away or burned, but, as yet, Ick Far had been unable to find any evidence of bloodshed.
"Dem all skeep oot. Brushwood, she skeep for Lansing. Mebbe-so we fin' dem white men. Tak' um' long. She be glad for git crack at dem Moosehead." And, in a short time, Ick's prophecy was fulfilled, for the canoe was greeted by a shout from a niche in the rocks of a narrow canyon, and two heads with bearded faces peered over the rim of a natural rock barrier. Ick Far shot the canoe shoreward and the men came out of their fortress—a short man, and a tall man.
"Come on!" cried Connie. "Bring your rifles and all the shells you've got, and we'll dig out after those Indians."
"Well, f'r th' love o' Pete!" exclaimed the short man. "It's a kid an' a Siwash! What d'ye mean, dig out after them Injuns? Great sufferin' cats! They's a milliun of 'em!"
"No, there aren't," contradicted Connie. "There are only fifty or sixty at the most—hurry up! I'm Special Constable Morgan, of the Mounted, and I'm going to round 'em up."
"What, you? The Mounted! Holy mackerel! I thought that unyform looked f'miliar, but, seein'
