No one spoke a word as they became aware of his presence. Only on Tillie’s face there came a look in which the traces of hunger vanished. Reivers stood looking down at the group for a moment in silence. Then he strode forward, thrust Tillie to one side and sat down in her place. For Reivers knew Indians. “Feed me,” he commanded, tossing his grub-bag to her. He did not look at her as she placed before him the entire contents of the bag. Having served him she retired and sat down behind him, awaiting his pleasure. Reivers ate leisurely of the bountiful supply of cold meat that remained of his supply. When he had his fill he tossed small portions to the old squaw, the old man and the young girl. “Hunters are mighty,” he mocked in the Chippewa tongue, as the young men avidly eyed the meat. “They kill what they eat. The meat they do not kill would stick in their mighty throats.” Last of all he beckoned Tillie to come to his side and eat what remained. “Men eat meat,” he continued, looking over the heads of the two hunters. “Old people and children are content with frozen fish. When I was here before there were men in this camp. There was meat in the tepees. The dogs had meat. Now I see the men are all gone.” One of the hunters raised his arms above his head, a gesture indicating strength, and let them fall resignedly to his side, a sign of despair. “The caribou are gone, Snow-Burner,” he said dully. “That is why there is no meat. All gone. The god of good kills has turned his face from us. Little Bear—” to the old man—“how long have our people hunted the caribou here?” Little Bear lifted his head, his wizened, smoked face more a black, carved mask than a human countenance. “Big Bear, my father, was an old man when I was born,” he said slowly. “When he was a boy so small that he slept with the women, our people came here for the Winter hunt.” “Oh, Little Bear,” chanted the hunter, “great was your father, the hunter; great were you as a hunter in your young days. Was there ever a Winter before when the caribou were not found here in plenty?” The old man shook his head. “Oh, Snow-Burner,” said the hunter, “these are the words of Little Bear, whose age no one knows. Always the caribou have been plenty here along this river in the Winter. Longer than any old man’s tales reach back have they fed upon the willows. They are not here this Winter. The gods are angry with us. We hunt. We hunt till we lie flat on the snow. We find no signs. There are men still here, Snow-Burner, but the caribou have gone.” “Have gone, have gone, have gone. Ah wo!” chanted the old squaw. “Where do you hunt?” asked Reivers tersely. “Where we have always hunted; where our fathers hunted before us,” was the reply. “Along the river in the muskeg and bush to the south we hunt. The caribou are not there. They are nowhere. The gods have taken them away. We must die and go where they are.” “We must go,” wailed the old squaw. “The gods refuse us meat. We must go.”