"Strong Father," he began in a low voice, "does a lost man throw away his rifle and his food?"
"No! Great heavens, no!" exclaimed Dunvegan. "Why?"
Maskwa put his hand into a green tree and held out two objects.
"Because here is the rifle and the pack-sack of the Little Fool."
The chief trader wheeled with hot accusations for Gaspard Follet, but Maskwa checked them.
"Softly, Strong Father," was his caution. "I have something else to show you first."
"But he is the spy," murmured Dunvegan, trying to keep his voice down in spite of his anger. "I see it all now—curse his blithering impudence! What dolts we have been at Oxford House! And he fooled Malcolm Macleod. Good Lord, what infants, what imbeciles! A fool, a dwarf, an idiot to get the best of us! Maskwa, I think we need some guidance such as yours."
"The Little One is a dwarf," conceded Maskwa, "but he is not an idiot. Neither is he a fool, though the name comes easily to my tongue. Strong Father, he has the wisdom of the beaver, and the heart of the fox. But at last he is trapped!"
"I'll bind him," declared Dunvegan, full of vexation and self-contempt. "I'll tie the rat fast lest he outwit the elephants."
"Wait," begged the Ojibway fort runner. "Come to the top of the ridge of balsam first. Then we can bind the Little Fool."