"Can you see something else," asked Louison—"the crossing poles of the first wigwam? We are at the camp."
CHAPTER X.
THE DOG-SLED.
A cloud of smoke from its many wigwam fires overhung the Indian camp as Louison and Wilfred drew near. The hunter's son, with his quick ear, stole cautiously through the belt of pine trees which sheltered it from the north wind, listening for any sounds of awakening life. Yesterday's adventure had no doubt been followed by a prolonged feast, and men and dogs were still sleeping. A few squaws, upon whom the hard work of the Indian world all devolves, were already astir. Louison thought they were gathering firewood outside the camp. This was well. Louison hung round about the outskirts, watching their proceedings, until he saw one woman behind a wigwam gathering snow to fill her kettle. Her pappoose in its wooden cradle was strapped to her back; but she had seen or heard them, for she paused in her occupation and looked up wondering.
Louison stepped forward.
"Now for your questions, my boy," he said to Wilfred, "and I will play interpreter."
"Is there an old squaw in your camp named the Far-off-Dawn?"
Wilfred needed no interpreter to explain the "caween" given in reply.
"Tell her, Louison," he hurried on, "she was with me the night before last. I thought she left me to follow this trail. If she has not reached this camp, she must be lost in the snow."
"Will not some of your people go and look for her," added Louison, on his own account, "before you move on?"