“Keep your mouths shut, now,” warned Moon. “What’s that chief getting his pipe for?” “To smoke the sun,” growled Deakin in reply. The leading Cree chief produced a much-adorned calumet, and now proceeded to smoke the sun. This had nothing whatever to do with a peace smoke, and was only done on occasions of solemnity. Presenting the calumet thrice to the rising sun, he then held it aloft in both hands and with it followed the course of the sun in the sky, chanting a prayer for happiness and favour; this done, he smoked for a moment, and handed the pipe to another chief, who repeated the ceremony. Half a dozen chiefs in all went through this ritual, then the pipe was laid away. The Cree chief produced a bundle of close-tied pelts, and stood up to address Moses Deakin. “Last year my brother Big Bear gave us a message to deliver. That message was delivered. Here is the answer to that message. The hands of my brother Big Bear are tied. I give this belt to the hand of my brother the Anglais, that he may bring it to the sight of Big Bear.” Moon stepped forward to take the roll of skins from the chief. At this moment Crawford, who was intent on the ceremony, was startled to catch the low voice of Deakin at his ear. “Quick! When I grab ’un, kick fusils into water.” It was no time to question whatever desperate plan Deakin had in mind, or to ask how he was to grab any one with his arms bound. Crawford glanced around. He saw that the company men, grouped behind and to one side, had stacked their fusils in two piles at the edge of the water. The guns were but ten feet distant. Crawford gathered his muscles in readiness to spring, and then waited, tensed. Captain Moon took the bundle of skins from the chief, half turned, and stood frowning. Then he sat down so that Deakin was on one side of him and the circle of redskins on the other, unsheathed his knife, and cut the thongs that bound the skins. “Ay,” said Deakin, straining forward, his wide nostrils flaring. “Open it!” The officer did so, to disclose inner wrappings of doe-skin, likewise thonged. These gave place to yet a third wrapping--this time of soft, thick grey fur that drew from Moon an exclamation of astonishment. It was a white beaver pelt. The Indians, no less than the whites, were watching with intense interest, and from them came a chorus of grunts at sight of the white beaver. Then, as Moon drew this open, to disclose the heart of the whole business, white men and red stared in silence--the one in puzzled wonder, the other in comprehension. The message from the Star Woman was a short, heavy arrow with fine thin head of barbed iron. The arrow was painted red. The insolent message of Moses Deakin had been answered, significantly enough, by a war-arrow. “What’s it mean?” demanded Moon, fingering it.