“But why did the trees die?” Tatanka objected.
“May be the outlet became choked and the trees were drowned,” Barker explained. “You know that white trappers always catch plenty of mink and muskrats and find good fish in the lakes which the Indians say are haunted.”
Tatanka began to paddle again, but looked as if he were not convinced but had given up arguing against all three of his friends.
The scene spread out before them looked indeed weird and almost forbidding. A dead forest of tall straight cypress spires arose like tree specters from the dark waters of the lake. The gray trunks had long ago been stripped of bark and branches; a few bald eagles and fish-hawks sailed in spirals over the dead pointed poles and uttered a shrill, piercing cry at the intruders of their solitude.
“It is a forest of ghost trees,” Tatanka murmured. “We should not stay here.”
“It is a forest of ghost trees,” Tatanka murmured.
“Ghost trees nothing,” the old trapper exploded impatiently. “Those trees were drowned forty years ago. The bark and branches have rotted away. It is a wonder the trees are still standing.
“Tatanka, you’re a hopeless old heathen. If you don’t quit scaring the boys with your spook lakes and ghost trees, I’m going to send you home on a gunboat, and I’ll hire a coal-black negro to help us paddle the canoe. Here, fill your red calumet pipe and don’t be afraid of harmless dead trees.”
A row of turtles plunged into the water from a log, a pair of ducks arose out of some rushes and a large fish jumped out of the water and fell back with a loud splash. Then the channel wound about amongst white water-lilies and patches of the large, beautiful wild lotus or wankapin lilies.