sight of a row of fires that must belong to the Chippewa encampment.
Indian dwellings are far more picturesque than imposing, so at least Hugh concluded as he approached the huddle of teepees, mere shelters of skins and blankets stretched over birch poles. A woman was cooking by the nearest fire; she sat back upon her heels and gazed at him stolidly, but made no answer when he asked for the boy Shokatan. Some children came crawling out from one of the tents and also stared at him but not a word could he get from them. He stood irresolute, not quite knowing what to do, when another squaw, who sat at the second fire, holding a baby, suddenly turned and greeted him with a strange, vacant smile, which he recognized at once as Laughing Mary’s. Again he asked for Shokatan, and she pointed silently at a boy who was coming toward him from the edge of the stream where he had evidently been fishing.
“Jethro Brown sent me to you and gave me this letter,” began Hugh, but he received no answer, only the same stolid stare. The boy held
