"That is true," conceded Sam.
"Listen, Little Father, take me with you. I will drive the dogs, make the camp, cook the food. Never will I complain. If the food gets scarce, I will not ask for my share. That I promise."
"Much of what you say is true," assented the woodsman, "but you forget you came to us of your free will and unwelcomed. It would be better that you go to Missináibie."
"No," replied the girl.
"If you hope to become the squaw of Jibiwánisi," said Sam, bluntly, "you may as well give it up."
The girl said nothing, but compressed her lips to a straight line. After a moment she merely reiterated her original solution:
"At Conjuror's House I know the people."
"I will think of it," then concluded Sam.
Dick, however, could see no good in such an arrangement. He did not care to discuss the matter at length, but preserved rather the attitude of a man who has shaken himself free of all the responsibility of an affair, and is mildly amused at the tribulations of another still involved in it.
"You'll have a lot of trouble dragging a squaw all over the north," he advised Sam, critically. "Of course, we can't turn her adrift here. Wouldn't do that to a dog. But it strikes me it would even pay us to go out of our way to Missináibie to get rid of her. We could do that."