women close wrapped in their shawls, dropping their heads modestly or turning them aside as their customs commanded them to do on encountering strangers.  Against the evening glow of the reflected sky for a single instant they stood out in the bright yellow of the new birch-bark, the glow of warm colour on the women’s dress.  Then instantaneously, in the darkness of the opposite bank, they faded wraith-like and tenuous.  Like phantoms of the past they glided by, a river’s width away; then vanished around the upper bend.  A moment later the river was empty.

“Th’ squaws goin’ ahead to start camp,” commented Sam Bolton, indifferently; “we’ll have th’ bucks along pretty quick.”

They drove their paddles strongly, and drifted to the middle of the river.

Soon became audible shouts, cries, and laughter, the click of canoe poles.  The business of the day was over.  Until nearly sundown the men’s canoes had led, silent, circumspect, seeking game at every bend of the river.  Now the squaws had gone on to make camp.  No more game was to be expected.  The band relaxed, joking, skylarking, glad to be relieved for a little while of the strain of attention.

In a moment the canoes appeared, a long, unbroken string, led by Haukemah.  In the bow sat the chief’s son, a lad of nine, wielding his little paddle skilfully, already intelligent to twist the prow sharply away from submerged rocks, learning to be a canoe-man so that in the time to come he might go on the Long Trail.

Each canoe contained, besides its two occupants, a variety of household goods, and a dog or two coiled and motionless, his sharp nose resting between his outstretched forepaws.  The tame crow occupied an ingenious cage of twisted osiers.

Haukemah greeted the two white men cordially, and stopped paddling to light his pipe.  One by one the other canoes joined them.  A faint haze of tobacco rose from the drifting group.

“My brothers have made a long sun,” observed old Haukemah.  “We, too, have hastened.  Now we have met, and it is well.  Down past the white rock it became the fortune of Two-fingers to slay a caribou that stood by the little water[3].  Also had we whitefish the evening before.  Past the Island of the Three Trees were signs of moose.”  He was telling them the news, as one who passed the time of day.

[Footnote 3:  A spring.]

“We have killed but neenee-sheeb, the duck,” replied Dick, holding up one of the victims by the neck, “nor have we seen the trail of game.”

“Ah hah,” replied Haukemah, politely.

He picked up his paddle.  It was the signal to start.

“Drop in astern,” said Dick to his companion in English, “it’s the light of the evening, and I’m going to troll for a pickerel.”

One by one the canoes fell into line.  Now, late in the day, the travel was most leisurely.  A single strong stroke of the paddle was always succeeded by a pause of contemplation.  Nevertheless the light craft skimmed on with almost extraordinary buoyancy, and in silent regularity the wooded points of the river succeeded one another.