So there came a night when we huddled close to a scanty fire under a brush shelter and debated our future.
"When the snow comes we shall want more than this," I said, fingering the holes in my moccasins. "I would we had the buffalo robes we sacrificed on the Ice Mountain yonder."
"Otetiani speaks wisely," agreed Tawannears. "We do not know what the Winter in this country will be, but it is not a warm land. There is always snow on the mountain-tops. In Winter, then, the cold must be felt in the low lands."
Corlaer, gnawing infinitesimal shreds of meat from a bone, shrilly growled approval.
"We must have shelter," I continued. "We must have food in plenty. We must take a sufficiency of meat and peltry."
"What of the fisher-tribes?" suggested Tawannears. "It may be they would give us hospitality."
"Ay, and stab us separately some night whilst we slept," I retorted. "I like not these people. They have shifty eyes. They will not stand up in a fight. Moreover, we cannot speak to them, nor they to us."
Corlaer cast aside his bone with a gesture of disgust.
"Go to der mountains," he squeaked. "In der valleys is cofer—andt wood—andt game for der killing—andt no odder mans."
It was true what he said. We had proved it in our wanderings. The valleys at the foot of the high ranges were the favorite haunts of all the animals. They were well-wooded and watered. And the savages of these parts seemed to shun the mountains for the tidal rivers. In the right valley we might expect to find as perfect living conditions as nature afforded. We adopted Peter's counsel, and in the morning struck off southeast into the foothills.