“You bet,” replied Mick. “Worth four-six time more nor ever before. Sell red fox two dollar long time ago—fifty year ago, maybe. But I got plenty money now an’ plenty pelt too. You want some money, hey?”
“I’ll very likely want some, and want it badly, one of these days—if those fellows don’t catch me,” replied Tom.
“Never catch you on this country long’s Mick Otter don’t die; an’ when you want money, a’ right.”
“You are very good, Mick.”
“Sure. Good Injun, me.”
They were now far over the height-of-land; far out of the Indian River country; far down a water-shed that supplied other and greater streams. Even Mick’s trapping country was left far behind—but still he knew the ground like a book.
One day, immediately after breakfast, Mick said, “Go down to Timbertown to-day an’ buy some molas’ an’ pork an’ baccy. Come back to-morrow. You stop here. Maybe they hear about you.”
“Will you trust me for the price of a razor?” asked Tom.
“Sure. But you don’t shave off them fine whisker till that policeman quit huntin’ you. What else you want, hey?”
“What about a book for Cathie? But I don’t suppose they sell books in Timbertown.”