"Ah-ha!" Simon responded gutturally. "Skookum, you?"
"You bet," Sandy replied. "Hiyu skookum me." He leaned on his shovel for a moment, stretching his young, sinewy body, grinning at the Indian. The latter dismounted, and, stooping down, touched the young man's worn footgear.
"Mamook huyhuy moccasin," said he.
"Swap moccasins?" Sandy repeated. "What for? Yours are new. Chee moccasin, you; oleman moccasin, me. What are you getting at? That's fool talk."
But Simon insisted. "Mamook huyhuy," said he. "Halo mitlite oleman moccasin."
"Why shouldn't I wear my old moccasins?" asked Sandy.
Simon lifted McCrae's right foot and placed his finger on a patch beneath the ball of the great toe. His features expanded in a knowing grin. Sandy McCrae's face suddenly became grave and his mouth grim. His voice, when he spoke, was hard and metallic.
"Quit this sign business and spit it out of you," he ordered. "Mamook kumtuks! Tell me what you mean!"
Simon condescended to a measure of English which he knew well enough, but which he usually disdained on general principles. He pointed back whence he had come.
"Tenas sun (early morning) me stop along camp. Boss tyee man goodandam mad. Him say cultus man mamook raise hiyu hell. Catch hiyu skookum powder—bang! Whoosh! Upshego!" He mimicked Farwell's words and gestures to a nicety. "Him say, s'pose me catch cultus man me catch kwimnum dolla'." He exhibited the five-dollar bill, grinning once more. "Good! Me nanitch 'round me find trail. Boss tyee man see track of oleman moccasin." He pointed to Sandy's right foot.