He did not come alone, but at the head of a veritable flotilla of birch-bark canoes, laden with a picturesque mixture of Indians, squaws, round-faced pappooses, sharp-nosed dogs, and the household goods pertaining to these. By the appearance of things I inferred that he had been out to jog up the natives who had signified willingness to trade with the house of Montell. They beached the canoes, and pitched their lodges along the river bank, a little way from the stockade. In the two hours of daylight following the arrival of the vanguard other little parties came slipping quietly around the curve of the Sicannie, pitched their camps, and set about cooking food. The flat was speckled with twinkling dots of fire when dark vanquished the long twilight. Barreau was tired, and had little to tell. I had come by a new deck of cards through favor of the colorless Mr. Cullen, and we played a silent game or two of euchre that night before turning in. By dawn we had breakfasted and were at the store, and the copper-skinned men of the lodges began to come in and cast their eyes upon such things as they desired. All forenoon I watched this silent outfitting of the hunters, saw this one and that stand wrapped to the ears in his gaudy blanket, seeming not to see or to be conscious of aught that transpired. Then of a sudden he would point abruptly to a certain article, a trap or two, maybe, a caddy of tea, a flask of powder, and emit a guttural sound that Barreau interpreted to Cullen, who would solemnly make an entry in his notebook. When the red brother had reached his trading limit, his squaw took the burden of his purchases on her back, and he strode forth wrapped in a dignity even more striking than his blanket, she following meekly at his heels. “How do you manage to keep track of them all?” I asked Barreau, as we sat at dinner. “Suppose these Indians that you outfit now don’t show up again? Can you trust them so absolutely? For my part I can hardly tell one from another.”