“Where did all these things come from?” he asked.

“Sconda fix ’em all sam’ beeg house.  Savvey?”

“And are these clothes for me?”

“Ah, ah.  Missie Glen send ’em.”

Reynolds asked no more questions just then.  He was more than satisfied at the kindness he was receiving.  He believed it was due to Glen, and that she had instructed the Indians to do all in their power for his comfort.  This filled his heart with gladness, for it told him that the girl was interested in his welfare, and that she looked upon him with kindly eyes.  He was beginning to understand, too, something of Jim Weston’s influence among the Indians.  He had taught them the value of cleanliness, at any rate, and if all the natives in the place were like Klota and her husband, it must be an ideal settlement.

An hour later Reynolds came forth looking like a new man, and greatly refreshed after his bath.  Klota’s eyes beamed their approval as he stood before her.

“Do I look better now?” he asked.

“Good,” was the reply.  “All sam’ white man.  No Injun now.”

Reynolds laughed as he went out of the house.  The woman amused him, although he was most grateful for her kindness.  It was a beautiful morning, and not a ripple ruffled the surface of the lake.  The village was astir with life, the voices of children and the barking of dogs resounding on every side.  No one interfered with him as he walked slowly along the street, but he could easily tell that he was being watched by many curious eyes.  He had the feeling, too, that he was a prisoner, and while he could roam about at will, to escape would be impossible.  The strong burly Indians he saw seemed to have nothing to do, but he knew that this was their idle season, and that during the winter they would be off to their hunting-grounds.

Reynolds was much interested in the store which he presently reached.  A couple of Indians were in charge, who nodded to him as he entered, but apparently paid no further attention to him after their formal salutation.  The building was well filled with all kinds of goods, and resembled a large up-to-date store in some large country town such as he had often seen.  The sight of pipes and tobacco made him realise that he had not smoked for days, and having his money with him, he soon made his purchase.  He stayed for a while at the store, smoking, and watching the customers as they came and went.  It was all of considerable interest to him, and he beheld in this trading-place another tangible evidence of Jim Weston’s influence.

He spent the rest of the morning wandering about the village, and it was noon by the time he returned to the house, which for the present he called home.  Here he found Sconda near the back door carefully examining a large bearskin.  He turned as the young man approached, and without the least sign of surprise, motioned to the skin.

“See um?” he asked.  “Beeg skin, eh?”