ad not seen him, and he stepped
to the bank fearful lest they pass.

"Hey! You, Jack!" he called, waving his cap.

The bow-man ceased paddling and gazed shoreward in evident surprise;
the man on the bank was motioning them in with wide sweeps of the arm.
The half-breed called a few hasty words over his shoulder and the canoe
shot toward shore.

"Where y' goin'?" asked Creed, as the three stepped onto the bank.
Blood River Jack replied with an indefinite sweep of his arm to the
southward.

"Well, y' ain't in no hurry. Never seen a Injun yet cudn't stop long
'nough to take a drink o' licker. Har, har, har!"

He laughed foolishly, with an exaggerated wink toward the old Indian.

"How 'bout it, Wabishke; leetle fire-water make yer belt fit better?
'Tain't a goin' to cost y' nawthin'."

The Indian grinned and grunted acquiescence, and Creed inserted his arm
between two logs and withdrew a squat, black bottle.

"Here's some reg'lar ol' 'rig'nal red-eye. An' here's lookin' at ye,"
he said, as he removed the cork and sucked greedily at the contents.
"Jest tuk a taste fust, 'cause I don't like to give vis'tors whisky I
wudn't drink m'self, har, har, har! Anyways, the way I figger, it's
white men fust, then half white, then Injuns." He passed the bottle to
Jacques.

"'Fraid's little too strong fer ladies," he smirked, at Jeanne, and,
reaching out quickly, jerked the upturned bottle from Wabishke's lips.

"Hey, y' ol' pirate! Y' don't need fer to empty it all to wunst. Set
roun' a while, an' bimeby we'll have 'nother. 'S all on me to-day; this
here's my party."

They seated themselves on the ground and engaged in conversation, in
which Creed did most of the talking.

"Trade rifles?" asked Blood River Jack, idly picking up Creed's gun and
examining it minutely.

"Beats all how a Injun allus wants to be a tradin'," grinned Creed.
"Don't know but what I mought, though, at that. What's yourn?"

"Winchester, 30-40," replied Jacques, handing it over for inspection.

"Mine, too," said Creed; "only mine's newer. What'll y' give to boot?"
Jacques did not hurry his answer, being engaged in removing the
cartridges for the better inspection of magazine and chamber.

"Mine's better kep'," he opined after a careful squinting down the
muzzle.

"Kep' nawthin'! 'S all nicked up. An', besides, it pulls hard."

Jacques was deliberately refilling the magazine, but so intent was
Creed in picking out fancied defects in the other'