“Boys,” said he, “I used to fancy myself quite a lot. But now I begin to think Nipsiwaska County’d better be gittin’ a noo Deputy. I ain’t no manner o’ good.”
The men looked at him in frank astonishment. He had never before been seen in this mood of self-depreciation.
“Aw, shucks,” exclaimed Long Jackson presently, “there ain’t a man from here to the St. Lawrence as kin tech ye, an’ ye know it, Tug. Quit yer jollyin’ now. I believe ye’ve got somethin’ up yer sleeve, only ye won’t say so.”
At this expression of unbounded confidence Blackstock braced up visibly.
“Well, boys, there’s one thing I kin do,” said he. “I’m goin’ back to git Jim, ef I hev to fetch him in a wheelbarrow. We’ll find out what he thinks o’ the situation. I’ll take Saunders an’ Big Andy with me. You, Long, an’ Mac, you stop on here an’ lay low an’ see what turns up. But don’t go mussin’ up the trails.”
II
Jim proved to be so far recovered that he was able to hobble about a little on three legs, the fourth being skilfully bandaged so that he could not put his foot to the ground. It was obvious, however, that he could not make a journey through the woods and be any use whatever at the end of it. Blackstock, therefore, knocked together a handy litter for his benefit. And with very ill grace Jim submitted to being borne upon it.
Some twenty paces from that solitary boot-print which marked the end of Black Dan’s trail, Jim was set free from his litter and his attention directed to a bruised tuft of moss.
“Seek him,” said Blackstock.
The dog gave one sniff, and then with a growl of anger the hair lifted along his back, and he limped forward hurriedly.