There was a growl of disappointment. Long Jackson could not refrain from a reproachful glance at Woolly Billy, but refrained from saying the obvious.
“What are ye goin’ to do about it, Tug?” demanded Black Dan. “Hev ye got any kind of a reel clue, d’ye think, now?”
“Wait an’ see,” was Blackstock’s noncommittal reply. He picked up the moccasins and mitten again on the point of his stick, scanned the bank sharply to make sure his quarry had not gone that way, and led the procession once more down along the rocky shore of the stream. “Seek him,” he said again to Jim, and the dog, as before, trotted on ahead, sniffing along by the water’s edge to intercept the trail of whoever had stepped ashore.
The party emerged at length upon the bank of the main stream, and turned upwards towards Brine’s Rip. After they had gone about half a mile they rounded a bend and came in sight of a violent rapid which cut close inshore. At this point it would be obviously impossible for any one walking in the shallow water to avoid coming out upon dry ground. Tug Blackstock quickened his pace, and waved Jim forward.
A sharp oath broke from Black Dan’s lips.
“I’ve been an’ gone an’ left my ’baccy-pooch behind, by the skunk’s hole,” he announced. And grumbling under his breath he turned back down the shore.
Blackstock ran on, as if suddenly in a great hurry. Just where the shallow water ended, at the foot of the rapid, Jim gave his signal with voice and tail. He raced up the bank to a clump of bushes and began thrashing about in them.
“What d’ye suppose he’s found there?” asked Big Andy.
“Scent, and lots of it. No mistake this time,” announced MacDonald. “Hain’t ye caught on to Jim’s signs yet?”
“Jim,” said the Deputy, sharply but not loud, “fetch him!”