The killing and cutting up was finished by noon next day, and when darkness fell the two gorged an enormous meal of bannocks and liver, and retired to their sleeping bags for a well-earned rest. For the two toboggans stood loaded with meat covered tightly with green hides that had already frozen into place, and formed an effective protection against the pilfering of the dogs, three or four of which were amazingly clever sneak-thieves—while at least two were out-and-out robbers from whose depredations even the liver sizzling in the frying pan was not safe. The same precaution of covering was taken with the meat on the platform of the pole cache, for while its height from the ground protected it from the prowlers, the frozen hides also protected it from the inroads of the "whiskey jacks," as the voracious and pestiferous Canada jays are called in the Northland. For they are the boldest robbers of all, not even hesitating to fly into a tent and grab some morsel from the plate of the camper while he is eating his meal. These birds scorn the cold, remaining in the far North all winter, and woe betide the unprotected piece of meat they happen to light upon, for though it be frozen to the hardness of iron, the sharp bills of these industrious marauders will pick it to the bone.
The pace was slow next day owing to the heavy loads, each toboggan carrying more than one hundred pounds to the dog. But the trail to the cabin was not a long one and the trappers were anxious to carry with them as much meat as possible, to avoid making another trip until well into fox trapping time. It was late in the afternoon when Connie who was travelling ahead breaking trail, paused at the edge of a clump of spruce and examined some tracks in the snow. The tracks were made by a pair of snowshoes, and the man who wore them had been heading north-east. 'Merican Joe glanced casually at the tracks. "Som' Injun trappin'," he opined.
"White man," corrected Connie, "and I don't believe he was a trapper."
The Indian glanced again at the trail. "Mebbe-so p'lice," he hazarded.
"Not by a long shot! If there was any patrol in here there'd be sled tracks—or at least he'd be carrying a pack, and this fellow was travelling light. Besides you wouldn't catch any men in the Mounted fooling with snowshoes like that!" The boy pointed to the pattern of a track. "Those are bought rackets from the outside. I saw some like 'em in the window of a store last winter down in Minneapolis. They look nice and pretty, but they're strung too light. Guess we'll just back track him for a while. His back trail don't dip much south, and we won't swing far out of the way."
'Merican Joe expressed indifference. "W'at you care 'bout de man? We ain' los' nuttin'. An' we ain' got to run way from de p'lice."
Connie grinned. "No, and believe me, I'm glad we haven't got to! They're a hard bunch to run away from. Anyway, this fellow is no policeman, and I've just got a hunch I'd like to know something about him. I can't tell why—just a hunch, I guess. But somehow I don't like the looks of that trail. It don't seem to fit. The tracks are pretty fresh. We ought to strike the remains of his noon camp before long."
The Indian nodded. "All right, we follow um. You know all 'bout de man trail. Som' tam you know all 'bout de fur trail, too—you be de gran' trapper."
The back trail held its course for a few miles and then swung from the westward so that it coincided with their own direction. At the point where it bent from the westward, they came upon the man's noon-time camp.