Frank's curiosity was now greater than ever. He made up his
mind that there was something singular about this party of Crees who
seemed to be wandering in the wilderness without guns, or any means for
obtaining food, and, if possible, he meant to discover what the secret
could be.
The old Indian approached, looking suspiciously at him. Frank put out
his hand at once in a cordial manner.
"How!" he said, smiling in his engaging manner.
The other at once fell under the charm of Frank's smile.
"White boy much hurt?" he asked, looking at the dirt and blood on
Frank's left hand, where he had cut himself slightly.
"No. I had a bad fall, and feel weak. Little Mink found me lying there,
and let me come with him to your camp. I have friends above, a hunting
party under the charge of Mr. Mabie, the stockman."
He saw the old fellow move uneasily at mention of the name.
"Shoot elk?" asked the other, nodding.
"Yes, sometimes, with gun," and Frank purposely held up his repeating
rifle.
He saw the black eyes glitter enviously at sight of it, which made his
curiosity only the stronger.
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