Trails ran in every direction, the bark had been rubbed from scores of saplings, and every step gave fresh evidence of the near presence of game.

The stealth with which Mukoki now advanced was almost painful.

Every twig was pressed behind him noiselessly, and once when Rod struck his snow-shoe against the butt of a small tree the old Indian held up his hands in mock horror.

Ten minutes, fifteen--twenty of them passed in this cautious, breathless trailing of the swamp.
Suddenly Mukoki stopped, and a hand was held out behind him warningly.
He turned his face back, and Rod knew that he saw game.

Inch by inch he crouched upon his snow-shoes, and beckoned for Rod to approach, slowly, quietly.