the Indian and addressed him in jargon. "_Kumtux
Boston man nem James Dean?_"

The Indian fidgeted uneasily, and glanced nervously, first toward one
window and then the other. "_S'pose memaloose_," he answered shortly,
and putting on his cap, abruptly left the room.

"Well, what do you think of that?" exclaimed McKeever. "Says he thinks
he's dead, and then up an' beat it. The case might stand a little
investigatin' yet. Looks to me like that Injun knew a whole lot more
than he told."

McTavish shook his head. "No, Dan, I don't think ye're right. Leastways,
not altogether. I've known this band of Indians for years. They're all
right. And Pierre Bonnet Rouge is the best one of the lot. His actions
were peculiar, but they were actions of fear, not of guilt or of a man
trying to cover up guilty knowledge. He believes Dean is dead--and for
some reason, he fears his ghost."

"The factor is right," agreed Connie. "There's some kind of a
_tamahnawus_ that he's afraid of--and somehow he believes it's connected
with Dean."

McKeever nodded. "That's about the size of it. And when you run up
against their superstitions, you might as well save your time as far as
any investigatin' goes. I'd like to know what's on his mind, though."

"Maybe I'll run on to the end of his trail," said Connie. "It's a pretty
cold trail by this time--but I might."

"Maybe you will, son," assented McKeever. "An' if you do, be sure to let
me know. I'd kind of like to clean up the record."

Good-byes were said the following morning, and Connie and 'Merican Joe,
their sleds piled high with caribou meat, pulled out for their little
cabin where for the next three days they were busy freshening up their
trap line, and resetting rabbit and lynx snares.

"Dat 'bout tam we start in to trap de fox, now," observed 'Merican Joe,
as he and Connie finished skinning out the last of the martens that had
been taken from the traps. "Dat de bes' kin' trappin'. De leetle fox she
de smartes' of all de people, an' w'en you set de fox trap you never kin
tell w'at you goin' git."

"Never can tell what you're going to get?" asked Connie. "Why, you're
going to get a fox, if you're lucky, ain't you?"

"Yes--but de fox, she so many kin'. An' every kin' some differ'. De bes'
fox of all, he is de black wan, den com' de black silver, an' de silver
grey. Dem all fine fox, an' git de big price for de skin. Den com' de
cross fox. Lots of kin' of cross fox. Firs' com' de black