"Dat day I bre'k my leg. An' nex' day Clawhammer's tepee burn up. So we git bad luck. Den de bad luck go 'way, cos tamahnawus fin' dat cache, an' he ain' so mad. But every tam de leetle moon com' I tak' som' mor' grub to de cache. An' so, I keep de luck good."
"And do you think it's still there on the cache—the fox skin and the collar?"
The Indian shrugged. "I ain' know 'bout dat. Mebbe-so de tamahnawus fox com' an' git he's skin. 'Bout wan year ago Bear Lake Injun, nem Peter Burntwood, trap wan fox way up on de beeg lak'. She black fox, an' she got de collar of ermine skin. Me—I'm over to Fort Norman w'en he bring in de skin an' de collar, an' trade de skin to McTavish."
"What did McTavish make of it?" asked Connie eagerly.
"He ain' b'lieve dat. He t'ink Peter Burntwood mak' dat collar to fool um. He say Peter Burntwood lak too mooch to tell de beeg lie."
"But didn't you tell McTavish about the fox you shot, and the one you trapped with the collar on?"
"No. I ain' say nuttin'. Dat hurt too mooch to bre'k de leg. I ain' want dat tamahnawus mad on me no mor'."
Connie was silent for a long time as he racked his brain for some reasonable explanation of the Indian's strange story, pieced out by what he, himself, had actually seen and heard at the lake. But no explanation presented itself and finally he shook his head.
"W'at you t'ink 'bout dat?" asked Pierre Bonnet Rouge, who had been watching the boy narrowly.
"I don't know. There's something back of it all—but I can't seem to figure what it is. I'm going back to that lake, though, and I'm going to stay there till I do know."