ur--" Her throat trembled and her voice fluttered. But
even as she measured out their starvation her face was looking at him
joyously. And then she added, with the gladness of a child, "_Feesh_, for
you," and pointed to the simmering pot.

"For _ME_!" Roscoe looked at the pot, and then back at her.

"Oachi," he said gently, "go tell your father that I am ready to talk with
him. Ask him to come--now."

She looked at him for a moment as though she did not quite understand what
he had said, and he repeated the words. Even as he was speaking he
marvelled at the fairness of her skin, which shone with a pink flush, and
at the softness and beauty of her hair. What he saw impelled him to ask,
as she made to rise:

"Your father--your mother--is French. Is that so, Oachi?" The girl nodded
again, with the soft little Cree throat note that meant yes. Then she
slipped to her feet and ran out, and a little later there came into the
tepee the man who had first loomed up in the dusky light like a god of the
First People to Roscoe Cummins. His splendid face was a little more gaunt
than the night before, and Roscoe knew that famine came hand in hand with
him. He had seen starvation before, and he knew that it reddened the eyes
and gave the lips a grayish pallor. These things, and more, he saw in
Oachi's father. But Mukoki came in straight and erect, hiding his weakness
under the pride of his race. Fighting down his pain Roscoe rose at sight of
him and held out his hands.

"I want to thank you," he said, repeating the words he had spoken to Oachi.
"You have saved my life. But I have eyes, and I can see. You gave me of
your last fish. You have no meat. You have no flour. You are starving.
What? I have asked you to come and tell me, so that I may know how it
fares with your women and children. You will give me a council, and we will
smoke." Roscoe dropped back on his bunk. He drew forth his pipe and filled
it with tobacco. The Cree sat down mutely in the centre of the tepee. They
smoked, passing the pipe back and forth without speaking. Once Roscoe
loaded the pipe, and once the chief; and when the last puff of the last
pipeful was taken the Indian reached over his hand, and Roscoe gripped it
hard.

And then, while the storm still moaned far up over their heads, Roscoe
Cummins listened to the old, old story of the First People--the story of
starvation and of death. To him it was epic. It was terrible. But to the
other it was the mere c