Little Thunder's grunt might mean anything, but to the trader it expressed doubt.
“On then!” he shouted. “We must make these brutes get a move on. They'll feed when we camp.”
So saying he hurled his horse upon the straggling bunch of ponies that were eagerly snatching mouthfuls of grass from which the chinook had already melted the snow. Mercilessly and savagely the trader, with whip and voice and charging stallion, hustled the wretched animals into the trail once more. And through the long afternoon, with unceasing and brutal ferocity, he belabored the faltering, stumbling, half-starved creatures, till from sheer exhaustion they were like to fall upon the trail. It was a weary business and disgusting, but the demon spirit of Nighthawk seemed to have passed into his master, and with an insistence that knew no mercy together they battered that wretched bunch up and down the long slopes till at length the merciful night fell upon the straggling, stumbling cavalcade and made a rapid pace impossible.
At the head of a long slope Little Thunder came to an abrupt halt, rode to the rear and grunted something to his chief.
“What?” cried Raven in a startled voice. “Stonies! Where?”
Little Thunder pointed.
“Did they see you?” This insult Little Thunder disdained to notice. “Good!” replied Raven. “Stay here, Cameron, we will take a look at them.”
In a very few minutes he returned, an eager tone in his voice, an eager gleam in his eyes.
“Stonies!” he exclaimed. “And a big camp. On their way back from their winter's trapping. Old Macdougall himself in charge, I think. Do you know him?”
“I have heard of him,” said Cameron, and his tone indicated his reverence for the aged pioneer Methodist missionary who had accomplished such marvels during his long years of service with his Indian flock and had gained such a wonderful control over them.