“So I see. But what you expect to get in this Godforsaken country?”
“Beaver, muskrat, mink, otter.”
“Trapping, eh?” The man gazed keenly at Thorpe's recumbent figure.
“Who's the other fellow?”
Thorpe held his breath; then exhaled it in a long sigh of relief.
“Him white man,” Injin Charley was replying, “him hunt too. He mak' 'um buckskin.”
The landlooker arose lazily and sauntered toward the group. It was part of his plan to be well recognized so that in the future he might arouse no suspicions.
“Howdy,” he drawled, “got any smokin'?”
“How are you,” replied one of the scalers, eying him sharply, and tendering his pouch. Thorpe filled his pipe deliberately, and returned it with a heavy-lidded glance of thanks. To all appearances he was one of the lazy, shiftless white hunters of the backwoods. Seized with an inspiration, he said, “What sort of chances is they at your camp for a little flour? Me and Charley's about out. I'll bring you meat; or I'll make you boys moccasins. I got some good buckskin.”
It was the usual proposition.