"Funny bunch of stuff to cache!" exclaimed the boy. "I'll tell you what it is, there's a grave here. I've seen the Indians over on the Yukon put stuff out beside a grave. It's for the dead man to use in the Happy Hunting Ground."
The Indian shook his head. "No. Ain' no grave here."
"Maybe they buried him there beside the rock," ventured the boy.
"No. Injun ain' bury lak' white man. If de man ees here, she would be on de rocks, lak de cache. Injun lay de dead man on de rock an' mak' de leetle pole house for um."
"Well, what in thunder would anyone want to cache that stuff 'way out here for? Look, there's a blanket, and it's been here so long it's about rotted to pieces, and a pipe, and moccasins, and there's the stock of a rifle sticking out beneath the blanket—those things have been there a long time—a year or two at least. But there's grub there, too. And the grub is fresh—it hasn't been there more than a month."
'Merican Joe was silent, and as the boy turned toward him, he caught him glancing furtively over his shoulder toward the dark patches of timber that blotched the hillside. "I ain' lak dis place. She no good," he muttered, as he caught the boy's glance.
"What's the matter with it?" smiled Connie. "What do you make of it?"
For answer, 'Merican Joe turned abruptly and descended to the shore of the lake. At the extremity of a rocky point that afforded a sweeping view of the great hillside, he stopped and waited for Connie to join him. "Dis place, she ain' no good," he reiterated, solemnly.
"What's the matter with it?" repeated the boy. "You said all along, until we came across that cache, that it was a dandy lake to trap foxes on."