quite improbable happening--Bob's death would no doubt be laid at the
door of the Nascaupee Indians.

Micmac John deposited the bag of stolen pelts in a safe place in the
tilt, intending to return for them after his bloody mission was
accomplished, and several hours before daylight on Monday morning
started out in the ghostly moonlight to trail Bob to his death.




IX

LOST IN THE SNOW


The trail that Bob had made lay open and well-defined in the snow, and
hour after hour the half-breed followed it, like a hound follows its
prey.

Early in the morning the sky clouded heavily and towards noon snow
began to fall. It was a bitterly cold day. Micmac John increased his
pace for the trail would soon be hidden and he was not quite sure when
he should find the camp. From the lakes the trail turned directly
north and for several miles ran through a flat, wooded country. After
a while there were wide open marshes, with narrow timbered strips
between. An hour after noon he crossed a two mile stretch of this
marsh and in a little clump of trees on the farther side of it came so
suddenly upon the tent that he almost ran against it.