The winter sun was almost setting when two Indians appeared at the stockade gates. They were strangers and set up a cry for admission.
"What do you want?" demanded James Morris, as he appeared at the top of a small ladder, gun in hand.
"Want to sell skins," grunted one of the red men, a dirty individual with particularly repulsive features.
The Indians had a big bundle on a drag, and each carried his bow and arrows on his back. Seeing this, James Morris called to the others in the post to be on guard, and then descended the ladder and opened one of the gates.
"Where do you come from?" he asked, as the Indians came in, dragging their big bundle.
"Come from the south," was the answer. "Two moons of hard hunting," and the Indian pointed to the bundle, meaning that the latter contained the results of a two months' hunting tour. "Make trade to-morrow," he continued.
"To-morrow?" queried James Morris. "Don't you want to trade now?"
"No. Black Ear not here. Black Ear own some skins. He come to-morrow, den all trade."
"You mean that some of the skins belong to Black Ear?"
"Yes."