“Look here at this!”
He pointed at some bushes from which the leaves had been completely stripped.
“Reindeer or caribou,” whispered the miner as if afraid of being overheard. Snapping on his flashlight, Joe examined the bushes and the ground.
“Believe you’re right. There are his tracks. He’s trampled the ground in a circle and eaten all the leaves in a circle too. How do you account for that?”
“Reindeer tied to the bushes.”
“Reindeer of the man we have been following,” said Joe thoughtfully.
The conclusion was so obvious that neither of them troubled to voice it. Curlie Carson had no reindeer, therefore it was evident that it had not been he whom they had been following on this new scent. Some man, who it was they could not even guess, had come to their willow clump and had camped there all night. Before coming he had tied his reindeer to this other clump and had left him there. In the morning he had returned to the reindeer and, having untied him, had driven away. At least this was the way Joe reasoned it out in his own mind. It was probable that Jennings’ conclusion was not far from the same.
“It is probable,” Joe went on to assure himself, “that this fellow is some Eskimo herder, who having left his reindeer to search for other reindeer or for rabbit and ptarmigan, has been caught in the storm and been obliged to camp in our willow clump for the night.”
All this fine reasoning was, as reasoning very often is, entirely wrong. But since neither Joe nor Jennings knew it to be wrong, they turned their reluctant dogs toward camp and wearily made their way back.
Joe was thoroughly downhearted. Curlie, he felt sure, had been frozen to death. There was nothing left but to go on without him, but without his genius to aid them it seemed probable that the expedition would end in utter failure.