Creeping towards him, unnoticed, we were only about 20 feet away when he raised his gun to fire. At that moment Hornby gave a blood curdling whoop, the Indian jumped – the bird flew and so did we, but as he didn't seem to be annoyed, we pulled in & invited him to lunch – an invitation which no Indian was ever known to refuse.
I snapped him beside the poles of his teepee (lodge) which he was pulling down in preparation for a move to possibly a better hunting ground.
But I'll never forget, the long hair, bandy legs & silent strides of the typical stage Indian. Lunch was usually an hurried meal, but as soon as night began to fall, we pulled ashore at some point where firewood was plentiful, pitched our tent, unrolled our blankets on a deep bed of spruce bows, cooked a substantial meal & settled down comfortably to talk things over.
