"Got on his horse and pulled out, hey?" said Farwell. "Yes, of course, that's what he did. That's why the track is pressed in so deep. That's all right. Simon, how many men stop last night?"

"Four, five cayuse stop," Simon answered. "Mebbyso four, five, man stop."

"Well, four or five cayuses must have left a trail of some kind. You find it. Follow--catchum. Find where they live--their _illahee_, where they hang out. You get that?"

Simon nodded and went to his horse. Farwell frowned at the lone moccasin track, and, lifting his eyes, beheld Simon in the act of mounting. Contrary to the custom of white men, the old Indian did so from the off side. Farwell swore suddenly.

"What?" Keeler asked.

"Hey, Simon!" said Farwell. "This man with oleman moccasin--him make track getting on cayuse? Him stand so to get on cayuse. You sure of that?"

Simon nodded. "Ah-ha!" he agreed.

"Then he's a white man," Farwell exclaimed. "This is the track of a right foot, made while he was standing reaching for the stirrup with the left. An Indian always gets on his horse from the wrong side, and puts his right foot in the stirrup first."

"So he does," said Keeler.

"So this fellow is a white man," Farwell concluded triumphantly. "We want a white man with a patched moccasin. You _k.u.mtuks_, Simon? Injun mount so. White man so--left foot up, right foot down. White man's moccasin, Simon."

"Huh!" Simon grunted gravely. "Mebbyso white man; mebbyso _sitk.u.m Siwash_."

"Half-breed nothing!" Farwell declared. "Straight white, I tell you.

Now get ahead on the trail."

But whatever Simon's skill as a trailer, it availed little. In half a mile the hoofprints merged with many others in a beaten track, and so were lost. Simon halted.

"_Halo mamook!_" said he, signifying that he had done his possible. The fact was so self-evident that Farwell could not gainsay it.

"That's an easy five for you," he grumbled. "We might as well get back, Keeler. I never took any stock in that old buck, anyway. He's a gold brick, like all the rest of them."

But Simon, when they had gone, kept along the beaten track. And shortly he came to where McCrae had turned the buckboard around. Simon, after examining the tracks, took pains to efface them entirely; after which he ambled on, his usually grave countenance illumined by a grin.

Following the road, peering narrowly at either side, he finally came in sight of Talapus Ranch. Halting, he surveyed the fields.

The ditches of Talapus were once more running rap-full; and Donald McCrae, his son, and half a dozen men were busy with shovels and hoes turning the water down among the young grain in marks already prepared which followed the natural slope of the land; taking care that the little rivulets should be of sufficient strength to run the length of the field, but not so strong as to wash out the soil; adjusting the flow to a nicety with miniature dams of sods and stones.

Old Simon rode slowly along the ditch until he came to where Sandy McCrae was working.

"h.e.l.lo, Simon!" said the latter carelessly. "How you makin' it this morning? You keeping _skook.u.m?_"

"Ah-ha!" Simon responded gutturally. "_Skook.u.m_, you?"

"You bet," Sandy replied. "_Hiyu skook.u.m_ me." He leaned on his shovel for a moment, stretching his young, sinewy body, grinning at the Indian. The latter dismounted, and, stooping down, touched the young man's worn footgear.

"_Mamook huyhuy_ moccasin," said he.

"Swap moccasins?" Sandy repeated. "What for? Yours are new. _Chee_ moccasin, you; oleman moccasin, me. What are you getting at? That's fool talk."

But Simon insisted. "_Mamook huyhuy_," said he. "_Halo mitlite oleman_ moccasin."

"Why shouldn't I wear my old moccasins?" asked Sandy.

Simon lifted McCrae's right foot and placed his finger on a patch beneath the ball of the great toe. His features expanded in a knowing grin. Sandy McCrae's face suddenly became grave and his mouth grim. His voice, when he spoke, was hard and metallic.

