It was easier to watch the back trail than
to guard against ambuscades ahead. Twice in that time he stopped
where they would be unseen and looked back, and in advancing he
picked out the thinnest timber and evaded whatever might have
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.
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