One of the hunters would probably hunt no more; but which one was it?
He was not long in doubt. Coming suddenly upon them he discovered that his fears were realized.
MacDougall stood sternly regarding a fur-dressed Indian lying dead upon the snow. He and Pete exchanged glances.
"What's the matter?" asked Pete.
"He jumped upon me and declared the caribou was his. I told him it was mine, when he pulled his gun and I shot him—that's all," said MacDougall.
"That's plent'," tersely from Pete. Then casting his eye over the sky he said: "Snow cum quick,—hide um. We cut caribou," whereupon he whipped out a big hunting knife, after placing his rifle in the crotch of a tree, and began slashing the still warm body of the big caribou.
MacDougall followed suit. It was not long before the two had selected and cut away the choice parts of the carcass, and with as much of the meat as they could handle, made their way back to camp. Pete and his Indians, with dog-teams, were dispatched to the scene of the double tragedy for the remainder.
The dead Indian was left as he fell, and falling snow soon covered him.
That night the Canadians pushed on without resting, laden with as much meat as they could carry. It was thought safest not to remain long in the vicinity, as some of the Peel River Indians might track the murderer of their brother.
The dogs had feasted on caribou as well as the men, and all could return to the long trail with redoubled energy. More large game was seen, and from this on there was no lack of venison.