“My people build ’em like that many times,” Toma modestly explained. “Plenty warm even when weather very cold. See many like that on Indian trap-line.”
“How long were you away hunting?” Dick asked.
“About an hour, I think. Game seems to be fairly plentiful around here. And, O Dick!——” Sandy paused as he turned somewhat eagerly toward his friend, “a mile from here, just across a narrow ravine, Toma came across snowshoe tracks. He says they were made by a white man.”
“Baptiste or Phillip,” guessed Dick, shivering a little.
Toma shook his head.
“Me no think so. Tracks at least two days old. Some white man he go by here day before yesterday.”
“But how,” sceptically inquired Dick, “do you know it was a white man? Surely you’re not able to tell that. Are the tracks so very much different?”
The Indian guide laughed as he nodded his head in the affirmative.
“Easy to tell. White man no use ’em snow shoes same like Indian. Tracks turn out. Indian tracks go straight ahead.”
“I think there’s something in it,” Sandy volunteered, “because after Toma had told me, while we were still out there on the trail, I noticed that Toma’s tracks were different from mine.”