We will go. Tell your
young men."

An expression of relief overspread Haukemah's face. Evidently the crisis
had been more grave than he had acknowledged. He thrust his hand inside
his loose capote and brought forth a small bundle.

"Moccasins," said he.

Sam looked them over. They were serviceable, strong deerskin, with high
tops of white linen cloth procured at the Factory, without decoration
save for a slender line of silk about the tongue. Something approaching
a smile flickered over old Haukemah's countenance as he fished out of
his side pocket another pair.

"For Eagle-eye," he said, handing them to Dick. The young man had gained
the sobriquet, not because of any remarkable clarity of vision, but from
the peculiar aquiline effect of his narrow gaze.

The body of the moccasins were made of buckskin as soft as silk, smoked
to a rich umber. The tops were of fawnskin, tanned to milky white. Where
the two parts joined, the edges had been allowed to fall half over the
foot in an exaggerated welt, lined brilliantly with scarlet silk. The
ornamentation was heavy and elaborate. Such moccasins often consume, in
the fashioning, the idle hours of months. The Indian girl carries them
with her everywhere, as her more civilised sister carries an embroidery
frame. On dress occasions in the Far North a man's standing with his
womenkind can be accurately gauged by the magnificence of his foot-gear.

"The gift of May-may-gwan," explained Haukemah.

"Well, I'll be damned!" said Dick, in English.

"Will my brother be paid in tea or in tobacco?" inquired Sam Bolton.

Haukemah arose.

"Let these remind you always that my heart is good," said he. "I may
tell my young men that you go?"

"Yes. We are grateful for these."

"Old fellow's a pretty decent sort," remarked Dick, after Haukemah had
stalked away.

"There couldn't anything have happened better for us!" cried Sam. "Here
I was wondering how we could get away. It wouldn't do to travel with
them much longer, and it wouldn't do to quit them without a good reason.
I'm mighty relieved to get shut of them. The best way over into the
Kabinakagam is by way of a little creek the Injuns call the
Mattawishguia, and that ought to be a few hours ahead of us now." He
might have added that all these annoyances, which he was so carefully
discounting, had sprung from Dick's thoughtlessness; but he was silent,
sure of the young man's value when the field of his usefulness should be
re