Deerfoot had decided that no harm could come from telling this man the truth about himself and his companions, and he now did so. The Indian belonged to the Blackfoot tribe, and had been on a visit a long way to the east. Deerfoot had agreed to accompany him on his return home, but hoped to be with his own friends again the following year. Then he told of the twin boys, sons of a friend of his. One was going into a decline because of grief over the loss of his parent, and it was agreed that the only cure was through diverting his thoughts and energies by this long and hard journey. That no mistake had been made was proved long before, for the lad had gained so rapidly in strength and spirits that he was his former self again and physically the equal of his brother in every respect. Jack Halloway listened with close interest, for the story was remarkable. He sagely remarked, however, that if the boys had been so greatly benefited the wisest thing to do was for the three to turn back and allow the Blackfoot to finish his journey alone. “I jedge from what I’ve heerd that you’re a powerful cute Injin and know that, though you’re a good many miles from St. Louis, you ain’t half way to the Pacific yit. I’ve never been there myself, but I know ’nough of the mountains and Injins to know that the job is the biggest thing in all creation. Depend upon it, Shawanoe, _you’ll never get home onless you turn back now_!” This was said with great earnestness, the trapper nodding his head and slapping his knee with his palm. “The words of my brother are wise, but it would sadden the hearts of my brothers if we went home, and he who was ill would become ill again and die.” “See here, younker, own up now; it’s _you_ who’d feel the worst.” And to help make his meaning clear, Jack Halloway leaned over and thrust his thumb into the ribs of Deerfoot and chuckled. The Shawanoe could not help smiling. “Deerfoot can never be happy till he looks upon the face of the great water that lies far toward the setting sun. He must go on.” “Wal, you’re boss of the job, as I can see from what you say, but I want to tell you one thing that you don’t know.” “There are many things that Deerfoot doesn’t know.” The trapper glanced around, as if afraid of being overheard, and then lowered his voice almost to a whisper as he leaned toward him: “The varmints in the mountains that you’ve got to git through are gettin’ more cantankerous than ever. I’ve trapped and hunted among ’em for nigh onto twenty year, and never had as much trouble as last winter. I’ve been told by the boys that come down the Missouri in the spring that there’s just as good huntin’ and trappin’ up that way, and the varmints don’t bother ’em half as much as out here; so I’ve made up my mind to strike out for that part of the world next fall when I go for the beaver runs agin.”