Dick looked at her at first with amazement, then with mingled admiration and mischief.  He uttered a ferocious growl and lowered his shoulders as though about to charge.  Immediately the defiance broke.  The girl turned and fled, plunging like a rabbit into the first shelter that offered, pursued by shrieks of delight from the old squaws, a pleased roar from Dick, and the laughter of the Indian men themselves.

“May-may-gwan[2],” said the oldest Indian, naming her, “foster sister to the boy you had caught.”

[Footnote 2:  The Butterfly.]

“She is Ojibway, then,” exclaimed Dick, catching at the Ojibway word.

“Ae,” admitted the Cree, indifferently.  Such inclusions of another tribe, either by adoption or marriage, are not uncommon.

At this moment the third Indian approached.

“No moccasins,” he reported.  “Plenty buckskin.”

Sam Bolton looked troubled.  This meant a delay.  However, it could not be avoided.

“Let the old women make some,” he decided.

The Cree old-man shook his head.

“That cannot be.  There is not time.  We turn our canoes to the Missinaibie by next sun.”

Sam pondered again, turning over in his mind this fresh complication.  But Dick, kicking the earth clods in impatience, broke in.

“Well, we’re going by the Missinaibie, too.  Let the women make the moccasins.  We will accompany you.”

“That might be,” replied the Indian.

“It is well,” said Bolton.

An old woman was summoned.  She measured her customers’ feet with a buckskin thong.  Then they departed without further ceremony.  An Indian rarely says farewell.  When his business is finished he goes.

“Dick,” said Sam, “you ought not to have broke in there.”

“What do you mean?” asked the other, puzzled.

“Suggesting our travelling with them.”

“Why?” cried Dick in astonishment.  “Ain’t you never travelled with Injuns before?”

“That ain’t th’ question.  Did you notice that third Injun? the one who didn’t do any talking?”

“Sure!  What of him?”

“Well, he’s an Ojibway.  Th’ rest are Wood Crees.  And I miss my guess if he ain’t a bad customer.  He watched us mighty close, and his eyes are bad.  He’s sharp.  He’s one of that wondering kind.  He’s wondering now who we are, and where we’re going, and why we’re hitting so long a trail.  And what’s more, he belongs to this Jingoss’s people in a roundabout sort of way.  He’s worse than fifty Crees.  Maybe he knows all about Jingoss, and if he does, he’ll get suspicious the minute we angle down into that country.”

“Let’s let ’em slide, then,” suggested Dick, impatiently.  “Let’s buy some buckskin and make our own moccasins.”

“Too late now,” negatived Sam.  “To back out would be bad.”

“Oh, well, you’re just borrowing trouble anyway,” laughed Dick.

“Maybe, maybe,” acknowledged the other; “but borrowing trouble, and then figuring out how you’re going to meet it if it comes to you in good earnest, is mighty good woodcraft.”