The latter rushed madly forward at the approaching strangers, yelping in a curious, long-drawn bay, more suggestive of their wolf ancestors than of the domestic animal.  Dick and Sam laid about them vigorously with short staffs they had brought for the purpose.  Immediately the dogs, recognising their dominance, slunk back.  Three men sauntered forward, grinning broadly in amiable greeting.  Two or three women, more bashful than the rest, scuttled into the depths of wigwams out of sight.  A multitude of children concealed themselves craftily, like a covey of quail, and focussed their bright, bead-like eyes on the new-comers.  The rest of the camp went its way unmoved.

“Bo’ jou’, bo’ jou’,” greeted Sam Bolton.

“Bo’ jou’, bo’ jou’,” replied the three.

These Indians were of the far upper country.  They spoke no English nor French, and adhered still to their own tribal customs and religious observances.  They had lingered several days beyond their time for the purpose of conjuring.  In fact at this very moment the big medicine lodge raised itself in the centre of the encampment like a miniature circus tent.  Sam Bolton addressed the two in their own language.

“We wish to buy many moccasins of your old women,” said Sam.

Immediately one of the Indians glided away.  From time to time during the next few minutes he was intermittently visible as he passed from the dark interior of one wigwam, across the sunlight, and into the dark interior of another.

The older of the two still in company of the white men began to ask questions.

“The Little Father is about to make a long journey?”

“Does one buy so many moccasins for a short?”

“He goes to hunt the fur?”

“Perhaps.”

“In what direction does he set the bow of his canoe?”

Suddenly Dick Herron, who had, as usual, been paying attention to almost anything rather than the matter in hand, darted suddenly toward a clump of grass.  In a moment he straightened his back to hold at arm’s length a struggling little boy.  At the instant of his seizure the child uttered a sharp cry of fright, then closed his lips in the stoicism of his race.

That one cry was enough, however.  Rescue darted from the nearest wigwam.  A flying figure covered the little distance in a dozen graceful leaps, snatched the child from the young man’s hands and stood, one foot advanced, breast heaving, a palpitating, wild thing, like a symbol of defiance.

The girl belonged distinctly to the more attractive type; it required but little imagination to endow her with real beauty.  Her figure was straight and slim and well-proportioned, her eyes large, her face oval and quite devoid of the broad, high-cheeked stupidity so common in the northern races.  At the moment she flashed like a brand with quick-breathed anger and fear.

[Illustration:  The child uttered a sharp cry of fright]