alf a dozen transverse chains
blocked the way.

"At this time of the year I could give you three days' start," Snass
told Smoke that evening. "You can't hide your trail, you see. Anton got
away when the snow was gone. My young men can travel as fast as the best
white man; and, besides, you would be breaking trail for them. And when
the snow is off the ground, I'll see to it that you don't get the chance
Anton had. It's a good life. And soon the world fades. I have never
quite got over the surprise of finding how easy it is to get along
without the world."

"What's eatin' me is Danny McCan," Shorty confided to Smoke. "He's a
weak brother on any trail. But he swears he knows the way out to the
westward, an' so we got to put up with him, Smoke, or you sure get
yours."

"We're all in the same boat," Smoke answered.

"Not on your life. It's a-comin' to you straight down the pike."

"What is?"

"You ain't heard the news?"

Smoke shook his head.

"The bachelors told me. They just got the word. To-night it comes off,
though it's months ahead of the calendar."

Smoke shrugged his shoulders.

"Ain't interested in hearin'?" Shorty teased.

"I'm waiting to hear."

"Well, Danny's wife just told the bachelors," Shorty paused
impressively. "An' the bachelors told me, of course, that the maidens'
fires is due to be lighted to-night. That's all. Now how do you like
it?"

"I don't get your drift, Shorty."

"Don't, eh? Why, it's plain open and shut. They's a skirt after you, an'
that skirt is goin' to light a fire, an' that skirt's name is Labiskwee.
Oh, I've been watchin' her watch you when you ain't lookin'. She ain't
never lighted her fire. Said she wouldn't marry a Indian. An' now, when
she lights her fire, it's a cinch it's my poor old friend Smoke."

"It sounds like a syllogism," Smoke said, with a sinking heart reviewing
Labiskwee's actions of the past several days.

"Cinch is shorter to pronounce," Shorty returned. "An' that's always
the way--just as we're workin' up our get-away, along comes a skirt
to complicate everything. We ain't got no luck. Hey! Listen to that,
Smoke!"

Three ancient squaws had halted midway between the bachelors' camp and
the camp of McCan, and the oldest was declaiming in shrill falsetto.

Smoke recognized the names, but not all the words, and Shorty translated
with melancholy glee.

"Labiskwee, the daughter of Snass, the Rainmaker, the Great Chief,
lights her first maiden's fir