In the first place the thief, having had the good fortune to have histrail wiped out by the snow, was not likely to be foolish enough to comeback and leave a fresh one. In the second, he was probably aware thathis first attempt had failed to scare the boys off his track. At anyrate, his continued haste along the trail appeared to conduce to such abelief.
Tom had noticed that the white object which swooped down on old Joe,scaring him almost into a fit, was a big white owl, in all probabilitybewildered and blinded by the fire glow. He had observed, also, that themysterious noises appeared to come from the old hut, and the strange"booming" sounds, as nearly as he could make out, had also emanated fromthe same quarter.
The hut, then, appeared to be the logical place in which to look for theorigin of the series of happenings that had so alarmed the venerable andsuperstitious Joe Picquet.
The first thing that Tom noticed when he entered the hut was somethingwhite lying on the hearthstone of the chimney. On closer inspection thisproved to be the body of an Arctic hare. It was badly mangled and torn,as if something had been eating it. Tom stooped and peered up thechimney.
"Who-oo-oo-oo!" he shouted, at the same time beating the sides of thesmoke shaft with a stick that he had selected from a pile of firewoodlaid in by the former occupant of the ruined hut.
His voice rang up the chimney like the noise of a train in a tunnel. Atthe same instant there came a thunderous booming sound and the rush androar of wings. Tom had just time to dodge back before there cameflopping and scratching and squeaking down the chimney the body of ahuge white owl.
Tom fell upon it, but before he could secure the bird it had dug intohis arm with beak and talons, and then, with a weird shriek, blunderedacross the hut and out through an unglazed window into the open air.
"Gone!" exclaimed Tom as he saw this. "And," regretfully, "it would havemade a bully trophy stuffed, too. However, the mystery of the FlyingWolves is explained. That booming sound was made by the flapping of theowl's wings in the wide chimney as it flew down there with that whitehare it had caught. I've heard that chimney swallows make the samebooming in chimneys at home as they enter and leave their nests.
"As for the screams and shrieks, the cries of that poor hare explainsthat easily enough. Naturally, they sounded louder and as if they wereup in the air, proceeding as they did from the top of the chimney. Therest of the mystery must be laid to old Joe's imagination, which appearsto be in first-class working order."
Tom couldn't help giving mischievous glances at Joe as, over theirbreakfast, he told the others the result of his investigations. But theold man's face was scornful as Tom proceeded. When the boy hadconcluded, Joe, who had patiently heard him out, had his say. It wasbrief and to the point.
"You only theenk. Joe Picquet _know_. Many men know 'bout LoupsGaloups--c'est sufficient."
Tom saw that the old man was not in the least convinced that the noiseswere not of supernatural origin. So hard is it to shake superstitiousbeliefs, especially in the case of a man like old Joe, who had been bornand brought up in the wilds, and who rarely came into contact withcities or life as it was beyond the wilderness.
They came to Otter Lake a few hours after their early start. On thebanks of the lake they found a party consisting of two families ofIndians. They were having a sort of carouse. The bucks had had the goodfortune to kill three deer the day before. As is the custom with theIndians, the occasion was being observed by a celebration.
The Indians would not move on again till all the meat had been eaten orwasted. They greeted the newcomers with unusual cordiality, and thesquaws threw big lumps of raw meat to the dogs, which the mamelukesgulped down in great swallows and then yapped and barked for more.
They insisted on the party halting to eat with them and partake of theunaccustomed plenty of the camp. This Joe was the more willing to do ashe guessed that from the Indians he might get some news of the fugitive.But in their present mood the Indians were giving all their time tojollity of a decidedly rough character, and Joe knew better than tooffend them by talking business until the time was ripe.
While they waited to eat, the squaws bustled about collecting wood. Theboys hated to see women thus employed, but they knew that they dare notoffer to do it; so they sat silent while old Joe and the Indians smokedand talked. The Indians were telling of the great hunt of the threedeer, enlarging, as is their custom, every little detail till the storystretched out to endless lengths.
