afforded a hiding place to a javelin-thrower. They had progressed
another half mile when suddenly they came upon a snowshoe trail in
the snow.

It had crossed at right angles to their own course, and as Philip
bent over it a sudden lump rose into his throat. The other Eskimos
had not worn snowshoes. That in itself had not surprised him, for
the snow was hard and easily traveled in moccasins. The fact that
amazed him now was that the trail under his eyes had not been made
by Eskimo usamuks. The tracks were long and narrow. The web
imprint in the snow was not that of the broad narwhal strip, but
the finer mesh of babiche. It was possible that an Eskimo was
wearing them, but they were A WHITE MAN'S SHOES!

And then he made another discovery. For a dozen paces he followed
in the trail, allowing six inches with each step he took as the
snowshoe handicap. Even at that he could not easily cover the
tracks. The man who had made them had taken a longer snowshoe
stride than his own by at least nine inches. He could no longer
keep the excitement of his discovery from Celie.

"The Eskimo never lived who could make that track," he exclaimed.
"They can travel fast enough but they're a bunch of runts when it
comes to leg-swing. It's a white man--or Bram!"

The announcement of the wolf-man's name and Philip's gesture
toward the trail drew a quick little cry of understanding from
Celie. In a flash she had darted to the snowshoe tracks and was
examining them with eager intensity. Then she looked up and shook
her head. It wasn't Bram! She pointed to the tail of the shoe and