He stood still, and turned his head from side to side, questioningly. "Good!" he said. "Big Rattle off there, Archer's camp over there. I go there. Good 'nough!" He hitched his old smooth-bore rifle higher under his arm and continued his journey. Sacobie had tramped many miles all the way from ice-imprisoned Fox Harbor. His papoose was sick. His squaw was hungry. Sacobie's belt was drawn tight.