That put another face on the matter. Deerfoot told the boys to go to work and bring all the wood they needed. He sympathized with them, but he would not yield on a question of principle. It need not be said that the brothers did not let the grass grow under their feet. It was almost cold enough for ice, but, more than all, they needed the fire for cooking the salmon that had been taken from the stream. The visitors became very friendly. They were armed with bows and arrows, and showed a willingness to help in gathering fuel, but their offer was declined, and the steel and tinder—another source of astonishment to them—soon set a vigorous blaze going, and the broiling fish sent out a fragrant and appetizing odor. There was an abundance for all, and the visitors accepted the invitation to join in the meal. They ate sparingly, as if afraid of depriving their hosts of what they needed, and when through, each produced a long-stemmed pipe, filled it with tobacco, and smoked with apparent enjoyment. The strangers remained for an hour after the meal. Then, having smoked all that was in the bowls, they gravely shook out the ashes, carefully stowed the pipes under their blankets, and rose to go. The leader beckoned to Mul-tal-la to accompany him for a few paces, so as to be beyond hearing of his friends. The Blackfoot complied, and the conversation between the two may be thus liberally interpreted: “A bad Indian lives down the river,” said the visitor. Mul-tal-la agreed to the statement by a nod of his head. “He catches a great many salmon.” “I observe that he isn’t the only Indian who does that.” “I do not like him.” “I am sure my friend has good reason not to like him. He must be _very_ bad.” “I owe him much ill-will. He will be mad when he comes to build him a home to use while he gathers salmon.” “Why will he be mad?” “Because the lumber you have used belonged to him, and he is gone so far away that you and your friends cannot pay him for the wood; therefore he will be mad when he comes here again.” “I should think he would boil over. Who can blame him?” Having delivered himself of this interesting information, the visitor signed to his companions, and the three strode off and were seen no more. The humor of the thing struck Mul-tal-la, and he grinned while telling his story to Deerfoot and the boys. The Shawanoe was displeased, but had sufficient philosophy to see that there was no help for it. The wood had been burned, the food prepared and eaten, and though they might refrain from consuming more fuel—as they did—the mischief could not be undone. “I’m trying my best to feel bad over it,” chuckled Victor to his brother; “but somehow or other I can’t.” “That’s because you don’t feel as conscientious as Deerfoot.” “How is it with _you_?” “I feel exactly like you; so let’s say no more about it.”