. A thin stream of smoke disengaged itself from the tops of
the forest trees. As they swept around the bend, the travellers saw a
man contemplating them stolidly through a screen of leaves.