Young McCrae, his face black as the heart of a storm cloud, said nothing; but his eyes glinted dangerously. The Indian continued:
"Me klatawa kimta on trail. Tyee man him come, too. Bimeby come to hiyu trail, all same road. Me lose trail. Me tell tyee man 'halo mamook.'" He grinned broadly. "Him klatawa back yaka illahee. Me come along alone. See where chik-chik wagon turn around. All right. Me come tell you mamook huyhuy moccasin."
It was very plain to Sandy now. The old Indian had recognized the track of his moccasin at the dam; had followed the trail to the travelled road where he had deliberately quit; and had come on to warn him to get rid of the incriminating moccasins which were even then on his feet. The suggestion of exchange was merely polite diplomacy.
"Simon," he said slowly, "blamed if you ain't a white Injun!"
Simon acknowledged the compliment characteristically. He produced a pipe and examined the empty bowl with interest.
"Halo smokin', me!" he observed gravely.
Sandy nodded and handed him a large plug. The Indian filled his pipe and put the tobacco in his pocket.
"You my tillikum," he announced. "When you tenas boy I like you, you like me. Good, Konaway McCrae (every McCrae) my tillikum." He made a large gesture of generous inclusion, paused for an instant, and shot a keen glance at his friend. "Cas-ee Dunne my tillikum, too."
"Sure," said Sandy gravely. "We're all friends of yours, Simon."
Simon nodded and considered.