NOVEMBER JOE
bullet had torn a hole at the base of the neck. The ground beside him was torn up as if by some small sharp instruments.
The idea occurred to me that I would try my hand at detection. I went into the shelter. There I found a blanket, two freshly flayed bearskins, and a pack, which lay open. I came out again and carefully examined the ground in all directions. Suddenly looking up, I saw November Joe watching me with a kind of grim and covert amusement.
"What are you looking for?" said he.
"The tracks of the murderer."
"You won't find them."
"Why?"
"He did n't make none."
I pointed out the spot where the ground was torn.
"The lumberman that found him—spiked boots," said November.
"How do you know he was not the murderer?"
"He did n't get here till Lyon had been dead for hours. Compare his tracks with Lyon's . . . much fresher. No, Mr. Sport, that cock won't fight."
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