"Talkin' about Injun villages," began Mackay, when the cooking utensils had been cleared away, "I've niver seen wan yet that hadn't a winter storehouse of dried salmon and cariboo somewheres handy."
"Ye're a man efter ma ain heart," beamingly interrupted Mac, and Stewart murmured: "Dried cariboo!" and smacked his lips.
"As I was discoursin'," continued Mackay, "them Injuns hiv always got rations hid away in their wigwams."
"Likewise a few tommy-hawks an' an assortment o' clubs," grimly edged in the Captain.
No one seemed anxious to say anything in a direct sort of way, although the general meaning was plain enough.
"To cut it short, boys," I ventured to remark, "you are in favour of visiting the village to-night?"
"Fur reasons which it ain't necessary to shout out loud—precisely," answered Mackay.
After that further speech was superfluous, and we made hurried preparations for our marauding journey. The Indians at this time were very hostile towards the white invaders of their country, and there was little reason to hope that they would either barter or sell any of their stores to us. There is a proverb which states that "necessity knows no law," and as we were in rather a sad plight we agreed with it to the letter; there may have been room for some slight condonation of our errors of reason at such a time. About eight o'clock that night we sallied out, leaving Mac with the dog in charge of the sleigh, with instructions to clear out lively should he hear a revolver shot. The worthy Mac was much disgusted with his lot, and gave vent to his annoyance in no stinted terms.
"It wis ma idee at first," he grumbled, "an' it's gey hard fur a man tae be sacrifeeced tae wait here a' the time."
"You've got the healthiest job, my friend," said the Captain, "an' you ought to be durned well pleased."