The wigwam was pitched upon the shores of Petitsikapau Lake, where there was a thick growth of willows upon the tender tops of which hundreds of ptarmigans—­the snow-white grouse of the arctic—­were feeding; and rabbits had the snow tramped flat amongst the underbrush, offering an abundance of fresh food to the hunters, a welcome change from the unvaried fare of dried venison.

Bob drew from the elaborate preparations that were made that they were to stop here for a considerable time.  Snow was banked high against the skin covering of the wigwam to keep out the wind more effectually, an unusually thick bed of spruce boughs was spread within, and a good supply of wood was cut and neatly piled outside.

The women did all the heavy work and drudgery about camp, and it troubled Bob not a little to see them working while the men were idle.  Several times he attempted to help them, but his efforts were met with such a storm of protestations and disapproval, not only from the men, but the women also, that he finally refrained.

“‘Tis strange now th’ women isn’t wantin’ t’ be helped,” Bob remarked to himself.  “Mother’s always likin’ t’ have me help she.”

It was quite evident that the men considered this camp work beneath their dignity as hunters, and neither did they wish Bob, to whom they had apparently taken a great fancy, to do the work of a squaw.  They had, to all appearances, accepted him as one of the family and treated him in all respects as such, and, he noted this with growing apprehension, as though he were always to remain with them.

They began now to initiate him into the mysteries of their trapping methods, which were quite different from those with which he was accustomed.  Instead of the steel trap they used the deadfall—­wa-nee-gan—­and the snare—­nug-wah-gun—­and Bob won the quick commendation and plainly shown admiration of the Indians by the facility with which he learned to make and use them, and his prompt success in capturing his fair share of martens, which were fairly numerous in the woods back of the lake.

But when he took his gun and shot some ptarmigans one day, they gave him to understand that this was a wasteful use of ammunition, and showed him how they killed the birds with bow and arrow.  To shoot the arrows straight, however, was an art that he could not acquire readily, and his efforts afforded Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn much amusement.

“The’s no shootin’ straight wi’ them things,” Bob declared to himself, after several unsuccessful attempts to hit a ptarmigan.  “Leastways I’m not knowin’ how.  But th’ Injuns is shootin’ un fine, an’ I’m wonderin’ now how they does un.”

With no one that could understand him Bob had unconsciously dropped into the habit of talking a great deal to himself.  It was not very satisfactory, however, and there were always questions arising that he wished to ask.  He had, therefore, devoted himself since his advent amongst the Indians to learning their language, and every day he acquired new words and phrases.  Manikawan would pronounce the names of objects for him and have him repeat them after her until he could speak them correctly, laughing merrily at his blunders.