Already was Frank beginning to see behind the mystery. For some cause
this old brave and his immediate family had been chased out of the Cree
village, many miles to the northwest. Deprived of weapons, they had been
started on the river in the bullboats, to meet what fate had in store
for them.

No wonder, then, that coming unexpectedly on the dead elk Bluff had
shot, they had stolen it, for hunger stalked in their miserable camp,
and the pappooses cried for the food the braves could not supply.

The only thing that still puzzled Frank was why they had not appealed to
some of the whites. But there must be some good reason, he argued, for
this. Perhaps it was only the natural pride an Indian feels, and which
prevents him from admitting to the palefaces that he is helpless to
supply the wants of his people.

"Name Frank," he said, touching his breast "What call you?"

"Running Elk, chief among Crees. Long he lead them in the hunt and in
battle. But a serpent come among my people and poison all against
Running Elk. Now they think the half-breed Pierre La Motte best man to
follow. Him talk, talk, all time, and warriors dream. Some day they wake
up and know him for bad man. Then p'raps they ask Running Elk come back
again. Wait, see!"

That was the Indian idea of patience. Frank could understand it all now.
Plainly, a smart half-breed had managed to hypnotize the braves in the
Cree village, and influence them to turn against their own chief. When
he and his family resisted they were ignominiously exiled, and sent
forth to face the world without means for providing food for the squaws