It was equivalent to an invitation to call. The savage arose and stalked by the half-breed's side in the direction of Lafond's fine lodge of whitened skins. As they approached, two young squaws glided away. Lafond spoke a word to one of them, and a moment later the boys of the camp raced eagerly in the direction of the band of ponies on the hill. [Illustration: THAT BABY CRY, "MAMA!"] The lodge of Michaïl Lafond stood just beyond the village proper and on a slight elevation. The entire camp lay spread out before it, a panorama to be seized by a single sweep of the eye. The savage paused for a moment before entering the doorway, and looked about him with a little envy. Never had he visited a band so well supplied with ponies, so efficiently armed, so wealthy in robes and lodges and kettles and all the other articles of Indian wealth which go to make up prosperity. Lafond watched him closely. The Indian turned inside the doorway, and sat down on a heavily furred buffalo skin near the entrance. In the background wallowed a dim confusion of skins, robes, and utensils. Lafond placed himself beside his guest and the pipe was lighted. The stir following the stranger's arrival had lulled. The women and children, having satisfied their curiosity as to his personal appearance, returned to their wonted occupations, so that once again the mingled noises of the camp rose from the little valley. In a moment the young squaw led up a pony. The animal was fine above the average. Its limbs were deer-like in delicacy, its nostrils were wide, its neck slender and tapering--quite in contrast to the ordinary Indian pony's clumsiness in this respect--and, above all, it was marked black and white in the _pinto_ fashion. This last is considered to indicate superior spirit and is much prized. The woman had twisted pieces of bright-colored cloth and eagle feathers into the mane and tail. At the sight of so beautiful an animal, the stranger exclaimed in delight. "It pleases my brother?" inquired Lafond politely. "It is his." The squaw led the beast forward, touching the young warrior's hand with the end of the halter in token of proprietorship. Lafond rose and closed the tent flap. The noises of the camp were at once muffled, and twilight fell. "My brother is a great warrior," he began after a moment, "yet he has need of ponies, for he comes on foot and his moccasins are worn." The stranger, impassive but watchful, made no answer. "My brother has come far?" went on Lafond cunningly. "Far," repeated the youth politely. "His eyes have seen the waters of the Great River?" The savage bowed. "Perhaps his pony was lost there?" "It may be." "The sight of the white man frightened him and he was drowned?" The Indian's eyes flashed. "It may be so." "On his back my brother bears great scars," said Lafond suddenly after a short pause; "but they are the scars of a brave man. He bears other scars on his face; they are the scars of shame."