The dogs of the camp greeted us with shrill yapping, and two or three Indians came out. They scattered the yelping huskies with swiftly thrown pieces of firewood, and greeted Barreau gravely. After a mutual exchange of words Barreau vented a sharp exclamation. “The devil!” he said, and followed this by stripping the harness from the dogs. “What now?” I asked, as I bent over the leader’s collar. “You’ll see in a minute,” he answered briefly, and there was an angry ring in his voice. The dogs freed and the toboggan turned on its side, he led the way to a lodge pointed out by one of the hunters. A head protruded. It was withdrawn as we approached, and some one within called out in Cree. And when we had inserted ourselves through the circular opening I echoed Barreau’s exclamation. For sitting beside the fire which burned cheerfully in the center, was Crow Feathers himself, smoking his pipe like a man in the best of health. Nor was there any suggestion of illness in the voice he lifted up at our entrance. Barreau fired a question or two at him, and a look of mild interest overspread Crow Feathers’ aquiline face as he answered. “It was a plant all the way through,” Barreau declared, sitting down and slipping off his mitts. “Three Wolves sent no message to me. Crow Feathers never was sick in his life.” “I wonder who’s responsible?” said I. “Do Indians ever play practical jokes?” He shrugged his shoulders at the suggestion. Crow Feathers’ squaw pushed a pot of boiled venison before us, and some bannock, and we fell upon that in earnest. Not till we had finished and were fumbling for tobacco _did_ Barreau refer to our wild-goose chase again. “I’d like to have speech with that red gentleman who led us up here,” he said grimly. “It may be that Mr. Montell has unsheathed his claws in earnest. If he has, I’ll clip them, and clip them short.” CHAPTER XVII—NINE POINTS OF THE LAW