his hand a peculiarly shaped slate knife blade which he picked from the ashes at the edge of a fire. "On de black montaine," he explained, "de Moosehead, she git de stone for de knife."
"But—what are the Mooseheads doing way down here?"
"War ban'. Dem Moosehead, she kultus Injun. Some tam' she lak fight. Come down an' fight dem Brushwood, on Lansing Creek."
"The Brushwoods!" exclaimed Connie. "The Brushwoods won't fight!" Ick Far grinned:
"Da's w'y de Moosehead lak for fight um. De Brushwood run hide in de timbaire—in de rocks—on de montaine. Den de Moosehead she mak' de beeg yell. She shoot de gun. She bus' de cache. She steal de Brushwood feesh, an' de dog, an' all she kin car' 'way from de camp. She t'ink she heap skookum Injun. Den she gon' back home, she mak' de beeg fire on de black montaine, an' git de kloochmen all 'roun' an' mak' de beeg talk—heap fine fightin' mans—heap brave Injun—Skookum tumtum!" As the old Indian talked, Connie thought rapidly.
"How far is Lansing Creek?" he asked.
"'Bout forty—feefty mile."
