"Bad! bad!" muttered the Indian, though he did not explain what he
meant; but Frank believed he must be thinking of the theft of the elk
some days previous.
"You no guns here?" he asked, and the old Indian shook his head sadly,
though a look of sudden anger also flitted across his strong face.
"Nothing, only hatchet and one knife. Take all else away when send us
out from village. No care if squaw and pappoose die from hunger. Bad!
bad! But some day p'raps Running Elk go back and make change. Wait!
wait! No sleep on trail!"
Already was Frank beginning to see behind the mystery. For some cause
this old brave and his immediate family had been chased out of the Cree
village, many miles to the northwest. Deprived of weapons, they had been
started on the river in the bullboats, to meet what fate had in store
for them.
No wonder, then, that coming unexpectedly on the dead elk Bluff had
shot, they had stolen it, for hunger stalked in their miserable camp,
and the pappooses cried for the food the braves could not supply.
The only thing that still puzzled Frank was why they had not appealed to
some of the whites.
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