What was the next move? Rolf did not ask, but wondered.
Quonab evidently was puzzled.
At length Rolf ventured: “He surely lives by some river—that way—and within a day's journey. This track is gone, but we may strike a fresh one. We'll know it when we see it.”
The friendly look came back to the Indian's face. “You are Nibowaka.”
They had not gone half a mile before they found a fresh track—their old acquaintance. Even Skookum showed his hostile recognition. And in a few minutes it led them to a shanty. They slipped off their snowshoes, and hung them in a tree. Quonab opened the door without knocking. They entered, and in a moment were face to face with a lanky, ill-favoured white man that all three, including Skookum, recognized as Hoag, the man they had met at the trader's.
That worthy made a quick reach for his rifle, but Quonab covered him and said in tones that brooked no discussion, “Sit down!”
Hoag did so, sullenly, then growled: “All right; my partners will be here in ten minutes.”
Rolf was startled. Quonab and Skookum were not.
“We settled your partners up in the hills,” said the former, knowing that one bluff was as good as another. Skookum growled and sniffed at the enemy's legs. The prisoner made a quick move with his foot.
“You kick that dog again and it's your last kick,” said the Indian.