night _hiyu cultus_ man come. Bring dynamite--_hiyu
skookum_ powder. Put um in dam--in _chuck pence_. Set um off. _Mamook
poo!_--all same shoot. Bang! Whoosh! Up she go!" He waved his hand at
the wreck. "You _kumtuks_ that?"

Simon nodded, understanding.

"_Mamook_ bang," said he; "_mamook_ bust!"

"Right," Farwell agreed. "_Cultus_ man come at night. Dark. Black. No
see um." He made a footprint in the earth, pointed at it, and then to
Simon, and waved a hand at the horizon generally. "You find trail,
follow, catch um. Hey, can you do that, Simon? And I'll bet," he added
to Keeler, "the infernal old blockhead doesn't understand a word I've
said."

But Simon's reply indicated not only comprehension, but a tolerable
acquaintance with modern business methods. Said he:

"How moch you give?"

Keeler grinned. "I think he gets you," he commented.

"I guess he does," Farwell admitted. "How much you want?"

"Hundred dolla'!" Simon answered promptly.

"Like blazes!" snapped Farwell. "You blasted, copper-hided old Shylock,
I'll give you five!"

Simon held out his hand. The gesture was unmistakable.

"And they say an Indian doesn't know enough to vote!" said Farwell. He
laid a five-dollar bill in the smoky palm. "Now get busy and earn it."

Simon inspected the ground carefully. Finally he took a course straight
away from the dam.

"That's about where those fellows ran," said Farwell. "Maybe the old
rascal can trail, after all."

Simon came to a halt at a spot cut up by hoofs. He bent down, examining
the tracks carefully. Farwell, doing likewise, caught sight of a single
moccasin track plainly outlined. It lay, long and straight-footed, deep
in the soft soil; and where the big toe had pressed there was the mark
of a sewn-in patch.

"Here, look here!" he cried. "One of 'em was wearing moccasins, and
patched moccasins at that."

"Sure enough," said Keeler.

"Here, Simon, look at this," said the engineer. "You see um? One
_cultus_ man wear moccasin. Was he white man or Indian?"

Simon surveyed the track gravely, knelt, and examined it minutely.
"Mebbyso Injun," he said.

"Mebbyso white man," Farwell objected. "What makes you think it's an
Indian?"

"Oleman moccasin, him," Simon replied oracularly. "White man throw him
away; Injun keep him, mend him--_mamook tipshin klaska_."

"Something in that, too," Farwell agreed. "It's a straight foot--no
swing-in to the toe. Still, I don't know. I've seen white men like