As Mukoki had predicted, it was a glorious day, one of those bitterly cold, cloudless days when, as the Indians believe, the great Creator robs the rest of the world of the sun that it may shine in all its glory upon their own savage land.

From the top of the hill that sheltered their home Rod looked out over the glistening forests and lakes in rapt and speechless admiration; but only for a few moments did the three pause, then took up their different trails.
At the foot of this hill Mukoki and his companion struck the creek.

They had not progressed more than fifty rods when the old Indian stopped and pointed at a fallen log which spanned the stream.

The snow on this log was beaten by tiny footprints.

Mukoki gazed a moment, cast an observant eye along the trail, and at once threw off his pack.
"Mink!" he explained.