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Updated: June 19, 2025
Then he swung off easily on his little dog-trot, never at fault, never hesitant, picking up the turns and twistings of the Indian's newer purpose as surely as a mind-reader the concealed pin. For Jingoss had been awaiting eagerly this fall of snow, as this immediate change of direction showed. He was sure that now they could no longer follow him.
The interpretation was plain without the need of words. The Chippewa and the girl, although they had started to the southeast, had made a long detour in order again to reach Jingoss. These two pairs of snow-shoe tracks marked where they had considered it safe again to strike into the old trail made by the Chippewa in going and coming.
Always on and on and on the Trail was destined to lead them until they died, and then the maker of it, not Jingoss, not the Weasel, the defaulter, the man of flesh and blood and nerves and thoughts and the capacities for suffering, but a being elusive as the aurora, an embodiment of that dread country, a servant of the unfriendly North, would return as he had done. Over the land lay silence.
"You ain't going to ambush him?" inquired Dick. "What's the use? He's the last man we have to tend to in this district, anyway. Even if it shouldn't be Jingoss, we don't care if he sees us. We'll tell him we're travelling from York to Winnipeg. It must be pretty near on the direct line from here." "All right," said Dick. They set themselves to following the trail.
At the first glance he uttered another exclamation of pleasure, for, though the shoe had been of the Ojibway pattern, in certain modifications it suggested a more northerly origin. The toes had been craftily upturned, the tails shortened, the webbing more closely woven. "It's Ojibway," induced Sam, over his shoulder, "but the man who made it has lived among the Crees. That fits Jingoss.
The girl's face brightened and her eyes filled. The simple words admitted her to confidence, implied that she, too, had her share in the undertaking, her interest in its outcome. She stepped forward with winged feet of gladness. Luckily a light wind had sprung up against them. They proceeded as quietly and as swiftly as they could. In a short time they came to a spot where Jingoss had boiled tea.
If you don't care to tackle the job, you must know nothing about it. That is distinctly understood?" He hitched forward nearer the light, scanning the men carefully. They nodded. "Sure!" added Herron. "That's all right. Do you men remember Jingoss, the Ojibway, who outfitted here a year ago last summer?" "Him they calls th' Weasel?" inquired Sam Bolton. "That's the one.
"Galen Albret," announced the old woodsman, "here is the Ojibway, Jingoss." The Factor stirred slightly; his bulk, the significance of his features lost in obscurity. "Me-en-gen!" he called, sharply. The tall, straight figure of his Indian familiar glided from the dusk of the veranda's end.
That makes me think that if Jingoss has gone south, and if he's trading now at Missináibie, and if he ain't chummed up with some of them Ojibways to get permission to trap in their allotments, and if he ain't pushed right on home to his own people or out west to Winnipeg country, then most likely we'll find him somewheres about the region of th' Kabinakágam."
Jingoss, the renegade Ojibway, the defaulter, the maker of the dread, mysterious Trail that had led them so far into this grim land, Jingoss was blind, and, imagining himself still going north, still treading mechanically the hopeless way of his escape, had become bewildered and turned south.
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