"Honest, Wanna, it ain't right to let a parcel o' boys have it all, when hard-workin' men, an' fren's o' yourn at that, need it so much wusser'n they."
"Ye couldn't expect none o' us to stan' fur it, nuther," said Bart Reeder, a tall, slender, freckle-faced man.
"We ain't a-wantin' to rob the boys, understan'," put in Dan Woodle. "Did ye ever hear anybody say a word ag'in big Jim Reynolds? He's a squar' man, all right; an' when he says the boys'll have their share he means it, eh, Jim?"
Jim nodded earnestly.
"Ye kin bet I do," he said. "It'll be share and share alike."
"Prowidin' me an' you agree to it," remarked Griffin, in a low tone, to his chum, Tom Smull.
There was an instant of silence. The lumbermen crowded eagerly around the aged warrior, whose stolid face, turned full toward them, shone brightly in the firelight. From the mysterious, somber depths of the forest came a low, mournful roar, as the ever-increasing breeze swayed the tree tops.
"Indian has spoken," said Wanatoma, slowly. "He is a friend of the white man. But boys save Indian's life, and Wanatoma can no forget. I give promise, and always does the Indian keep his promise. Is the white man like that, or does he change as the wind?"
His voice was stern; he stood out among the rough lumbermen a dignified figure, unyielding to either flattery or threats.
"Wal, kin ye beat that?" cried Tom Smull, violently. "We didn't come this far to hear all them fine words, eh, Griffin? Are you fellers a-goin' to stan' fur this?"