"Good keeping of district," replied the Indian. "I keep head-waters of
Kabinikágam down to Sand River. When I find man trapping on my ground, I
shoot him. Fur last all right."

This sufficed for the moment. The next morning Sam went over early to
the other camp.

"To-day I think we go," he announced. "Now you tell me all the hunters,
where I find them, what are their districts, how much fur they kill."

"Ah hah!" assented the Indian. Sam's leisurely and indirect method had
convinced him. Easily given information on the other hand would have set
him to thinking; and to think, with an Indian, is usually to become
suspicious.

The two descended to the shore. There they squatted on their heels
before a little patch of wet sand while the Indian explained. He marked
roughly, but with almost the accuracy of a survey, the courses of
streams and hills, and told of the routes among them. Sam listened, his
gnarled mahogany hand across his mouth, his shrewd gray eyes bent
attentively on the cabalistic signs and scratches. An Indian will
remember, from once traversing it, not only the greater landmarks, but
the little incidents of bowlder, current, eddy, strip of woods, bend of
trail. It remains clear-cut in his mind forever after. The old woodsman
had in his long experience acquired something of this faculty. He
comprehended the details, and, what is more, stored them away in his
memory where he could turn to them readily. This was no small feat.

With an abrupt movement of the back of his hand the Indian smoothed the
sand. Squatting back more on his haunches, he refilled his pipe and