A Cold Trail 347 



and others carry only ghostly, scattered " rampikes," 

 showing where fires have swept. Our headquarters 

 was the log camp referred to, but we had a tem- 

 porary camp at the end of a line of traps some ten 

 miles inland, near the head of a chain of small lakes, 

 famous in the annals of the fur trade. From it, 

 westward, extended an immense barren for mile after 

 mile, bounded by a gray-blue wall of forest. 



One night, while we were at the little camp, a 

 heavy fall of snow re-dressed the hard-featured land- 

 scape, and Jo and I fell to discussing the chance 

 for caribou. About daylight we turned out, and Jo 

 stood for a few moments reading the sky and sweep- 

 ing the barren with those marvellous aboriginal eyes 

 of his, which could count a band of animals farther 

 than I could see them. Presently he grunted softly 

 and exclaimed : 



" Dar um car'boo ! " and pointed westward. 



I looked long and earnestly, and at last made out 

 a distant object moving slowly over the snowy 

 barren. Getting the glass, I focussed on it and dis- 

 covered that it was indeed a caribou a lone bull 

 evidently, as no more could be found. 



After hurriedly feeding, we stuffed our pockets 

 with bread and meat, felt that matches, pipes, and 

 " baccy " were in their places, donned our snow- 

 shoes, and started in the direction of our vanished 

 game. 



" Car'boo all right ; feed day on moss. Bymeby 

 find um more car'boo," said Jo, and I guessed that 

 he liked the prospect. 



It was a cold, gray day; a sharp breeze blew 

 directly across the barren, and now and then a few 



