The ride to the Hills of the Mighty Men, so swift they go!
Where buffalo feed in the wilding glen in sun and snow."

"Pierre," said Trafford, sharply, "I want an answer to my question."

"'Mais, pardon,' I was thinking . . . well, we can ride until the deep
snows come, then we can walk; and Shangi, he can get the dogs, maybe, one
team of dogs."

"But," was the reply, "one team of dogs will not be enough. We'll bring
meat and hides, you know, as well as pemmican. We won't cache any
carcases up there. What would be the use? We shall have to be back in
the Pipi Valley by the spring-time."

"Well," said the half-breed with a cold decision, "one team of dogs will
be enough; and we will not cache, and we shall be back in the Pipi Valley
before the spring, perhaps." But this last word was spoken under his
breath.

And now the Indian spoke, with his deep voice and dignified manner:
"Brothers, it is as I have said, the trail is lonely and the woods are
deep and dark. Since the time when the world was young, no white man
hath been there save one, and behold sickness fell on him; the grave is
his end. It is a pleasant land, for the gods have blessed it to the
Indian forever. No heathen shall possess it. But you shall see the
White Valley and the buffalo. Shangi will lead, because you have been
merciful to him, and have given him to sleep in your wigwam, and to eat
of your wild meat. There are dogs in the forest. I have spoken."

Trafford was impressed, and annoyed too. He thought too much sentiment