“His examination told him the story of what had happened out there in the woods. He knew that Weewah had first caught the lynx in his snare, and then had killed it with a blow from his tomahawk instead of shooting it with an arrow. And he was proud of his son. But no one but an Indian would have known it.
“With another grunt of satisfaction, however, he drew his hunting knife from the sheath in his belt. By a few deft strokes he severed two toes from the forepaw of the lynx, with the long curved claws protruding, leaving a strip of fur at the back. Then he quickly fashioned a loop in the skin so that the claws hung as a pendant from it. When this was finished to his satisfaction he stood up and beckoned to the boy; and when Weewah stepped forward the old Indian placed the fur string about his neck with the lynx claws suspended in front.
“Then he placed his hands on the little fellow’s shoulders and looked sharply into his eyes, the little Indian returning the gaze with quiet dignity.
“‘Weewah, the mighty hunter,’ the old Indian said slowly.
“Then he seated himself and resumed his pipe as if nothing had happened.”
Martin knocked the ashes out of his pipe and threw an extra chunk of wood on the fire.
“Time we were turning in,” he said.
“But tell me,” Larry asked; “did Weewah’s mother give him the beating for taking her axe?”
“What, beat a mighty hunter like Weewah?” Martin asked in feigned surprise. “No indeed! No more beatings for him. From that day on no woman, not even his mother, would ever give him a blow. And his father would now take him with him on his hunting trips, even into the most dangerous places, just as he would any other hunter. For he had proved his title, you see.”
Then the old man took his pipe from his lips, and said to the boy earnestly: