As Little Mink came into camp, assisting the white hunter, several squaws began an excited jabber that brought out a couple of bucks.

“A hungry-looking lot all around,” was the mental comment of the young hunter.

He had seen that Little Mink did not look as though he had enjoyed a bountiful share of food lately, and the rest of the party were certainly no better off.

One of the bucks was an old man, yet he seemed to have a certain dignity about him.  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.

“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.  But there must be some good reason, he argued, for this.  Perhaps it was only the natural pride an Indian feels, and which prevents him from admitting to the palefaces that he is helpless to supply the wants of his people.