be filled with fish and game, the forests remain for ever green, and fire be given to his people.  His sixth desire was that a fuel be given to him which would burn even in water, and the Great Spirit gave him birch; and his seventh desire was that he might possess another fuel, which would throw off no smoke, and might bring comfort and joy to his wigwams—­and the poplar sprang up in the forests.  And because of that chief, and his seven beautiful daughters, all of these things are true even to this day.  Isn’t it so, Mukoki?”

The old warrior nodded.

“And what became of the Great Spirit and the seven beautiful daughters?” questioned Rod.

Mukoki rose and left the fire.

“He believes in that as he believes in the sun and the moon,” spoke Wabi softly.  “But he knows that you do not, and that all white people laugh at it.  He could tell you many wonderful stories of the creation of these forests and mountains and the things in them if he would.  But he knows that you would not believe, and would laugh at him afterward.”

In an instant Rod was upon his feet.

“Mukoki!” he called.  “Mukoki!”

The old Indian turned and came back slowly.  The white youth met him half-way, his face flushed, his eyes shining.

“Mukoki,” he said gently, gripping the warrior’s hand, “Mukoki—­I love your Great Spirit!  I love the one who made these glorious forests, and that glorious moon up there, and the mountains and lakes and rivers!  I Want to know more about him.  You must tell me, so that I will know when he talks about me, in the winds, in the stars, in the forests!  Will you?”

Mukoki was looking at him, his thin lips parted, his grim visage relaxed, as if he were weighing the truthfulness of the white youth’s words.

“And I will tell you about our Great Spirit, the white man’s Great Spirit,” urged Rod.  “For we have a Great Spirit, too, Mukoki, and He did for the white man’s world what yours did for you.  He created the earth, the sky and the sea and all the things in them in six days, and on the seventh He rested.  And that seventh day we call Sunday, Mukoki.  And He made our forests for us, as your Great Spirit made them for you, only instead of giving them for the love of seven beautiful women He gave them for the love of man.  I’ll tell you wonderful things about Him, Mukoki, if you will tell me about yours.  Is it a bargain?”

“Mebby—­yes,” replied the old pathfinder slowly.  His face had softened, and for the second time Rod knew that he had touched the heartstrings of his red comrade.  They returned to the fire, and Wabi made room for them upon the log beside him.  In his hand he held a copy of the old birch-bark map.

“I’ve been thinking about this all day,” he said, spreading it out so that the others could see.  “Somehow I haven’t been able to get the idea out of my head that—­”

“What?” asked Rod.

“Oh, nothing,” hastily added Wabi, as if he regretted what he had said.  “It’s a mighty curious map, isn’t it?  I wonder if we’ll ever know its whole story.”