The Indians told us that during the night the wolves had come back; probably to devour the carcasses of their slain companions. It was thought probable that they had returned up the river. One of the men went out to ascertain this, and on coming back told us that the first surmise was correct—that the pack had indeed gone up the river, but that it had afterwards gone down again, as was evident from the bloody marks left by their feet.
Suddenly my uncle exclaimed: “By-the-by, Mike will be on his way home some time to-day; and if so, it is more than possible that he may fall in with the wolves! Though he has a gun, it will go hard with him should they follow his trail.”
My uncle accordingly expressed his fears to Kepenau.
“Then we must set out to meet your white friend,” said the Indian; “for should he be coming over the ice to-day, the wolves are certain to espy him.”
Mike had told me that he would visit our Indian friends on the way, and spend the night with them, should he start too late to perform the whole distance in one day. The recollection of this increased my apprehension for his safety.
Kepenau said that he and four of the best-armed of his people would set out early in the afternoon to look for our friend. Of course, we insisted on accompanying them; and being pretty well rested, we started at the hour proposed. We put on our skates, but the Indians kept pace with us by running.
We went on and on, but no sign could we see of Mike. It was already getting dusk when Kepenau stopped and examined the ice.
“A man has passed this way,” he said, “and has turned off to the right.”
Telling one of his people to follow up the trail, he proceeded onwards, narrowly scrutinising the ice.
“It is as I thought,” he observed; “he was coming along on foot when he saw a pack of wolves following him, and instead of continuing on the ice he made his way for the shore, to try and reach a tree into which he could climb—the wisest thing he could do.”