-' Why, it's Ojibway, not Cree," he exclaimed. "They're just leaving
a record. 'Good journey from Moose Factory. Big game has been seen.'
Funny how plumb curious an Injun is. They ain't one could come along here
and see th' signs of this camp and rest easy 'till he'd figgered out how
many they were, and where they were going, and what they were doing, and
all about it. These records are a kind-hearted try to save other Injuns
that come along a whole lot of trouble. That's why old Haukemah wrote it
in Ojibway 'stead of Cree: this is by rights Ojibway country."

"We'd better pike out, if we don't want to get back with th' squaws,"
suggested Dick.

About two hours before noon, while the men's squadron was paddling
slowly along a flat bank overgrown with grass and bushes, Dick and Sam
perceived a sudden excitement in the leading canoes. Haukemah stopped,
then cautiously backed until well behind the screen of the point. The
other canoes followed his example. In a moment they were all headed down
stream, creeping along noiselessly without lifting their paddles from
the water.

"They've seen some game beyant the point," whispered Dick. "Wonder what
it is?"

But instead of pausing when out of earshot for the purpose of uncasing
the guns or landing a stalking party, the Indians crept, gradually from
the shore, caught the current, and shot away down stream in the
direction from which they had come.

"It's a bear," said Sam, quietly. "They've gone to get their war-paint
on."

The men rested the bow of their canoe lightly against the shore, and
waited. In a short time the Indian canoes reappeared.

"Say, they've surely got th' dry goods!" commented Dick, amused.

In the short interval that had elapsed, the Indians had intercepted
their women, unpacked their baggage, and arrayed themselves in their
finest dress of ceremony. Buckskin elaborately embroidered with beads
and silks in the flower pattern, ornaments of brass and silver, sacred
skins of the beaver, broad dashes of ochre and vermilion on the naked
skin, twisted streamers of coloured wool--all added to the barbaric
gorgeousness of the old-time savage in his native state. Each bowsman
carried a long brass-bound forty-five "trade-gun," warranted to kill up
to ten yards.

"It's surely a nifty outfit!" commented Sam, half admiringly.

A half dozen of the younger men were landed. At once they disappeared in
the underbrush. Although the two white men strained their keen