“Where can we find strings!” the boys wanted to know.
“You go and ask Tatanka. He can find them.”
Tatanka was not troubled about finding strings. Some he made by shaving the bark off young shoots of basswood. Others he found by twisting the fiber of dead Indian hemp and wild nettle into strong cords.
“The woods are full of good ropes,” he murmured, “but white men don’t know how to find them and make them. They can only buy them in the stores.”
The boys were going to tie the bark crosswise; but the trapper would not have it that way.
“Tie them running up and down,” he said. “Alternate them with rough side up and smooth side up, so they overlap, making a lot of little troughs running to the ground. Then tie them to three strong poles fastened crosswise over the lean-to.
“There! It is a rough-looking shelter. Not nearly so neat as a Chippewa bark-house, but it ought to shed the rain if the wind doesn’t blow it over and if the wind doesn’t come from the wrong side.
“Now get some wood, boys. Tim, you gather a lot of dry sticks for our cooking fire. Bill, you cut some green birches for the camp-fire. Tatanka and I will cut some green oaks for back logs.”
“Mr. Barker, why can’t I gather dry branches for the camp-fire? There are plenty of them lying around,” Tim asked eagerly.
“You may, Tim,” the old man replied good-naturedly, “but you will have to sit up all night to feed the fire.”