practised on both sides of the equation. Trafford became impatient, and
at last the half-breed, conscious that he had tried the temper of his
chief so far as was safe, lifted his eyes, and, resting them casually on
the Indian, replied: "Yes, I know the place. . . . No, I have not
been there, but I was told-ah, it was long ago! There is a great valley
between hills, the Kimash Hills, the hills of the Mighty Men. The woods
are deep and dark; there is but one trail through them, and it is old.
On the highest hill is a vast mound. In that mound are the forefathers
of a nation that is gone. Yes, as you say, they are dead, and there is
none of them alive in the valley--which is called the White Valley--where
the buffalo are. The valley is green in summer, and the snow is not deep
in winter; the noses of the buffalo can find the tender grass. The Injin
speaks the truth, perhaps. But of the number of buffaloes, one must see.
The eye of the red man multiplies."

Trafford looked at Pierre closely. "You seem to know the place very
well. It is a long way north where--ah yes, you said you had never been
there; you were told. Who told you?"

The half-breed raised his eyebrows slightly as he replied: "I can
remember a long time, and my mother, she spoke much and sang many songs
at the campfires." Then he puffed his cigarette so that the smoke
clouded his face for a moment, and went on,--"I think there may be
buffaloes."

"It's along the barrel of me gun I wish I was lookin' at thim now," said
McGann.

"'Tiens,' you will go"? inquired Pierre of Trafford. "To have a shot at
the only herd of wild buffaloes on the continent! Of course I'll go.