The trail led straight down to the lake’s edge. Here Jim stopped short.
“That skunk’s a kind o’ water-baby,” remarked Long Jackson.
“Oh, do you think so?” queried Woolly Billy, much interested.
“Of course,” answered Jackson. “Don’t you see he’s took to the water? Now, yer common, no-account skunk hates wettin’ his fur like pizen.”
The Deputy examined the hard, white sand at the water’s edge. It showed faint traces of moccasined feet. He pursed his lips. It was an old game, but a good one, this breaking a trail by going into the water. He had no way of deciding whether his quarry had turned up the lake shore or down towards the outlet. He guessed at the latter as the more likely alternative.
Jim trotted slowly ahead, sniffing every foot of ground along the water’s edge. As they approached the outlet the shore became muddy, and Jackson swung Woolly Billy up on to his shoulder. Once in the outlet, the foreshore narrowed to a tiny strip of bare rock between the water and an almost perpendicular bank covered with shrubs and vines. All at once the smell of skunk, which had been almost left behind, returned upon the air with fresh pungency. Blackstock stopped short and scanned the bank with narrowed eyes.
A second or two later, Jim yelped his signal, and his tail went up. He sniffed eagerly across the ribbon of rock, and then leapt at the face of the bank.
The Deputy called him off and hurried to the spot. The rest of the party, much excited, closed up to within four or five paces, when a wave of the Deputy’s hand checked them.
“Phew!” ejaculated Black Dan, holding his nose. “There’s a skunk hole in that there bank. Ye’ll be gittin’ somethin’ in the eye, Tug, ef ye don’t keep off.”
Blackstock, who was busy pulling apart the curtain of vines, paid no attention, but Long Jackson answered sarcastically: