But he never offers to do any
part of your work, and on the march he never looks back to see if you
are keeping up. You can shout at him until you are black in the face,
but never will he pause until rest-time. Then he squats on his heels,
lights his pipe, and grins.
Buckshot adored him. This opportunity of travelling with him was an
epoch. He drank in eagerly the brief remarks of his "old man," and
detailed them to us with solemnity, prefaced always by his "Tawabinisay
tell me." Buckshot is of the better class of Indian himself, but
occasionally he is puzzled by the woods-noises. Tawabinisay never. As
we cooked lunch, we heard the sound of steady footsteps in the
forest--_pat_; then a pause; then _pat_; just like a deer
browsing. To make sure I inquired of Buckshot.
"What is it?"
Buckshot listened a moment.
"Deer," said he decisively; then, not because he doubted his own
judgment, but from habitual deference, he turned to where Tawabinisay
was frying things.
"Qwaw?" he inquired.
Tawabinisay never even looked up.
"Adji-domo" (squirrel), said he.
We looked at each other incredulously. It sounded like a deer. It did
not sound in the least like a squirrel. An experienced Indian had
pronounced it a deer. Nevertheless it was a squirrel.
We approached Kawagama by way of a gradual slope clothed with a
beautiful beech and maple forest whose trees were the tallest of those
species I have ever seen. Ten minutes brought us to the shore.
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