“Yes, hard!” answered Sibou simply. “It is a trail of death!”
Half an hour later they were on the way once more. A south wind was blowing, and they travelled with furs opened, for the day was comparatively warm, and there were many signs that spring was at hand. The trail they followed led through the forest for most of the time, but towards the end of the day followed a tributary river, and here it suddenly gathered itself together in a space of trampled snow, which spoke of many pairs of feet. The corporal looked at it in perplexity and watched Sibou, who circled round and round, seeking a solution of the enigma the trampled snow presented.
“What do you make of it, Sibou?”
“I am not sure,” answered the Indian slowly. “Something strange has happened. There has been a meeting here, for there are many footmarks, and there is a trail which goes up the river, and the trail of the ladies is not part of it.”
“But where are they? They certainly came here!”
“So!” answered Sibou. “And they went from here, since they are not to be found in this place. It is in my mind that they were carried—for there were dogs here as well as men.”
“But who——”
“Indians! The trail is not that of white men’s feet.”
“Then we must follow,” cried the corporal.