Crooked Nose redoubled his scrutiny of the broken herbage.  Soon he left the trail, moving like a spirit, noiselessly, steadily, but so slowly that it would have required a somewhat extended observation to convince you that he moved at all.  His bead-like black eyes roved here and there.  He did not look for a caribou—­no such fool he—­but for a splotch of brown, a deepening of shadow, a contour of surface which long experience had taught him could not be due to the forest’s ordinary play of light and shade.  After a moment his gaze centred.  In the lucent, cool, green shadow of a thick clump of moose maples he felt rather than discerned a certain warmth of tone.  You and I would probably have missed the entire shadow.  But Crooked Nose knew that the warmth of tone meant the brown of his quarry’s summer coat.  He cocked his rifle.

But a caribou is a large animal, and only a few spots are fatal.  Crooked Nose knew better than to shoot at random.  He whistled.

The dark colour dissolved.  There were no abrupt movements, no noises, but suddenly the caribou seemed to develop from the green shadow mist, to stand, his ears pricked forward, his lustrous eyes wide, his nostrils quivering toward the unknown something that had uttered the sound.  It was like magic.  An animal was now where, a moment before, none had been.

Crooked Nose raised the rifle, sighted steadily at the shoulder, low down, and pulled the trigger.  A sharp click alone answered his intention.  Accustomed only to the old trade-gun, he had neglected to throw down and back the lever which should lift the cartridge from the magazine.

Instantly the caribou snorted aloud and crashed noisily away.  A dozen lurking Canada jays jumped to the tops of spruces and began to scream.  Red squirrels, in all directions, alternately whirred their rattles and chattered in an ecstasy of rage.  The forest was alarmed.

Crooked Nose glanced at the westering sun, and set out swiftly in a direct line for the camp of his companions.  Arrived there he marched theatrically to the white men, cast the borrowed rifle at their feet, and returned to the side of the fire, where he squatted impassively on his heels.  The hunt had failed.

All the rest of the afternoon the men talked sullenly together.  There could be no doubt that trouble was afoot.  Toward night some of the younger members grew so bold as to cast fierce looks in the direction of the white visitors.

Finally late in the evening old Haukemah came to them.  For some time he sat silent and grave, smoking his pipe, and staring solemnly into the coals.