Then they discussed dogs, a topic of endless interest in the North,where dogs are infinitely more valuable than horses, and whereoftentimes a life, or many lives, may depend on their gameness andreliability. This topic exhausted, they turned to the weather.
In a land where so much depends upon its moods, the weather is a subjectof vital interest. The Indians told of the big snows they had seen, andold Joe Picquet related his similar experiences, and so the chat ranalong till the squaws announced that everything was ready for them toeat.
They sat about the fire in the drafty tepee, eating off bits of birchbark. That is, the white men did. The Indians used their fingers. Atlast the meal was finished, pipes lighted, and old Joe felt at libertyto ask the questions he was dying to put.
At first the Indians shook their heads. They had seen no white man. Butthen one of the squaws interjected a remark. Wild Bird, another of thesquaws, had seen that very morning, while gathering wood to the north,the trail of a sled. She had examined it and had found by it an oddobject. She had brought that object into camp. Would she produce it? Shewould.
From a corner of the tepee the squaw shyly produced her find. The boyscould have uttered a cry of joy as they saw what it was.
The fag end of a yellow cigarette! Assuredly, then, the trail Wild Birdhad seen was that of the fugitive. It began about two miles to the northby a tall "Rampick" (dead tree), near which he had camped, judging bythe remains of a fire, and from which he had hacked off some dead limbs.And then Wild Bird herself gave another bit of evidence to clinch theidentification. She had remarked the man's funny snowshoes. Never hadshe seen any like them.
"Boosh! Mes garcons! We have found zee trail once more! Bien!"
Old Joe's face beamed. But although they were anxious to hurry on, theycould not leave the friendly Indians hastily without a severe breach ofetiquette. But at length the social code of the tribe was satisfied,and, with well-fed dogs in the traces, they got under way once more.Wild Bird and another Indian went with them part of the way, so as to besure that they would not miss the spot at which they were to pick up thetrail.
At last they reached the gaunt "Rampick," good-byes were said, and theyhad the satisfaction once more of following the two familiar parallellines in the snow and beside them the tracks of the odd-shapedsnowshoes. The sky was gloomy and gray, but the Indians had said therewould be no more snow.
They journeyed on through a melancholy land all that afternoon. Thatfall there had been a forest fire, and the blackened stumps of the treesthat had not fallen stood out, etched in ebony black, against the drearygray sky.
It was a pensive and melancholy land. But through it all, to brightenthe trail like a streak of vivid scarlet, was the track of the sled, thesled on which reposed the stolen black fox skin. And beside it, as if toassure them they were on the right track, lay at intervals littleyellow-wrapped rolls of tobacco.
"Zee time ees not long now," declared old Joe, when they camped thatnight on the edge of a gloomy little lake tucked away between two rockyridges.
CHAPTER XIX--OLD JOE'S THREAT.
The following morning, when they rose, the sky was cloudless. The nightbefore the stars had shone like diamond pin points in the sky. TheNorthern Lights had whirled in a mad dance of shimmering radiance.
Beyond the camp stretched the white smoothness of the frozen riverleading from the sad little lake. The heaped masses of piled mountainsshowed to the north and west, savage boundaries, bristling with defiancetoward the intruders into a frozen world.
 
; The morning was very cold and very still. It was that brooding stillnessthat hangs over the land of the frost-bitten suns and seems to convey asense of something alert with enmity to mankind, hovering like asinister cloud over the frozen snow fields. But of all this, althoughkeen enough to such impressions at other times, the boys noticed littleas they bustled about preparing for the day's work.
It was reasonably certain now that before very long they must catch upwith the thief. The dogs were fed with deer meat purchased in exchangefor tobacco from the friendly Indians of the day before. The boiling hottea and the fried cakes and deer meat put new heart into theadventurers. As for the dogs, they frisked and capered in the snow withunaccustomed playfulness after their full meal, till old Joe summonedthem to the harness. Then they resumed the hang-dog air of the mameluke,which is an odd sort of blend, suggesting obstinacy and defiance andcringing servility.
