The snow was by this time falling thickly and a rising westerly wind
was sweeping the marsh making travelling exceedingly difficult, and
completely hiding the trail beyond the trees.

The tent flaps were fastened on the outside, and Bob was away, as
Micmac John expected he would be, searching for caribou.

"There's no use tryin' t' foller him in this snow," said he to
himself, "I'd be sure t' miss him. But I'll take the tent an' outfit
away on his flat sled an' if he don't have cover th' cold'll fix him
before mornin'. There'll be no livin' in it over night with th' wind
blowin' a gale as it's goin' to do with dark. My footin' 'll soon be
hid an' he can't foller me. I can shoot him easy enough if he does."

It was the work of only a few minutes to strike the tent and pack it
and the other things, which included the stove, an axe, blanket and
food, on the toboggan.

The half-breed was highly elated when he started off with his booty.
The storm had come at just the right time. The elements would work a
slower but just as sure a revenge as his gun and at the same time
cover every trace of his villainy. He laughed as he pictured to
himself Bob's look of mystification and alarm when he returned and
failed to find the tent, and how the lad would think he had made a
mistake in the location and the desperate search for the camp that
would follow, only to end finally in the snow and cold conquering him,
as they were sure to do, and the wolves perhaps scattering his bones.

"That's a fine end t' him an' he'll never be takin' trails away from
_me_ again," he chuckled.