Above Two Prong the water was too fast for canoe work, so the officers took the foot trail that followed its banks. For three days they pushed onward and upward, stopping in every cabin along the trail for a chat with the surly, close-mouthed trappers and prospectors. But nothing did they see that could possibly be construed as "crooked," except the interminable windings of the creek, itself, and so they came to the camp of the Indians. The chief, a lazy, ragged, no-account, who went by the name of Four-Bits-And-A-Thin-Dime, greeted the policemen civilly enough, and motioned them to a seat upon a bearskin in front of his tepee.
"Any complaints?" asked McKeever. The Indian shook his head.
"No."
"Get your treaty money all right?"
The chief nodded: "Um-hum."
"Where is it?" This last question came as a surprise. The chief looked nonplussed for a moment.
"Got some lef'. De young men, she tak' de res' down to buy de grub."
"Where?"
