A loud chorus of gruff assents came from the lumbermen.
"Indian does not choose to tell," said Wanatoma, quietly.
Tom Smull and Alf Griffin's voices rose in angry protest.
"Ye'd better tell us peaceable-like," roared Tom, "or it'll be the wuss fur ye. We hain't walked our legs 'most off, besides fallin' over rocks, an' gittin' ketched in all sorts o' thickets, to hear no sich words as them."
"I should say we hain't!" cried Griffin; "an' it won't pay to go ag'in what we says, nuther, Injun."
"Go slow, boys," whispered Jim Reynolds; "yer spilin' the hull business."
"Git out! Smull an' me kin do the trick," growled Griffin. He cast an anxious look at the Great Dane, which sat on his haunches close beside his master. "Will ye answer, Wanna—yes or no?"
"Indian no tell."
"But see here, Injun—"
Reynolds, with an emphatic wave of his hand, cut short Griffin's angry voice, and said: