“Jeroomagoot!” ejaculated Uncle Joe. “You don’t s’pose them Injuns stole the traps, do you?”
“Sartin, I do,” answered Dick, dropping the butt of his rifle heavily to the floor. “I don’t s’pose nothin’ else.”
“Wal, it’s the first thing I ever had stole,” said Uncle Joe.
“Thar’s whar the traps have gone to, any how,” said Dick. “Useless,” he continued, turning to his dog, “you aint worth a pinch o’ gunpowder. I told you to watch them fellers. I don’t see how the rascals could do it, for if Useless had seed one of ’em prowlin’ around, he would have muzzled him quicker nor lightnin’. If you want your traps, youngsters, you’ll have to foller them Injuns. I’ll go with you.”
“Will you,” exclaimed Archie. “Then, let’s start right off.”
“Wal, then,” said the trapper, “pull off them overcoats, ’cause it ’ill be the hardest job you ever done to ketch them Injuns.”
There was something novel and exciting in the idea of a chase after Indians. The boys had often read of such things, and now there was an opportunity for them to take part in one. They were soon ready for the chase. Shouldering their guns, they followed Dick from the cabin, and immediately set out on the trail of the Indians, which could be easily followed by the prints of their moccasins in the snow. All the dogs were left at home, except Useless; for he was the only one that understood “Injun hunting,” and the others would only be in the way. The trail ran directly down to the creek, and as soon as they were fairly on the ice, the trapper broke into a “dog trot,” and the boys followed close behind him, in Indian file. After going a little way, Frank said:
“Dick, I don’t believe that both of those Indians went this way.”
“Why not?” inquired the trapper.
“Because there is only a single track, such as one person would make.”