Joe Pete seemed unimpressed: "You ain't t'ink 'bout a drink cos you ain't got non. Dat better you keep 'way from it, or you t'ink 'bout it dam' queek." And Brent, remembering that morning on the trail when he had said good bye to Claw, answered nothing.
For the next few days, while Joe Pete worked at the building of a cache, Brent hunted caribou. Upon one of these excursions, while following up the river, some three of four miles south of the cabin, he came suddenly upon a snowshoe trail. It was a fresh trail, and he had followed it scarcely a mile when he found other trails that crossed and recrossed the river, and upon rounding a sharp bend, he came abruptly upon an encampment. Three tiny log cabins, and a half-dozen tepees were visible in a grove of scraggling spruce that gave some shelter from the sweep of the wind. Beyond the encampment, the river widened abruptly into a lake. An Indian paused in the act of hacking firewood from a dead spruce, and regarded him stolidly. Brent ascended the bank and greeted him in English. Receiving no response, he tried the jargon:
"Klahowya, six?"
The Indian glanced sidewise, toward one of the cabins, and muttered something in guttural. Then, the door of the cabin opened and a girl stepped out
onto the snow and closed the door behind her. Brent stared, speechless, as his swift glance took in the details of her moccasins, deer-skin leggings, short skirt, white capote and stocking cap. She held a high-power rifle in her mittened hand. Then their eyes met, and the man felt his heart give a bound beneath his tight-buttoned mackinaw. Instantly, he realized that he was staring rudely, and as the blood mounted to his cheeks, he snatched the cap from his head and stepped forward with hasty apology: "I beg your pardon," he stammered, "You see, I had no idea you were here—I mean, I had not expected to meet a lady in the middle of this God-forsaken wilderness. And especially as I only expected to find Indians—and I hadn't even expected them, until I struck the trail on the river." The man paused, and for the first time noted the angry flash of the dark eyes—noted, too, that the red lips curled scornfully.
"I am an Indian," announced the girl, haughtily, "And, now you have found us—go!"
"An Indian!" cried Brent, "Surely, you are——"
"Go!" Repeated the girl, "Before I kill you!"
"Oh, come, now," smiled Brent, "You wouldn't do that. We are neighbors, why not be friends?"
"Go!" repeated the girl, "and don't come back! The next time I shall not warn you." The command was accompanied by a sharp click, as she threw a cartridge into the chamber of her rifle, and another swift glance into her eyes showed Brent that she