Old Cy knew, or at least he felt almost sure, that the half-breed would return in good time. He had also reasoned out his failure to do so at once, and knew that left canoeless, as he had been that tragic day, his only course must be the one he actually followed. A month had elapsed since then, with no sign of this “varmint’s” return, and now Old Cy was on the watch for it.
Each morning, when he traversed the lake shore from ice-house to landing, he looked for tell-tale footprints. He watched for them wherever he went, and the distant report of a rifle would have been accepted as a sure harbinger of this enemy.
It became their custom now each day, first to visit all small traps in the near-by streams, then pushing their canoe as far as possible up the Beaver Brook, to leave it, continue up the valley, and after inspecting their deadfalls, turn to the right out of this swale, and begin the gathering of gum.
And now, one day, in carrying out this programme, a discovery was made.
They had first visited the small traps near the lake, securing a couple of mink and three muskrats, which were left in the canoe. An otter was found in one of the deadfalls, and taking this with them, they entered the spruce timber and hung it on a conspicuous limb. Then the search for gum began.
As usual, they worked hard. The days were short, the best of sunlight was needful to see the brown nuts in the sombre forest, and so they paid no heed to aught except what was overhead. When time to return arrived, Old Cy picked up his rifle and led the way back to where the otter had been left, but it had vanished. Glancing about to make sure that he was right, he advanced to the tree, looked down, and saw two footprints. Stooping over to examine them better in the uncertain light, he noted also that they were not his own, but larger, and made by some one wearing boots.
“Tain’t the half-breed,” he muttered, with an accent of relief, and looking about, he saw a well-defined trail leading down the slope and thence onward toward the swamp.
Some one had crossed this broad, oval, spruce-covered upland while they were not two hundred rods away from this tree, had stolen their otter, and gone on into the swamp.
Any freshly made human footprint found in a vast wilderness awakens curiosity; these seemed ominous.
“He must ’a’ seen us ’fore he did the otter,” Old Cy ejaculated, “an’ it’s curis he didn’t make himself known. Neighbors ain’t over plenty, hereabout.”