ion flashed over the Indian's eyes.
With the peculiar attention to detail distinctively the forest runner's
he indicated a route. Sam was satisfied to let the matter rest there for
the present.

The next evening he visited the Indian's camp. It was made under a
spreading tree, the tepee poles partly resting against some of the lower
branches. The squaw and her woman child kept to the shadows of the
wigwam, but the boy, a youth of perhaps fifteen years, joined the men by
the fire.

Sam accepted the hospitality of a pipe of tobacco, and attacked the
question in hand from a ground tacitly assumed since the evening before.

"If Hutsonbaycompany make winterpost on Animiki will you get your debt
there instead of Missinaibie?" he asked first of all.

Of course the Indian assented.

"How much fur do you get, good year?"

The Indian rapidly ran over a list.

"Lots of fur. Is it going to last? Do you keep district strict here?"
inquired Sam.

Under cover of this question Sam was feeling for important information.
As has perhaps been mentioned, in a normal Indian community each head of
a family is assigned certain hunting districts over which he has
exclusive hunting and trapping privileges. This naturally tends toward
preservation of the fur. An Indian knows not only where each beaver dam
is situated, but he knows also the number of beaver it contains and how
many can be taken without diminution of the supply. If, however, the
privileges are not strictly guarded, such moderation does not obtain.
When an Indian finds a dam, he cleans it out; because if he does not,
the next comer will. Sam's question then apparently had reference only
to the probability that the fur in a close district would be strictly
enough preserved to make the establishment of a winter post worth while.
In reality he wanted to measure the possibility of an outsider's gaining
a foothold. Logically in a section where the tribal rights were rigidly
held to, this would be impossible except through friendship or purchase;
while in a more loosely organized community a stranger might readily
insinuate himself.

"Good keeping of district," replied the Indian. "I keep head-waters of
Kabinikagam down to Sand River. When I find man trapping on my ground, I
shoot him. Fur last all right."

This sufficed for the moment. The next morning Sam went over early to
the other camp.

"To-day I think we go," he announced. "Now you tell me all the hunters,
where I fi