Joe Pete examined the pelts critically: "Dis wan she dark cross fox, wort' mebbe-so, t'irty dolla. Dis wan, an' dis wan, cross fox, wort' 'bout twenty dolla."
"Seventy dollars for a bottle of hooch!" cried Brent, "It's robbery!"
He handed back the skins, and at the end of five minutes, during which time he indicated as plainly as possible by means of signs, that there was no hooch forthcoming, the Indians took their departure. The next evening they were back again, and this time they offered six skins, one of them a silver fox that Joe Pete said would bring eighty dollars at any trading post. After much patient pantomime Brent finally succeeded in convincing them that there was really no hooch to be had, and with openly expressed disgust, the three finally took their departure.
Shortly after noon a week later, Brent drew the last bucket of gravel from the shallow shaft, threw it onto the dump, and leaving Joe Pete to look after the fire, took his rifle and struck off up the river in search of caribou. "Go down the river,"
whispered the still small voice of Common Sense, "There are no hunters there." But Brent only smiled, and held his course. And as he swung over the snow trail his thoughts were of the girl who had stepped from the cabin and angrily ordered him from the village at the point of her rifle. Each day during the intervening week he had thought of her, and he had lain awake at night and tried in vain to conjure a reason for her strange behaviour. Alone on the trail he voiced his thoughts: "Why should she threaten to shoot me? Who does she think I am? Why should she declare she is an Injun? I don't believe she's any more Injun than I am. Who ever heard of an Injun with eyes like hers, and lips, yes, and a tip-tilted nose? Possibly, a breed—but, never an Injun. And, I wonder if her warlike attitude includes the whole white race, or a limited part of it, or only me? I'll find out before this winter is over—but, I'll bet she can shoot! She threw that shell into her rifle in a sort of off-hand practiced way, like most girls would powder their nose."
His speculation was cut short by a trail that crossed the river at a right angle and headed into the scrub in a south-easterly direction. The trail was only a few hours old and had been made by a small band of caribou traveling at a leisurely pace. Abruptly, Brent left the River and struck into the trail. For an hour he followed it through the scraggly timber and across patches of open tundra
and narrow beaver meadows. The animals had been feeding as they traveled and it was evident that they could not be far ahead. Cautiously topping a low ridge, he sighted them upon a small open tundra, about two hundred yards away. There were seven all told, two bulls, three cows, and two yearlings. One of the bulls and two cows were pawing the snow from the moss, and the others were lying down. Taking careful aim, Brent shot the standing bull. The animals that had been lying down scrambled to their feet, and three more shots in rapid succession accounted for a cow and one of the yearlings, and Brent watched the remaining four plunge off through the snow in the direction of the opposite side of the tundra which was a mile or more in width. When they had almost reached the scrub he was startled to see the flying bull suddenly rear high and topple into the snow, the next instant one of the others dropped, and a moment later a third. Then to his ears came the sound of four shots fired in rapid succession. As Brent stepped out onto the tundra and, sheath knife in hand, walked to his fallen caribou, he saw a figure from the opposite scrub. An exclamation of surprise escaped him. It was the girl of the Indian Village.
"Wonder if she needs any help?" he muttered as he slit the throat of his third caribou. He glanced across the short open space to see the girl bending over the carcass of the other bull. "Guess I'll take
a chance," he grinned, "And go and see. I knew she could shoot—three out of four, running shots—that's going some!" When he was half way across the open he saw the girl rise and wipe the blade of her knife upon the hair of the dead bull's neck. She turned and knife in hand, waited for him to approach. Brent noted that her rifle lay within easy reach of her hand, propped against the dead animal's belly. He noted also, that as he drew near, she made no move to recover it.
Jerking at the strings of his cap, he removed it from his head: "That was mighty good shooting," he smiled, "Those brutes were sure traveling!"