"I saw a herd of them last Summer," declared Mooswa; "fine big fellows they have grown to be, too. Their hair is longer, and blacker, and curlier than it was when they were on the Plains. There's no more than fifty of them left alive in all the North woods; it's awful to think of how they were slaughtered. That's why I stick to the Timber Boundaries."
"Eagle won't come, Your Majesty, because Jay's chatter makes his head ache," declared Carcajou.
"Blame me," cried Whisky-Jack, "if anybody doesn't turn up at the meeting--say it's my fault; I don't mind."
"You know why we meet as usual?" queried Black Fox, placing his big white-tipped brush affectedly about his feet.
"That they do," piped Whisky-Jack; "it's because they're afraid of losing their hides. I'm not--nobody tries to rob me."
"Worthless Gabbler!" growled Muskwa.
"Jack is right," declared Black Fox; "if we do not help each other with the things we have learned, our warm coats will soon be on the shoulders of the White Men's Wives."
"Is that why the Men are always chasing us?" asked Beaver, turning his sharp-pointed head with the little bead eyes toward the King.
"Not in your case," snapped Whisky-Jack, "for they eat you, old Fat Tail. I heard the two White Men who camped on our river last Winter say that your Brother, whom they caught when they raided your little round lodge, tasted like beefsteak, whatever that is.--He, he! And François the Guide ate his tail and said it was equal to fat bacon."
"Unthinking Wretch!" cried Umisk angrily, bringing his broad tail down on a stone like the crack of a pistol.