It was nearly morning when at length he slackened his pace, and with the caution of the lifelong hunter approached the tilt as he would have stalked an animal.  He made quite certain that the shack was untenanted, then entered boldly.  He struck a match and found a candle, which he lighted.  There was the silver fox, where Bob had left it.  It was dry enough to remove from the board and he loosened it and pulled it off.  He examined it critically and gloated over it.

“As black an’ fine a one as I ever seen!” he exclaimed.  “It’ll bring a big price at Mingen.  That boy’ll never see it again, an’ I’ll clean out th’ rest o’ th’ fur too, at th’ river.  Old Campbell’ll be sorry when I get through with ’em, he let that feller hunt th’ path.  He’s a fool, an’ if he gives me th’ slip he’ll go back an’ say th’ Mingen Injuns took his fur.  I fixed that wi’ my story all right.  I’ll take th’ lot t’ Mingen an’ get cash fer ’em, an’ be back t’ th’ Bay with open water with ’nuff martens so’s they won’t suspect me.”

He started a fire and slept until shortly after daylight.  Then had breakfast and started down the trail towards the river at the same rapid pace that he had held before.

It was not quite dark when he glimpsed the tilt, and approached it with even more caution than he had observed above.

“He don’t know enough to lie,” said he to himself, referring to Bob, “but it’s best t’ take care, fer one o’ th’ others might be here.”

When he was satisfied that the tilt was unoccupied he entered boldly and appropriated every skin of fur he found—­not only all of Bob’s, but also a few martens Bill had left there.  No time was lost, for any accident might send Bill or one of the others here at an unexpected moment.  The pelts were packed quickly but carefully into his hunting bag and within twenty minutes after his arrival he was retreating up the trail at a half run.

Some time after dark he reached the first tilt above the river, where he spent the night.  Short cuts and fast travelling brought him on Sunday night to the tilt at the end of the trail where he had left Bob.  He made quite certain that the lad had really gone on his caribou hunt, and then went boldly in and made himself as comfortable as he could for the night without a stove, for Bob had taken the stove with him, to heat his tent.

“If he comes back t’-night and finds me here,” he said, “I’ll just tell him I changed my mind an’ came back t’ go on th’ deer hunt.  I’ll lie t’ him about what I got in my bag an’ he’ll never suspicion; he don’t know enough.”

Micmac John’s work was not yet finished.  He had arranged a full and complete revenge.  Bob’s hunt for caribou would carry him far away from the tilt and into a section where no searching party would be likely to go.  The half-breed’s plan was now to follow and shoot the lad from ambush.  If by chance any one ever should find the body—­which seemed a quite improbable happening—­Bob’s death would no doubt be laid at the door of the Nascaupee Indians.