88 RIVERS IN SUMMER

hear this mingling of voices. We laughed loudly
when one fellow’s aim was spoilt by the sudden
arrival of a hornet upon the back of his neck.

The Indians had come in, too. They had put up
tents behind the cabins, and were busy eating the
“chichaco” food that their fur had earned for them.
Not far away, in the deep grass, three tawny creat-
ures lay in the shadow of a tarpaulin, while a fourth
played endless, tuneless tunes upon two strings of
a battered violin. They were all smiling, and were
apparently oblivious of everything except the sun-
light and the blue sky and the fiddle.

The sun fell more heavily as the breeze dropped.
It brought out the warm smell of the boards and
the fresh scent of grass and flowers. It faded the
colours of the trees on the far bank, and settled in a
steady sheet upon the swollen river. Brown faces
looked pale in its light. The talk lagged. Pieces of
oily rag fluttered about the barrels of guns. Thomas’s
fitful whistling and occasional monologues came
out to us from the store.

‘Thirteen dollars for a skin like this! How in hell
do they expect the poor devils to live? I’ve given
‘em all as much jawbone as they can have already.”

“Hey, you in there, why do you worry about the
damn Indians? What about us for a change? Think

we trap for our health2”