"White boy much hurt?" he asked, looking at the dirt and blood on
Frank's left hand, where he had cut himself slightly.

"No. I had a bad fall, and feel weak. Little Mink found me lying there,
and let me come with him to your camp. I have friends above, a hunting
party under the charge of Mr. Mabie, the stockman."

He saw the old fellow move uneasily at mention of the name.

"Shoot elk?" asked the other, nodding.

"Yes, sometimes, with gun," and Frank purposely held up his repeating
rifle.

He saw the black eyes glitter enviously at sight of it, which made his
curiosity only the stronger.

"Bad! bad!" muttered the Indian, though he did not explain what he
meant; but Frank believed he must be thinking of the theft of the elk
some days previous.

"You no guns here?" he asked, and the old Indian shook his head sadly,
though a look of sudden anger also flitted across his strong face.

"Nothing, only hatchet and one knife. Take all else away when send us
out from village. No care if squaw and pappoose die from hunger. Bad!
bad! But some day p'raps Running Elk go back and make change. Wait!
wait! No sleep on trail!"