There was not much need for caution, because the party would, no doubt, set off when they had finished their meal, and if they were Indians, it did not matter if he met them.

But he did not think they were Indians.
When he had gone a mile or two, he stopped at the edge of a muskeg and sent the _Metis_ on to a clump of pines on the other side.

The man, keeping in the shadow, stole round the swamp, and vanished noiselessly in the underbrush.

After a time, he reappeared, beckoning, and Thirlwell knitted his brows when he joined him.
The ashes of a fire smoldered between two hearth-logs; white chips and broken branches were scattered about.

Near his feet were six small round holes, spaced in a regular pattern, and a cotton flour-bag and some empty cans lay beneath a bush.
"A white man's camp; they had a tent," he said.
"Sure," agreed the _Metis_.