"Shoot elk?" asked the other, nodding.
"Yes, sometimes, with gun," and Frank purposely held up his repeating rifle.
He saw the black eyes glitter enviously at sight of it, which made his curiosity only the stronger.
"Bad! bad!" muttered the Indian, though he did not explain what he meant; but Frank believed he must be thinking of the theft of the elk some days previous.
"You no guns here?" he asked, and the old Indian shook his head sadly, though a look of sudden anger also flitted across his strong face.
"Nothing, only hatchet and one knife. Take all else away when send us out from village. No care if squaw and pappoose die from hunger. Bad! bad! But some day p'raps Running Elk go back and make change. Wait! wait! No sleep on trail!"
Already was Frank beginning to see behind the mystery. For some cause this old brave and his immediate family had been chased out of the Cree village, many miles to the northwest. Deprived of weapons, they had been started on the river in the bullboats, to meet what fate had in store for them.
No wonder, then, that coming unexpectedly on the dead elk Bluff had shot, they had stolen it, for hunger stalked in their miserable camp, and the pappooses cried for the food the braves could not supply.
The only thing that still puzzled Frank was why they had not appealed to some of the whites. But there must be some good reason, he argued, for this. Perhaps it was only the natural pride an Indian feels, and which prevents him from admitting to the palefaces that he is helpless to supply the wants of his people.
"Name Frank," he said, touching his breast "What call you?"