“Ha! dere track!” he muttered as a little farther on his keen eyes saw many snow-shoe marks; he bent over them, but the drift had almost obliterated the indentations, and he was not able to recognise any of the trails. There was one long, narrow track that turned in at the heel instead of at the toe. “Ah nevaire see dat befor’!” Verbaux said as he walked along slowly, watching the peculiar marks. As he proceeded his interest grew strangely, and soon he was following the trail backward at a rapid pace; the other snow-shoes had crossed and recrossed it, but the long scratches and slidings on the crust showed clearly by comparison. “Comme f’om Poste Reliance, Ah t’ink!” Jules raised his head, then stopped suddenly. A few yards ahead of him lay a body thinly covered with white; dark stains in the snow around the head told the story. He brushed the form clear; it was that of a squaw; the eyes were fixed and glaring stonily into his own as he turned the figure over. A deep gash in the throat had given the outlet to the life-blood that coated the freezing surface about it red and brown. “Diables, dose mans!” Jules growled. The long track traced in and out near the body, and he puzzled out where the maker of that trail had stood and bent over the dying woman. She was not very old, and not ugly. “Eet ees near to t’irt’ mile’ to Reliance,” Jules thought. “Ah no can tak’ dat femme là-bas, an’ Ah have notting to mak’ de trou ici!” He straightened up. “B’en, Jules have to go! Pauv’e femme!” he said aloud and travelled on. Shortly afterward he came upon a snow hill. Rising black from the white before him was the forest again, a few miles on. He turned his head on the back trail and shuddered. Specks were moving hither and thither, now dark and sharp, then blurred and dim as drift puffs partially hid them. They gathered together in a certain spot on the barren and seemed motionless. “De loups dey have fin’ dat corps’! Bon Dieu, Jules Verbaux he t’ink dat somme taime he have to mak’ la guerre on dat Hodson Baie Compagnie an’ keel lak’ dose Indiens dey keel!” His voice was low and savage. He went on again.
Late in the afternoon the buildings of the Northwest Post of Lac la Pluie (Rainy Lake) showed up ahead, and in an hour he entered the yard.