to pick up my musket, which, secure in a friendly camp, I had dropped
at a careless arm's length from me on the ground. When I looked again
the Indian was gone. I went to the tree. The Indian had had but an
instant, but he had secured himself out of reach of my eyesight; had
faded into the background as a partridge screens itself behind mottled
leaves. If I followed him, a knife would be slipped out at me from
behind stump or tree trunk, and the dog might not have burial alone.

I went to the dog and stirred him with my sword point. He was a
noisome heap, but I knew that I must overcome my repugnance and bury
him, or I should have to explain the whole tale to the camp at dawn.
And explanation would take time and was not necessary. The Huron was
following me, and had no quarrel with the Pottawatamies. When I
departed on the morrow he would undoubtedly retie his sandals and
continue the voyage. A wife and a ghost! Two traveling guests I had
not reckoned with in planning this expedition. I shrugged, and stooped
to spit the dog upon my sword, when I saw a skin pouch lying
blood-bathed at the creature's side. It was a bag such as savages wear
around their necks, and the Indian had probably let it fall when he
stooped to kill the dog.

I seized it, careless of the smearing of my fingers, and took it to the
moonlight. It was made of the softest of dressed doeskin, and
embroidered in red porcupine quills with the figure of a beaver
squatting on a rounded lodge. I had seen that design before. It was
the totem sign of the house of the Baron, and this bag had hung from
Pemaou's neck that day when he danced between me and the sunset and
flung the war spear at my heart.

I felt myself grow keenly awake and alive. So it was Pemaou who was