Shortly after that, at the close of an exceeding bitter day, an Indian came striding down the Sicannie to the post. When the guard at the big gate let him in his first word was for the “White Chief,” as Barreau was known among the men of the lodges. Ben Wise came shouting this at the door of our cabin, and we followed Ben to the store. The Indian shook hands with Barreau. Then he drew his blanket coat closer about him and delivered himself of a few short guttural sentences. Barreau stood looking rather thoughtful when the copper-skinned one had finished. He asked a few questions in the native tongue, receiving answers as brief. And after another period of consideration he turned to me. “Crow Feathers is sick,” he said. “Pneumonia, I should judge, by this fellow’s description of the symptoms. The chances are good that he’ll be dead by the time I get there—if he isn’t already. The medicine man can’t help him, so old Three Wolves has sent for me, out of his sublime faith in my ability to do anything. I can’t help him, but I’ll have to go, as a matter of policy. Do you want to come along, Bob? It won’t be a long jaunt, and it will give you some real snowshoe practice.” I embraced the opportunity without giving him a chance to reconsider which he showed signs of doing later in the evening. Curiously enough Montell also attempted to dissuade me from the trip. “What’s the use?” he argued. “You’ll likely get your fingers or your feet frozen. It’s a blamed poor time of the year to go trapesin’ around the country. You better stay here where there’s houses and fires.” The cold and other disagreeable elements didn’t look formidable enough to deter me, however; I wanted something to break the monotony. A trip to Three Wolves’ camp in mid-winter appealed very strongly to me, and I turned a deaf ear to Montell’s advice, and held Barreau strictly to the proposal which he evinced a desire to withdraw. That evening we got the dog harness ready, and rigged up a toboggan for the trail, loading it with food, bedding, and a small, light tent. Two hours before daybreak we started. There was a moon, and the land spread away boldly under the silver flood, like a great, ghostly study in black and white. All that day our Indian led us up the Sicannie. There was no need to use our snowshoes or to “break” trail, for we kept to the ice, and its covering of snow was packed smooth and hard as a macadam roadway. By grace of an early start and steady jogging we traversed a distance that was really a two days’ journey, and at dusk the lodges of Three Wolves’ band loomed in the edge of a spruce grove. Then our Indian shook hands with Barreau and me, and swung off to the right. “He says his lodge is over there in a draw,” Barreau told me, when I asked the reason for that.