The Trapper stayed late that evening. It had been cloudy all the afternoon, and at sundown it began to rain, so he was invited to supper. The shower grew heavier instead of ending. Caleb went out and dug a trench all round the teepee to catch the rain, then a leader to take it away. After supper they sat around the campfire in the teepee; the wind arose and the rain beat down. Yan had to go out and swing the smoke poles, and again his ear was greeted with the screech. He brought in an armful of wood and made the inside of the teepee a blaze of cheerful light. A high wind now came in gusts, so that the canvas flopped unpleasantly on the poles.
"Where's your anchor rope?" asked the Trapper.
Sam produced the loose end; the other was fastened properly to the poles above. It had never been used, for so far the weather had been fine; but now Caleb sunk a heavy stake, lashed the anchor rope to that, then went out and drove all the pegs a little deeper, and the Tribe felt safe from any ordinary storm.
There was nothing to attract the old Trapper to his own shanty. His heirs had begun to forget that he needed food, and what little they did send was of vilest quality. The old man was as fond of human society as any one, and was easily persuaded now to stay all night, "if you can stand Guy for a bedfeller." So Caleb and Turk settled down for a comfortable evening within, while the storm raged without.
"Say, don't you touch that canvas, Guy; you'll make it leak."
"What, me? Oh, pshaw! How can it leak for a little thing like that?" and Guy slapped it again in bravado.
"All right, it's on your side of the bed," and sure enough, within two minutes a little stream of water was trickling from the place he had rubbed, while elsewhere the canvas turned every drop.
This is well known to all who have camped under canvas during a storm, and is more easily remembered than explained.
The smoke hung heavy in the top of the teepee and kept crowding down until it became unpleasant.
"Lift the teepee cover on the windward side, Yan. There, that's it—but hold on," as a great gust came in, driving the smoke and ashes around in whirlwinds. "You had ought to have a lining. Give me that canvas: that'll do." Taking great care not to touch the teepee cover, Caleb fastened the lining across three pole spaces so that the opening under the canvas was behind it. This turned the draught from their backs and, sending it over their heads, quickly cleared the teepee of smoke as well as kept off what little rain entered by the smoke hole.
"It's on them linings the Injuns paint their records and adventures. They mostly puts their totems on the outside an' their records on the lining."
"Bully," said Sam; "now there's a job for you. Little Beaver; by the time you get our adventures on the inside and our totems on the out I tell you we'll be living in splendour."
"I think," answered Yan indirectly, "we ought to take Mr. Clark into the Tribe. Will you be our Medicine Man?" Caleb chuckled in a quiet way, apparently consenting. "Now I have four totems to paint on the outside," and this was the beginning of the teepee painting that Yan carried out with yellow clay, blue clay dried to a white, yellow clay burned to red, and charcoal, all ground in Coon grease and Pine gum, to be properly Indian. He could easily have gotten bright colours in oil paint, but scorned such White-man's truck, and doubtless the general effect was all the better for it.
"Say, Caleb," piped Guy, "tell us about the Injuns—about their bravery. Bravery is what I like," he added with emphasis, conscious of being now on his own special ground. "Why, I mind the time that old Woodchuck was coming roaring at me—I bet some fellers would just 'a' been so scared—"
"Hssh!" said Sam.
Caleb smoked in silence. The rain pattered on the teepee without; the wind heaved the cover. They all sat silently. Then sounded loud and clear a terrifying "scrrrrrr—oouwurr." The boys were startled—would have been terrified had they been outside or alone.
"That's it—that's the Banshee," whispered Sam.
Caleb looked up sharply.
"What is it?" queried Yan. "We've heard it a dozen times, at least."
Caleb shook his head, made no reply, but turned to his Dog. Turk was lying on his side by the fire, and at this piercing screech he had merely lifted his head, looked backward over his shoulder, turned his big sad eyes on his master, then laid down again.
"Turk don't take no stock in it."
"Dogs never hear a Banshee," objected Sam, "no more than they can see a ghost; anyway, that's what Granny de Neuville says." So the Dog's negative testimony was the reverse of comforting.
"Hawkeye," said the Woodpecker, "you're the bravest one of the crowd. Don't you want to go out and try a shot at the Banshee? I'll lend you my Witch-hazel arrow. We'll give you a grand coup feather if you hit him. Go ahead, now—you know bravery is what you like."
"Yer nothin' but a passel o' blame dumb fools," was the answer, "an' I wouldn't be bothered talking to ye. Caleb, tell us something about the Indians."
"What the Injuns love is bravery," said the Medicine Man with a twinkle in his eye, and everybody but Guy laughed, not very loudly, for each was restrained by the thought that he would rather not be called upon to show his bravery to-night.
"I'm going to bed," said Hawkeye with unnecessary energy.
"Don't forget to roost under the waterspout you started when you got funny," remarked the Woodpecker.
Yan soon followed Guy's example, and Sam, who had already learned to smoke, sat up with Caleb. Not a word passed between them until after Guy's snore and Yan's regular puffs told of sound sleep, when Sam, taking advantage of a long-awaited chance, opened out rather abruptly:
"Say, Caleb, I ain't going to side with no man against Da, but I know him just about as well as he knows me. Da's all right; he's plumb and square, and way down deep he's got an awful kind heart; it's pretty deep, I grant you, but it's there, O.K. The things he does on the quiet to help folks is done on the quiet and ain't noticed. The things he does to beat folks—an' he does do plenty—is talked all over creation. But I know he has a wrong notion of you, just as you have of him, and it's got to be set right."
Sam's good sense was always evident, and now, when he laid aside his buffoonery, his voice and manner were very impressive—more like those of a grown man than of a fifteen-year-old boy.
Caleb simply grunted and went on smoking, so Sam continued, "I want to hear your story, then Ma an' me'll soon fix Da."
The mention of "Ma" was a happy stroke. Caleb had known her from youth as a kind-hearted girl. She was all gentleness and obedience to her husband except in matters of what she considered right and wrong, and here she was immovable. She had always believed in Caleb, even after the row, and had not hesitated to make known her belief.
"There ain't much to tell," replied Caleb bitterly. "He done me on that Horse-trade, an' crowded me on my note so I had to pay it off with oats at sixty cents, then he turned round and sold them within half an hour for seventy-five cents. We had words right there, an' I believe I did say I'd fix him for it. I left Downey's Dump early that day. He had about 
$300 in his pocket—$300 of my money—the last I had in the world. He was too late to bank it, so was taking it home, when he was fired at in going through the 'green bush'. My tobacco pouch and some letters addressed to me was found there in the morning. Course he blamed me, but I didn't have any shootin'-iron then; my revolver, the white one, was stole from me a week before—along with them same letters, I expect. I consider they was put there to lay the blame on me, an' it was a little overdone, most folks would think. Well, then your Da set Dick Pogue on me, an' I lost my farm—that's all."