“How do ye know it’s yourn, Andy?” he demanded. “There’s lots of magenta mitts in the world, I reckon.”
Tug Blackstock turned upon him.
“I said I didn’t want no one to tech that mitt,” he snapped.
“Oh, beg pardon, Tug,” said Dan, dropping the mitt. “I forgot. ’S’pose it might kind o’ confuse Jim’s scent, gittin’ another smell besides Andy’s on to it.”
“It might,” replied the Deputy coolly, “an’ then agin, it mightn’t.”
For a little while every one was quiet, listening to Jim as he crashed about through the bushes, and confidently but unreasonably expecting him to reappear with the other mitten. Or, at least, that was what Big Andy and Woolly Billy expected. The Deputy, at least, did not. At last he spoke.
“I agree with Mac here, boys,” said he, “that there may be somethin’ more’n skunk in this skunk smell. We’ll jest look into it a bit. You all keep back a ways—an’ you, Long, jest keep an eye on Woolly Billy ef ye don’t mind, while I go on with Jim.”
He whistled to the dog, and directed his attention to a spot at the foot of the tree exactly beneath the hole. Jim sniffed hard at the spot, then looked up at his master with tail drooping despondently.
“Yes, I know it’s skunk, plain skunk,” agreed the Deputy. “But I want him. Seek him, Jim—seek him, boy.”
Thus reassured, Jim’s tail went up again. He started off through the bushes, down towards the lake, with his master close behind him. The rest of the party followed thirty paces or so behind.