She was dressed entirely in skins, but such skins and such magnificently beautiful fur-work Smoke had never dreamed of.  Her parka, the hood thrown back, was of some strange fur of palest silver.  The mukluks, with walrus-hide soles, were composed of the silver-padded feet of many lynxes.  The long-gauntleted mittens, the tassels at the knees, all the varied furs of the costume, were pale silver that shimmered in the frosty light; and out of this shimmering silver, poised on slender, delicate neck, lifted her head, the rosy face blonde as the eyes were blue, the ears like two pink shells, the light chestnut hair touched with frost-dust and coruscating frost-glints.

All this and more, as in a dream, Smoke saw; then, recollecting himself, his hand fumbled for his cap.  At the same moment the wonder-stare in the girl’s eyes passed into a smile, and, with movements quick and vital, she slipped a mitten and extended her hand.

“How do you do,” she murmured gravely, with a queer, delightful accent, her voice, silvery as the furs she wore, coming with a shock to Smoke’s ears, attuned as they were to the harsh voices of the camp squaws.

Smoke could only mumble phrases that were awkwardly reminiscent of his best society manner.

“I am glad to see you,” she went on slowly and gropingly, her face a ripple of smiles.  “My English you will please excuse.  It is not good.  I am English like you,” she gravely assured him.  “My father he is Scotch.  My mother she is dead.  She is French, and English, and a little Indian, too.  Her father was a great man in the Hudson Bay Company.  Brrr!  It is cold.”  She slipped on her mitten and rubbed her ears, the pink of which had already turned to white.  “Let us go to the fire and talk.  My name is Labiskwee.  What is your name?”

And so Smoke came to know Labiskwee, the daughter of Snass, whom Snass called Margaret.

“Snass is not my father’s name,” she informed Smoke.  “Snass is only an Indian name.”

Much Smoke learned that day, and in the days that followed, as the hunting-camp moved on in the trail of the caribou.  These were real wild Indians—­the ones Anton had encountered and escaped from long years before.  This was nearly the western limit of their territory, and in the summer they ranged north to the tundra shores of the Arctic, and eastward as far as the Luskwa.  What river the Luskwa was Smoke could not make out, nor could Labiskwee tell him, nor could McCan.  On occasion Snass, with parties of strong hunters, pushed east across the Rockies, on past the lakes and the Mackenzie and into the Barrens.  It was on the last traverse in that direction that the silk tent occupied by Labiskwee had been found.

“It belonged to the Millicent-Adbury expedition,” Snass told Smoke.

“Oh!  I remember.  They went after musk-oxen.  The rescue expedition never found a trace of them.”

“I found them,” Snass said.  “But both were dead.”