"Chaska," Yan gasped, "I nearly did for you."
For reply the Indian drew his finger across the red handkerchief on his brow. Yan knew then one reason why a hunting Indian always wears it; after that he wore one himself.
One day a flock of prairie chickens flew high overhead toward the thick Spruce woods. Others followed and it seemed to be a general move. Chaska looked toward them and said, "Chickens go hide in bush. Blizzard to-night."
It surely came, and the hunters stayed all day by the fire. Next day it was as fierce as ever. On the third day it ceased somewhat and they hunted again. But Chaska returned with his gun broken by a fall, and after a long silent smoke he said:
"Yan hunt in Moose Mountain?"
"No!"
"Good hunting. Go?"
Yan shook his head.
Presently the Indian, glancing to east, said, "Sioux tracks there to-day. All bad medicine here." And Yan knew that his mind was made up. He went away and they never met again. Like everything Indian, he is gone, his family is gone, his hunting grounds are gone, and to-day all that is left of him is his name, borne by the lonely lake that lies in the Carberry Hills.