Tom noticed that old Joe carefully oiled the lock of his old squirrelrifle before they started. On the benevolent face of the old man therewas a new expression. It partook almost of ferocity, and Tom began tofear that in the event of their coming up with the thief they might havesome difficulty in restraining the old man from violence.
As he oiled his rifle and caressed the aged weapon lovingly the boysnoticed that the old trapper was humming to himself.
"You seem happy," said Tom, as the old man knocked the ashes out of hispipe and tightened the thongs of his snowshoes, straightening up againwith a grunt.
"Eh bien! I am happy. To-day I teenk the owl catch the weasel, monenfant. Boosh! Let us be going."
The whip cracked, the dogs yapped, the harness creaked as it tightenedunder the stout pull of the meat-stuffed mamelukes, and the littlecavalcade dashed forward. Once more they were remorselessly upon thetrail of the thief; but to-day there was a difference in their bearing.By some intuition which he would have been at a loss to explain, Tomfelt that the morning's start was the beginning of the end. Beforenight, if fortune favored them, they would come face to face with theman to whose track they had clung for so long.
Old Joe capered about like a boy. He sang snatches of wildFrench-Canadian boat songs, he snapped his fingers, and once he cut fromthe trail-side a thick branch, which he trimmed down like awalking-stick and then swung like a cudgel. The boys guessed that inimagination he was bestowing a sound beating upon the thief.
But Tom had resolved that there must be no work of that sort when theycame up with the man, if they ever did. It was plain to see that old Joewas prepared to carry out to the letter the law of "an eye for an eye,"the only law that woodsmen North of Fifty-three know or care much about.He did not blame old Joe for his desire to bestow at least a goodbeating on the thief, considering the old trapper's surroundings formany years; but he did determine firmly that there was to be nothing ofthe sort that old Joe too evidently contemplated.
At noon that day they overhauled the ashes of the thief's cooking fire.They were still warm. Old Joe's saint-like face grew grimmer than ever.His white whiskers fairly bristled.
"We are not far behind heem now, mes amis," he chuckled. "Boosh! Beforelong we shall see what we will see."
Tom was wise enough to make no comments then. Time enough for that whenthey came up with the man. For the present he allowed old Joe to indulgehimself in all sorts of sanguinary threats. Their midday meal wasdespatched with what haste may be imagined. Then the dogs were urgedforward at a still brisker pace than they had followed during themorning. The snowshoes flew creakingly over the hard snow.
The boys found their minds busy with conjectures as they forged forward.What manner of man was this they were overhauling? Was he some ruffianof the wilds who would put up a stiff fight that might necessitate theuse of firearms in self-defense, or would he yield to the superior forceopposed to him and give up peacefully his ill-gained spoils?
As the day waned and the west began to crimson, Tom decided to speak hismind out to old Joe.
"See here, Joe, what do you mean to do when we catch up with thisfellow?"
"Eh? Dat man? Why, make him geev up the skeens, of course."
"But if he won't? If he opposes us?"
"In dat case----"
Joe said no more but patted the stock of his old squirrel rifle with agesture that spoke volumes.
"No, we can't have any of that sort of thing," said Tom decisively. "Ifhe won't give up the skins without making trouble, we shall have to makehim prisoner somehow and one of us stand guard over him while the othersget some of the authorities."
Old Joe shrugged his shoulders and looked at Tom with inexpressibleastonishment. He couldn't make out this at all. In his rough creedoffenders against the code of the woods must be summarily dealt with.Rifle or rope, it was all one to him, but the idea of calling in outsideforces to aid him had never entered the rough old woodsman's head.
"Zee police?" he inquired. "You want call zee police, or zee sheriff?Pourquoi? You leave heem to me. Old Joe Picquet feex heem--bien."
