It was the second day after this that they began to notice something peculiar about the trail they were following. Hitherto it had taken a straight line, except when the bad terrain had made a détour advisable. Now it swayed uncertainly, much as a drunken man staggers down a street.
"What's wrong with him? It can't be liquor. Yet if he's not drunk, what's got into him?" the soldier asked aloud, expecting no answer that explained this phenomenon.
Tom shook his head. "See. The Indian's drivin' now. He follows a straight enough line. You can tell he's at the tail line by the shape of the webs. And West's still lurchin' along in a crazy way. He fell down here. Is he sick, d' you reckon?"
"Give it up. Anyhow, he's in trouble. We'll know soon enough what it is. Before night now we'll maybe see them."
Before they had gone another mile, the trail in the snow showed another peculiarity. It made a wide half-circle and was heading south again.
"He's given up. What's that mean? Out of grub, d' you think?"
Beresford asked.
"No. If they had been, he'd have made camp and gone hunting. We crossed musk-ox sign to-day, you know."
"Righto. Can't be that. He must be sick."
They kept their eyes open. At any moment now they were likely to make a discovery. Since they were in a country of scrubby brush they moved cautiously to prevent an ambush. There was just a possibility that the fugitive might have caught sight of them and be preparing an unwelcome surprise. But it was a possibility that did not look like a probability.
"Something gone 'way off in his plans," Morse said after they had mushed on the south trail for an hour. "Looks like he don't know what he's doing. Has he gone crazy?"