Rube shrugged his shoulders.
"I ain't figurin' ter discuss ancient hist'ry with you, mister," he said. "I'm not denyin' that Redskins hunted on these yer lands centuries 'fore the white man happened along. But that ain't got nothin' t' do wi' you an' me to-day. You're trespassin' on private property, an' you gotter quit, see? An' if you've bin layin' traps around you kin just lift 'em an' take 'em along with you. This yer forest, that thar lake, an' all the land as far's you kin see belongs ter Lord St. Olave. And he don't allow no trespassers mouchin' around."
"Lord St. Olave?" The Indian pronounced the name with peculiar distinctness. "Otherwise Kiddie," he added, resting a foot on the log, but carefully avoiding the bear cub. "I have heard of him."
"Yes, an' seen him, too," rejoined Rube.
"Seen him? When?" questioned the Indian.
"Why," answered Rube, "you saw him pretty plain, I guess, the time he dropped his lariat over your arms in One Tree Gulch. I suppose you thinks I don't know you, eh? You're Broken Feather; that's who you are. Broken Feather, the boss chief of the Injun village over thar. An' now, what you want? What you doin' around here? Spyin' out the lie o' the land fer future raids?"
"Surely I am at liberty to take interest in a neighbour's building operations," returned the chief. He leant closer over the working bench and gazed down at the architect's plan with renewed curiosity. "This, I suppose, is the front entrance," he said.
He touched the paper at a particular part of the design, but quickly drew his arm back. Rube heard him draw a deep breath, as if he were in pain.
"Say, what's up?" the boy asked. "You took bad in th' inside?"
Instead of answering, Broken Feather turned sharply round. Abe Harum was approaching, followed at some distance by Rube Carter's mother, who carried a basket of food for the workers.