"Quit this sign business and spit it out of you," he ordered. "_Mamook k.u.mtuks!_ Tell me what you mean!"

Simon condescended to a measure of English which he knew well enough, but which he usually disdained on general principles. He pointed back whence he had come.

"_Tenas_ sun (early morning) me stop along camp. Boss _tyee_ man goodandam mad. Him say _cultus_ man _mamook_ raise _hiyu_ h.e.l.l. Catch _hiyu skook.u.m_ powder--bang! Whoosh! Upshego!" He mimicked Farwell's words and gestures to a nicety. "Him say, s'pose me catch _cultus_ man me catch _kwimnum_ dolla'." He exhibited the five-dollar bill, grinning once more. "Good! Me _nanitch_ 'round me find trail. Boss _tyee_ man see track of oleman moccasin." He pointed to Sandy's right foot.

Young McCrae, his face black as the heart of a storm cloud, said nothing; but his eyes glinted dangerously. The Indian continued:

"Me _klatawa kimta_ on trail. _Tyee_ man him come, too. Bimeby come to _hiyu_ trail, all same road. Me lose trail. Me tell _tyee_ man '_halo mamook_.'" He grinned broadly. "Him _klatawa_ back _yaka illahee_. Me come along alone. See where _chik-chik_ wagon turn around. All right.

Me come tell you _mamook huyhuy_ moccasin."

It was very plain to Sandy now. The old Indian had recognized the track of his moccasin at the dam; had followed the trail to the travelled road where he had deliberately quit; and had come on to warn him to get rid of the incriminating moccasins which were even then on his feet.

The suggestion of exchange was merely polite diplomacy.

"Simon," he said slowly, "blamed if you ain't a white Injun!"

Simon acknowledged the compliment characteristically. He produced a pipe and examined the empty bowl with interest.

"_Halo_ smokin', me!" he observed gravely.

Sandy nodded and handed him a large plug. The Indian filled his pipe and put the tobacco in his pocket.

"You my _tillik.u.m,_" he announced. "When you _tenas_ boy I like you, you like me. Good, _Konaway_ McCrae (every McCrae) my _tillik.u.m_." He made a large gesture of generous inclusion, paused for an instant, and shot a keen glance at his friend. "Cas-ee Dunne my _tillik.u.m,_ too."

"Sure," said Sandy gravely. "We're all friends of yours, Simon."

Simon nodded and considered.

"All rancher my _tillik.u.m_," he continued after an interval. "Ah-ha!

Good! S'pose some time me _mamook_ sick, me feel all same oleman--no more grub stop, no more smokin' stop--mebbyso all rancher _potlatch_ grub, _potlatch_ smokin', send doctin', send med'cin'? You _k.u.mtuks?_"

He formulated this general scheme of pension and old-age insurance gravely. With five dollars in hand and a future provided for by grateful ranchers, he would be able to worship the _Saghalie Tyee_ at the mission with a good heart.

"You don't want much," Sandy commented. "I guess we'd chip in, though, if you got up against the iron any time. Sure. S'pose you _mamook_ sick, all rancher _mamook_ help, give you _muckamuck_ and smokin', stake you to doctor and dope; s'pose you go _mimoluse_, bury you in style."

Simon nodded, well pleased. A fine funeral thrown in for good measure suited his ideas perfectly. It was no more than his due for this evidence of friendship. So much for the future. Now for the present. He surveyed the five-dollar bill and chuckled.

"_Tyee_ man _hyas_ damfool!" said he. He cast a shrewd eye at the sun, which stood near the meridian. "_Sitk.u.m sun!_" he announced.

"Noon--and that means you're hungry," said Sandy. "I never saw you when you weren't. Go on up to the house, and say I sent you. _Muckamuck mika sick yakwahtin._ Eat till your belly goes back on you, if you want to."

Simon grinned again; but he pointed to Sandy's feet.

"You _mamook hyuhuy_ moccasin dam quick!" he warned once more.