Chief Namakagon did not catch up with his bandit-tracking friends until dusk. The fugitive, Percy Wilkins, was still ahead of his pursuers. He had made his way to an open creek and waded down the creek bed to hide his tracks. His pursuers knew better than to become drenched in icy water during winter. They followed the stream bank, hoping to find the track as he left the creek but doubled back after seeing no sign downstream.
Upstream, they found the thief’s trail. His tracks showed he left the stream where it entered a large spruce swamp, crossing it before taking to the ridges.
“This man has the skills of the muskrat,” the chief was told when he met up with the other trackers. “He has doubled back like a wounded deer trying to escape a wolf. He now follows the ridge tops where less snow lets him move faster. He is heading back to Hayward.”
“There is a storm coming,” said Namakagon. “No light from the moon or stars. He must stop.
“He is wet. He will make a fire,” replied one of the trackers.
“Snow will soon cover his tracks,” said the chief. “We should go on.”
The thief’s tracks were easy to follow even in the dim light. The three stayed on the track until too dark to see. A few large, soft snowflakes began to fall. Namakagon pulled a piece of bark from a dead birch tree and snapped off a thin oak sapling. He stripped off some of the oak branches and wove the bark into the rest. A strike of a match and the torch was lit. They stayed on his trail.
Three torches later, they found more of the fugitive's sign. The snow was well trampled.
“Look,” said Namakagon, pointing to some tinder and kindling, “we interrupted the muskrat before he could light his fire. He is close. If he starts a fire now, we will see it. He cannot continue without light and he will freeze without fire.”
Namakagon stared into the dark silence. Then he cupped his hands around his mouth.
“It is over, Percy Wilkins. All is lost unless you surrender.” Namakagon’s deep voice echoed off the nearby hills. No reply. Namakagon called again. “Now is your chance to live rather than die, Wilkins,” he called. “Come share our fire. What do you say?” Again, no answer. “Wilkins, you can keep your life if you come with us now. What is your reply?” More silence. The fourth birch torch burned out. Namakagon called again. “There is a storm coming. You are wet. You have no fire, no blankets, no light. Come share our fire now or we will find you frozen and dead in the morning.”
The three trackers stood in the black silence. “We should make camp,” said one of Namakagon’s friends. The chief struck a match and lit another piece of birch bark, then tossed it into the fugitive’s abandoned kindling. A flame soon burned before them. Light from the flames danced across the snow-laden limbs of nearby trees.
“There is no need for you to stay. This muskrat is wet, cold, and tired. He can have no fight left in him now and will have less tomorrow. You have brought me to the thief. If he surrenders, I will bring him in. If he does not, I will leave his corpse for the wolves and ravens.”
Chief Namakagon watched his two new friends leave, the diminishing light from their birch torch flickering until it finally disappeared into the darkness. Ogimaa Mikwam-migwan was now left alone in the dark woods to wait either for the surrender of the bandit or for dawn. He kicked snow onto the fire until only a few embers were left to glow in the blackness. Steadying himself with his walking staff, he felt his way back down the trail around fifty yards. The chief wrapped himself in his bearskin robe and curled up on the snowy forest floor. Sheltered under a balsam tree, he would wait through the night. The storm came in. Heavy, wet snow fell hard as Namakagon slept.