“Yes, my brother. His eyes were overbright and his skin was flushed. He was sick.”
“Boosh! He’ll be seecker yet when we find him, myself and de two garçons. Pegic, dose skins were stolen!”
“Stolen, do you say, my brother?”
“Yes, Pegic, it is even so. And how long ago was he here?”
“About two hours before the dropping of the sun. I urged him to stay, but he would not. He said he was in much haste, and truly his dogs showed signs of being hard pressed.”
Old Joe chuckled grimly.
“Bon, so we close up the gap. Boosh! Mon ami, we shall meet before very long. Voila!”
“It was while I was cutting up the deer,” volunteered Pegic, his reserve now thawed by old Joe’s skillful way of leading him on. “I sat on my blanket—so. My dogs barked, and, going to the door of the tepee, I saw this white man coming. He wished food for himself and his dogs. I gave to him, and then he asked the way to the nearest trading post. I told him, and then he inquired for the one even beyond that.”
“For which he had good reason,” muttered old Joe. “He wished to gain on us a good distance before he traded in his furs—bien!”
“His talk was smooth and without stoppage, like a deep stream,” went on the Indian, “but he would ever and anon arise and go to the door of the tepee and look back along his trail. Then I wondered much at this, but now I know why this was so. Then he left, after pressing some silver upon me which I would not have taken but for owing Jumping Rabbit much money, which I lost when we did last play at ‘chuckstones.’ After he had left I lay on my blankets, thinking of many things. But chiefly of how my brother, Walking Deer, was killed at Old Squaw Rapids when his paddle did break and left him to the mercy of the waters. If you like, I will tell the tale to you. I am thinking that it is a story that would delight you much.”