The boys understood from this that Lopez was then in a Crow village four days’ journey from where they were; and also that he was much honored. They were discussing this fact in some excitement, when the young Crow, who could make nothing of the rapid English, said: “Spotted Snake is your friend?” Dave Johnson shook his head. Tall Thunder seemed to turn the denial over for a space; then he said: “Um! Spotted Snake keep away from white men. Only want to see one.” He nodded his head. “Him with Blackfeet. Much hate.” “He hates the white man who lives among the Blackfeet?” Tall Thunder nodded once more. “Much hate!” he repeated. Then as though to show the extent of the man’s hatred: “Want Crow to go on war-path. Against Blackfeet. Chiefs and old men hold council. Say no.” Later in the evening the boys spoke to Kit about this. He was interested. “Lopez has his enemy placed,” said he. “And maybe, through the news brought by Shunan, Williams knows something about the whereabouts of Lopez.” Then, after a moment, during which he stared into the fire: “It seems to me, boys, that your long hunt is going to come to something at last. Unless an accident happens Williams will get out of this region in the spring; Shunan will go with him. Watch Shunan; don’t let him make a move that we don’t see, and we can overreach them.” It was a hard winter on the horses; soft branches and bark, the inside layer of the cottonwood, was the only fodder the poor animals had for weeks; but the fresh green of the spring soon began to put them in condition when that anxiously looked for season arrived. While waiting for the horses to pick up some flesh, Fontenelle, the chief trapper, sent two men to Fort Laramie for some much needed supplies. The news came later that they had been ambushed and killed by Blackfeet. It was in no very soft mood that the trappers set out for their hunting grounds; but, though they did not know it, the time for the striking of a retaliatory blow was at hand. As they drew near to the source of the Missouri, they one evening camped on the fork of a small tributary. The setting sun was slanting across the stream, the camp-fires were lighted and the trappers were cooking their supper, standing guard or caring for the horses. Suddenly a shout came from one of the pickets, together with the sound of hoof-beats. In a few moments a couple of fur hunters came into camp with a horseman. In spite of the Indian trappings worn by both mustang and rider, both Dave Johnson and Joe Frazier recognized him at a glance. “Lopez!” they exclaimed in a breath; and then the trappers closed in around the half-breed. CHAPTER XIII THE VILLAGE OF THE BLACKFEET The throng of buckskin-clad trappers crowded about the half-breed Lopez; every eye was on him; all were curious to hear the nature of his errand.