trader did
not look up. When the two men had settled themselves comfortably in
their blankets the other at last put his pipe away.

"No," he said, as he too negotiated his blankets, "guess we want good
sound men in these hills, anyway. I reckon you've no call to get
visitin' the prairie, boys; you're the finest hunters I've ever known.
D'ye know the name your shack here goes by among the down-landers? They
call it the 'Westley Injun Reserve.'"

"White Injuns," said Nick, with a grin followed by a yawn.

"That's what," observed Victor, curling himself up in his blankets.
"I've frequent heard tell of the White Squaw, but White Injuns sounds
like as it wa'n't jest possible. Howsum, they call you real white buck
neches, an' I 'lows ther' ain't no redskin in the world to stan' beside
you on the trail o' a fur."

The two men laughed at their friend's rough tribute to their
attainments. Ralph was the quieter of the two, but his appreciation was
none the less. He was simple-hearted, but he knew his own worth when
dealing with furs. Nick laughed loudly. It tickled him to be considered
a White Indian at the calling which was his, for his whole pride was in
his work.

Nick was not without a romantic side to his nature. The life of the
mountains had imbued him with a half-savage superstition which revelled
in the uncanny lore of such places. This was not the first time he had
heard of a White Squaw, and, although he did not believe such a
phenomenon possible, it appealed seductively to his love of the
marvellous. Victor had turned over to sleep, but Nick was very wide
awake and interested. He could not let such an opportunity slip. Victor
was good at a yarn. And, besides, Victor knew more of the mountain-lore
than any one else. So he roused the Breed again.

"You was sayin' about a White Squaw, Victor," he said, in a shamefaced
manner. His bronzed cheeks were deeply flushed and he glanced over at
his brother to see if he were laughing at him. Ralph was lying full
length upon his blankets and his eyes were closed, so he went on. "Guess
_I've_ heerd tell of a White Squaw. Say, ain't it that they reckon
as she ain't jest a human crittur?"

Victor opened his eyes and rolled over on his back. If there was one
weakness he had it was the native half-breed love of romancing. He was
ever ready to yarn. He revelled in it when he had a good audience. Nick
was the very man for him, simple, honest, superstitious. So he sat up
and answe