When the sun broke over the eastern horizon a little later it looked
upon a circle of flat-tramped, blood-stained snow, over which were
scattered bare picked human bones and pieces of torn clothing. A pack
of wolves trotted leisurely away over the marsh.
In the woods not a mile distant two Indian hunters were following the
trail that led to Bob's unconscious body.
[Illustration: "Micmac John knew his end had come"]
XI
THE TRAGEDY OF THE TRAIL
A week passed and Christmas eve came. The weather continued clear and
surpassingly fine. It was ideal weather for trapping, with no new snow
to clog the traps and interfere with the hunters in their work. The
atmosphere was transparent and crisp, and as it entered the lungs
stimulated the body like a tonic, giving new life and buoyancy and
action to the limbs. The sun never ventured far from the horizon now
and the cold grew steadily more intense and penetrating. The river had
long ago been chained by the mighty Frost King and over the earth the
snow lay fully six feet deep where the wind had not drifted it away.
A full hour before sunset Dick and Ed, in high good humour at the
prospect of the holiday they had planned, arrived at the river tilt.
They came together expecting to find Bob and Bill awaiting them there,
but the shack was empty.
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