112 MOUNTAINS

ashes of last night’s fire, chewing morosely. His
boots and trouser-legs were soaked with dew. His
battered hat was pulled sideways over his face.
Still muttering gloomily, he helped us to light a
fire, and over tea and bacon told us exactly what
would happen to the horses when he “‘catched ’em.”
But the hot-cakes and the tea were good, and by
the time he pulled out his tobacco pouch he was
cracking jokes again. The sun came up over the
hill and slanted across the grass.

The Bearlakers were busy drying meat and
stretching skins in the sun. A young woman squatted
outside a tent, sewing moccasins, while her children
rolled about on the spruce-boughs inside. A very
old squaw was cooking meat over a fire; it was the
venerable Mrs. Quock. She looked up at us with
dark eyes that had a blue film upon them; her dull
black hair hung down over a striped shawl, and her
small moccasins protruded from the folds of a long
black skirt. Her skin was like parchment, but the
bony hands moved deftly as she turned the meat.

Bearlake Billy came hurrying up, followed bya
young man.

“You not mind if she don’t talk to you. Not see