So idly intent was Thorpe on this piece of construction that he did not notice the approach of two men from the down-stream side. They were short, alert men, plodding along with the knee-bent persistency of the woods-walker, dressed in broad hats, flannel shirts, coarse trousers tucked in high laced “cruisers “; and carrying each a bulging meal sack looped by a cord across the shoulders and chest. Both were armed with long slender scaler's rules. The first intimation Thorpe received of the presence of these two men was the sound of their voices addressing Injin Charley. “Hullo Charley,” said one of them, “what you doing here? Ain't seen you since th' Sturgeon district.” “Mak' 'um canoe,” replied Charley rather obviously. “So I see. But what you expect to get in this Godforsaken country?” “Beaver, muskrat, mink, otter.” “Trapping, eh?” The man gazed keenly at Thorpe's recumbent figure. “Who's the other fellow?” Thorpe held his breath; then exhaled it in a long sigh of relief. “Him white man,” Injin Charley was replying, “him hunt too. He mak' 'um buckskin.” The landlooker arose lazily and sauntered toward the group. It was part of his plan to be well recognized so that in the future he might arouse no suspicions. “Howdy,” he drawled, “got any smokin'?” “How are you,” replied one of the scalers, eying him sharply, and tendering his pouch. Thorpe filled his pipe deliberately, and returned it with a heavy-lidded glance of thanks. To all appearances he was one of the lazy, shiftless white hunters of the backwoods. Seized with an inspiration, he said, “What sort of chances is they at your camp for a little flour? Me and Charley's about out. I'll bring you meat; or I'll make you boys moccasins. I got some good buckskin.” It was the usual proposition. “Pretty good, I guess. Come up and see,” advised the scaler. “The crew's right behind us.” “I'll send up Charley,” drawled Thorpe, “I'm busy now makin' traps,” he waved his pipe, calling attention to the pine and rawhide dead-falls. They chatted a few moments, practically and with an eye to the strict utility of things about them, as became woodsmen. Then two wagons creaked lurching by, followed by fifteen or twenty men. The last of these, evidently the foreman, was joined by the two scalers. “What's that outfit?” he inquired with the sharpness of suspicion. “Old Injin Charley--you remember, the old boy that tanned that buck for you down on Cedar Creek.” “Yes, but the other fellow.” “Oh, a hunter,” replied the scaler carelessly. “Sure?” The man laughed. “Couldn't be nothin' else,” he asserted with confidence. “Regular old backwoods mossback.” At the same time Injin Charley was setting about the splitting of a cedar log. “You see,” he remarked, “I big frien'.” Chapter XVIII