e pile, which the Indians had
thrown on the floor, putting spoiled skins to one side, and peltries of
the same kind in classified heaps.

"Lynx, buffalo, musk-ox, marten, beaver, silver fox, black bear,
raccoon! Want them all, Eric?" I would ask, while the Indians eyed me
with suspicious resentment.

"Certainly, certainly, take everything," Eric would answer, without
knowing a word of what I had said, and at once throwing away his
opportunity to drive a good bargain.

Picking over the goods of Hamilton's packet, the Mandanes would choose
what they wanted. Then began a strange, silent haggling over prices.
Unlike Oriental races, the Indian maintains stolid silence, compelling
the white man to do the talking.

"Eric, Running Deer wants a gun," I would begin.

"For goodness' sake, give it to him, and don't bother me," Eric would
urge, and the faintest gleam of amused triumph would shoot from the
beady eyes of Running Deer. Running Deer's peltries would be spread out,
and after a half hour of silent consideration on his part and trader's
talk on mine, furs to the value of so many beaver skins would be passed
across for the coveted gun. I remember it was a wretched old squaw with
a toothless, leathery, much-bewrinkled face and a reputation for
knowledge of Indian medicines, who first opened my eyes to the sort of
trade the Indians had been driving with Hamilton. The old creature was
bent almost double over her stout oak staff and came hobbling in with a
bag of roots, which she flung on the floor. After thawing out her frozen
moccasins before the lodge fire and taking off bandages of skins about
her ankles, she turned to us for trade. We were ready to make
concessions that might induce the old body to hurry away; but she
demanded red flannel, tea and tobacco enough to supply a whole family of
grandchildren, and sat down on the bag of roots prepared to out-siege
us.

"What's this, Eric?" I asked, knowing no more of roots than the old
woman did of values.

"Seneca for drugs. For goodness' sake, buy it quick and don't haggle."

"But she wants your whole kit, man," I objected.

"She'll have the whole kit and the shanty, too, if you don't get her
out," said Hamilton, opening the lodge door; and the old squaw presently
limped off with an armful of flannel, one tea packet and a parcel of
tobacco, already torn open. Such was the character of Hamilton's
bartering up to the time I elected myself his first lieutenant; but as