“But granting it to be that of a man,” Grosvenor again objected, “it might be that of any one of the thousands who roam the wilderness.”

The great red trailer who had inherited the forest lore of countless generations smiled.

“It is not any one of the thousands and it could not be,” he said.  “It is easy to tell that.  The footsteps are those of a white man, because they turn out, and not in, as do ours of the red race.  That is very easy; even Dagaeoga here, the great talker, knows it.  The footsteps are far apart, so we are sure that they are those of a tall man; the imprints are deep, proving them to have been made by a heavy man, and at the outer edge of the heel the impression is deeper than on the inner edge.  I noticed, when we last saw Black Rifle, which was not long ago, that he wore moccasins of moose hide, that he had turned them outward a little, through wear, and that a small strip of the hardest moose hide had been sewed on the right edge of each heel in order to keep them level.  Those strips have made their marks here.”

“Somebody else might have put strips of hide on his moccasin heels!”

“It is so, but Black Rifle is tall and large and heavy, and we know that the man who made this trail is tall, large and heavy.  The chances are a hundred to one against the fact that any other man tall, large and heavy with moose hide strips to even the wear of his moccasin heels has passed here, especially as this is within the range of Black Rifle.  I know that it is he as truly as I know that I am standing here.”

“Of course,” said Robert, who had never felt the slightest doubt of Tayoga’s knowledge.  “What was Black Rifle doing?”

“He was looking for St. Luc or Tandakora, because his trail does not lead straight on.  See! here it comes, and here again.  If Black Rifle had been on a journey he would have gone straight, but he is seeking something and so he turns about.  Ah, he wishes to see if there are any canoes visible on the lake, for lo! the trail now leads toward the water!  Here he found that none was to be seen and here he rested.  Black Rifle had been long on his feet, two days and two nights perhaps, because it takes much to make him weary.  He sat on this log.  He left a strand from the fringe of his buckskin hunting shirt, caught on a splinter.  Do you not see it, Lieutenant Grosvenor?”

“Now that you hold it up before my eyes I notice it But I should never have found it in the wilderness.”  “Minute observation is what every trailer has to learn,” said Willet, “else you are no trailer at all, and you’ll learn, Lieutenant, while you are with us, that Tayoga is probably the greatest trailer the world has ever produced.”

“Peace, Great Bear!  Peace!” protested the Onondaga.

“It’s so, just the same.  Now, what did Black Rifle do after he rested himself on the log?”