He raised his old rifle to his shoulder and squinted down the sights asif to make sure that everything was in perfect order.
CHAPTER XX--THE END OF THE TRAIL.
It was about four o'clock when, from a thick clump of young balsam treesabout a hundred yards ahead of our party, there came the sharp barkingof dogs. The boys thrilled. At last the big moment had arrived; the endof their pursuit was at hand. There could be no doubt that the camp theyhad come upon was the camp of the thief.
If any doubt remained it was speedily removed by the sight of the roofof a small tent standing amid the dark green trees. It was a white man'stent of the wall type, a variety that an Indian would scorn to use. Fromthe top of it stuck a small stove-pipe, an unwonted sight in wildernesstravel. A stream of smoke coming from the pipe showed that the tent wasoccupied.
From the camp the four dogs who had heralded the arrival of the boys andtheir old guide came prancing and snuffing, their tails curled and teethshown in a snarl. But from the tent itself, beyond the smoke that curledup from the stovepipe, there came no sign of life.
They halted and held a council of war.
"Let's go right up to the tent and demand the man to surrender to us,"suggested Jack.
But old Joe negatived this with a shake of the head.
"He is ver' bad man," said he, "maybe so he hide in the trees and shoot.Moost be ver' careful."
"He may be peering out at us now," breathed Tom, glancing about himuneasily.
"Oui; maybe so he have us covered weez hees rifle at dees moment,"agreed old Joe, without the flicker of an eyelash. With amazing coolnesshe squatted down and filled his pipe.
"Moost hav' smoke to teenk," he explained.
For some seconds, while the boys were in an agony of suspense and thestrange dogs stood with bristling hackles and snarling teeth at arespectful distance from old Joe's team, the veteran of the northernwilds drew placidly at his old brier. To look at him no one would haveimagined that the venerable-looking old man was revolving in his mindthe capture of a desperate rascal, who even at that moment might havehim covered from some point of vantage.
The suspense was a cruel test of the boys' nerves. Remember that theywere out in the open, affording an easy mark for anyone lurking withinthe shadows of the dark balsams that screened the tent with its smokingstove-pipe. For all they knew, in fact, the man might not be alone. Hemight be one of a gang regularly organized to raid traps and skinstores. Such organizations were not rare in that part of the country, asthe boys well knew.
At length old Joe rose, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and faced theboys. They knew that he had at last decided upon a plan. It was a simpleone. The wonder was that he had taken so long to arrive at a conclusion.
"I am going to call out to dees man," said Joe. "I tell heem if he eesfool he will fight us; if he ees wise man he weel do what we say."
Before they could stop him the old man had stepped forward, using thetrunk of a balsam tree as a shield between himself and the d
oor of thetent. A minute later someone stirred within the tent; then came a voice:
"Who's there?"
Joe gave a little laugh.
"Someone to see you," he said. "I ask you, please shove outside anyweapon you have weez you. It ees no good for you to fight. We havecaught you at last."
There was a silence inside the tent. Then the boys saw the flap raisedand a rifle thrust out. Old Joe's face beamed. This was going to beeasier than he had imagined. He beckoned to the boys, and, as theyjoined him, he flung open the flap and stepped inside the tent.
Stretched out on the ground right across the doorway was a small,wizened looking man covered with a shabby blanket made of mangy-lookingskins. His head and shoulders were propped up on a couple of filledpacks.
Even in the dim light within the tent it could be seen that his cheekswere drawn and gray and that pain had etched lines of suffering on them.The boys stood amazed just at old Joe's elbow.
Was it possible that this little gray man with the look of pain on hisface was the robber whom they had pictured during the long days andnights of the pursuit as a savage, truculent fellow ready to give them afight rather than yield up the stolen skins? They actually felt pity asthey looked at the little wasted form on the ground.
As for Joe, he appeared to be equally dumfounded, but he soon recoveredhis faculties.
"And so, mon ami, we have found you at zee last, eh?"