"You don't know a thing about it. Listen here. That sound came from that high hill, didn't it?"
The Indian glanced fearfully toward the hill, the outline of which was just visible at the head of the lake, and nodded.
"Well, we're going to circle that hill. There has been no fresh snow for ten days or two weeks, and if we circle the base of it we'll strike the trail of whoever is on the hill. Then we can follow the trail."
"I ain' want no trail! Tamahnawus she don' mak' no trail. Dat hill she b'long to tamahnawus. I ain' want dat hill. Plent' mor' hill for me. An' plent' mor' lak' to trap de fox. An' besides, we ain' got nuff grub. We got to git back."
"We've got enough grub for today and tomorrow if we go light on it. It won't take us long when we strike the trail to follow it up on to the hill. Come on, buck up! There may be someone up there that needs help—maybe someone that is in the same fix you were when I found you back on Spur Mountain."
"Ain't no one up dere. I ain' hang roun' on Spur Mountain an' yell lak tamahnawus. Me—I'm too mooch dead."
"Come on. Are you going with me?"
The Indian hesitated. "If we go roun' de hill an' ain' fin' no track, den we hit for de cabin?" he asked, shrewdly.
"Yes," answered the boy, confident that they would strike the trail by circling the hill, "if we don't strike the trail of whoever or whatever made that sound, we'll hit back to the cabin."
"All right, me—I'm go 'long—but we ain' strike no trail. Tamahnawus don' mak' no trail." Connie struck out with the Indian following, and as they reached the summit of the ridge that paralleled the shore of the lake, the sun showed his yellow rim over a distant spruce swamp, and at the same instant, far away—from the direction of the hill, came once more the long-drawn quavering yell. 'Merican Joe whirled at the sound and started out over the back trail, and it required a full fifteen minutes of persuasion, ridicule, entreaty, and threat before he reluctantly returned and fell in behind Connie.