“Mistatim,” said Scar Face, his keen eyes on the tracks.
“That’s the Cree word for horse,” Raoul explained to Walter, “but we can’t be sure. They may have been buffalo.”
“If they were, there were only a few of them,” Walter returned. “A big band would have done more damage.”
“Yes. I believe myself our own people crossed here.”
The canoe was brought to the bank, and Scar Face stepped lightly out. Walter and Raoul followed. The Saulteur examined the trampled ground carefully. He gave a low grunt of satisfaction. He had found the print of a moccasined foot, where a rider had dismounted. But he was not satisfied yet. He followed the trail through the willows, examining it intently. Presently he straightened up and spoke to Raoul who was close behind.
“They came to the river,” he said.
“You mean,” the boy questioned, “that they came from there,”—he nodded towards the west,—“and went”—he pointed east across the stream.
Scar Face grunted assent.
“It must have been our people,” Raoul said to Walter. “They are safe across the river.”
“That is where we had better be, as soon as we can get there,” was Walter’s reply.