got ready to clear out, an’ at first I felt just like he did an’ said I’d go too, an’ we’d j’ine the Injuns.  Anyhow, I’d sure go if ever I was licked again, an’ this was the outfit we got together.  Bud wanted to steal Da’s gun an’ I wouldn’t.  I tell you I was hoppin’ mad that time, an’ Bud was wuss—­but I cooled off an’ talked to Bud.  I says, ’Say now, Bud, it would take about a month of travel to get out West, an’ if the Injuns didn’t want nothin’ but our scalps that wouldn’t be no fun, an’ Da ain’t really so bad, coz we sho’ly did starve them pigs so one of ‘em died.’  I reckon we deserved all we got—­anyhow, it was all dumb foolishness about skinnin’ out, though I’d like mighty well to be a hunter.  Well, Bud died that winter.  You seen the biggest coffin plate on the wall?  Well, that’s him.  I see Ma lookin’ at it an’ cryin’ the other day.  Da says he’ll send me to college if I’ll be a dentist or a lawyer—­lawyers make lots of money:  Da had a lawsuit once—­an’ if I don’t, he says I kin go to—­you know.”

Here was Yan’s own kind of mind, and he opened his heart.  He told all about his shanty in the woods and how he had laboured at and loved it.  He was full of enthusiasm as of old, boiling over with purpose and energy, and Sam, he realized, had at least two things that he had not—­ability with tools and cool judgment.  It was like having the best parts of his brother Rad put into a real human being.  And remembering the joy of his Glen, Yan said: 

“Let’s build a shanty in the woods by the creek; your father won’t care, will he?”

“Not he, so long as the work’s done.”

III

The Wigwam

The very next day they must begin.  As soon as every chore was done they went to the woods to select a spot.

The brook, or “creek,” as they called it, ran through a meadow, then through a fence into the woods.  This was at first open and grassy, but farther down the creek it was joined by a dense cedar swamp.  Through this there was no path, but Sam said that there was a nice high place beyond.  The high ground seemed a long way off in the woods, though only a hundred yards through the swamp, but it was the very place for a camp—­high, dry and open hard woods, with the creek in front and the cedar swamp all around.  Yan was delighted.  Sam caught no little of the enthusiasm, and having brought an axe, was ready to begin the shanty.  But Yan had been thinking hard all morning, and now he said:  “Sam, we don’t want to be White hunters.  They’re no good; we want to be Indians.”

“Now, that’s just where you fool yourself,” said Sam.  “Da says there ain’t nothin’ an Injun can do that a White-man can’t do better.”

“Oh, what are you talking about?” said Yan warmly.  “A White hunter can’t trail a moccasined foot across a hard granite rock.  A White hunter can’t go into the woods with nothing but a knife and make everything he needs.  A White hunter can’t hunt with bows and arrows, and catch game with snares, can he?  And there never yet was a White man could make a Birch canoe.”  Then, changing his tone, Yan went on:  “Say, now, Sam, we want to be the best kind of hunters, don’t we, so as to be ready for going out West.  Let’s be Injuns and do everything like Injuns.”