“He’s got the scent,” said Joe. “He’s on the trail. He’s a hound. Hounds are great for that. All we got to do is to follow. Ginger will find him.”
Away they raced after the dogs. Ginger did not hesitate for a moment until he led them straight to the pile of snow on which Curlie had cached his caribou meat, the part he could not carry away.
“Shows he got his game,” said Joe, looking with a feeling of pure joy at the pile of fresh meat.
As for the dogs, they stood on their haunches and howled with delight. Hacking off some small pieces Jennings threw one to each dog. These they swallowed at a gulp. He next piled the meat on the sled and lashed it there securely.
“Might as well take it along,” he explained.
Once more Joe took the dogs in a circle that they might pick up the trail. They found it at once and went racing away. But at the crest of the second hill they paused and refused to go farther.
Urge them as he might, lead them back and forth as he did, Joe could not get them to pick up the trail and go on.
The truth was that the trail did not go on. They had come to the spot where, after following the second caribou, Curlie had turned back. All tracks were snow blown but the scent was still there.
“Lost the trail,” said Jennings after a half hour of fruitless endeavor.
“Guess so,” said Joe, wrinkling his brow. “Guess the only thing we can do is to look around over the hills.”