They pressed forward and passed two more of these deviations from the main track without troubling to follow them. Just before daylight faded, when they were hugging the bank looking for a suitable camping place, the Indian called the corporal’s attention to a small creek the entrance to which was masked by low-boughed spruce trees.
“Yes,” said the corporal, “that should do. Those banks and trees should break this wind.”
They turned the dogs towards it, and negotiating a snow wreath which the wind was piling up, they entered the sheltering creek. Sibou was leading, packing the trail, and the corporal clinging to the gee-pole of the sled, saw him come to a most unexpected halt. Bracknell moved forward.
“What is the matter, Sibou?”
The Indian did not speak, but pointed silently at the snow, and looking down the corporal saw the unmistakable trail of snowshoes. The tracks were quite fresh, and were so unexpected that Bracknell was himself astonished. He stared at them as Crusoe must have stared when he found the footprints on the shore of his island. Who had left that tell-tale trail? Perhaps a wandering Indian. Maybe some solitary prospector caught by winter, or possibly the man whom he was seeking, the murderer of Rolf Gargrave. His heart beat quickly at the thought and, still staring at the trail which came down the bank of the creek and then turned away from the river, he considered the matter carefully, and then gave instructions.
“Follow it, Sibou, and find out where it goes and who made it. I will pitch camp and wait here for you.”
The Indian nodded gravely and departed and Bracknell busied himself with pitching camp. He had already lit the fire and fed the dogs, and was busy with the beans and bacon when Sibou returned.
“Well?” asked the corporal expectantly. “Did you find him?”
“Yes,” was the reply. “There is one Indian and one white man. They are in a cabin at the head of the creek.”
Bracknell was conscious of a sudden excitement.