we'll be able to go with the horses. The year is late; but there's dogs
beyand, I suppose, and bedad, there y' are!"

The Indian spoke slowly: "It is far off. There is no colour yet in the
leaf of the larch. The river-hen still swims northward. It is good that
we go. There is much buffalo in the White Valley."

Again Trafford looked towards his follower, and again the half-breed, as
if he were making an effort to remember, sang abstractedly:

"They follow, they follow a lonely trail, by day, by night,
By distant sun, and by fire-fly pale, and northern light.
The ride to the Hills of the Mighty Men, so swift they go!
Where buffalo feed in the wilding glen in sun and snow."

"Pierre," said Trafford, sharply, "I want an answer to my question."

"'Mais, pardon,' I was thinking... well, we can ride until the deep
snows come, then we can walk; and Shangi, he can get the dogs, maybe,
one team of dogs."

"But," was the reply, "one team of dogs will not be enough. We'll
bring meat and hides, you know, as well as pemmican. We won't cache any
carcases up there. What would be the use? We shall have to be back in
the Pipi Valley by the spring-time."

"Well," said the half-breed with a cold decision, "one team of dogs
will be enough; and we will not cache, and we shall be back in the Pipi
Valley before the spring, perhaps." But this last word was spoken under
his breath.

And now the Indian spoke, with his deep voice and dignified manner:
"Brothers, it is as I have said, the trail is lonely and the woods are
deep and dark. Since the time when the world was young, no white man
hath been there save one, and behold sickness fell on him; the grave
is his end. It is a pleasant land, for the gods have blessed it to the
Indian forever. No heathen shall possess it. But you shall see the White
Valley and the buffalo. Shangi will lead, because you have been merciful
to him, and have given him to sleep in your wigwam, and to eat of your
wild meat. There are dogs in the forest. I have spoken."

Trafford was impressed, and annoyed too. He thought too much sentiment
was being squandered on a very practical and sportive thing. He disliked
functions; speech-making was to him a matter for prayer and fasting. The
Indian's address was therefore more or less gratuitous, and he hastened
to remark: "Thank you, Shangi; that's very good, and you've put it
poetically. You've turned a shooting-excursion into a mediaeval romance.
But we'll