At Little Slave Lake he picked up Jim Cromwell, a free-trader, who engaged to guide the mining man into the wonderland he had described.

The story of Ramsey and his rambles appealed to Cromwell, who talked tirelessly, and to the engineer, who listened long; and in time the habitants of Cromwell’s domains, which covered a country some seven hundred miles square, all knew the story and all joined in the search.

Beyond the pass of the Peace an old Cree caught up with them and made signs, for he was deaf and dumb.  But strange as it may seem, somehow, somewhere, he had heard the story of the lost miner and knew that this strange white man was the miner’s friend.

Long he sat by the camp fire, when the camp was asleep, trying, by counting on his fingers and with sticks, to make Cromwell understand what was on his mind.

When day dawned, he plucked Cromwells’ sleeve, then walked away fifteen or twenty steps, stopped, unrolled his blankets, and lay down, closing his eyes as if asleep.  Presently he got up, rubbed his eyes, lighted his pipe, smoked for awhile, then knocked the fire out on a stone.  Then he got up, stamped the fire out as though it had been a camp fire, rolled up his blankets, and travelled on down the slope some twenty feet and repeated the performance.  On the next march he made but ten feet.  He stopped, put his pack down, seated himself on the trunk of a fallen tree and, with his back to Cromwell, began gesticulating, as if talking to some one, nodding and shaking his head.  Then he got a pick and began digging.

At the end of an hour Cromwell and the engineer had agreed that these stations were day’s marches and the rests camping places.  In short, it was two and a half “sleeps” to what he wanted to show them,—­a prospect, a gold mine maybe,—­and so Cromwell and the English-American detached themselves and set out at the heels of the mute Cree in search of something.

On the morning of the third day the old Indian could scarcely control himself, so eager was he to be off.

All through the morning the white men followed him in silence.  Noon came, and still the Indian pushed on.

At two in the afternoon, rounding the shoulder of a bit of highland overlooking a beautiful valley, they came suddenly upon a half-breed boy playing with a wild goose that had been tamed.

Down in the valley a cabin stood, and over the valley a small drove of cattle were grazing.

Suddenly from behind the hogan came the weird wail of a Colorado canary, who would have been an ass in Absalom’s time.

They asked the half-breed boy his name, and he shook his head.  They asked for his father, and he frowned.

The mute old Indian took up a pick, and they followed him up the slope.  Presently he stopped at a stake upon which they could still read the faint pencil-marks:—­

        C.M. 
        M. Co. 
        L’T’D