The squaw was hurrying on, and but for the straightness of the trail just there, her fat old canvas-wrapped legs would have carried her speedily out of sight.

Of course, papooses did yell once in awhile, Bud supposed, though he did not remember ever hearing one howl like that on the trail.

But what made the squaw in such a deuce of a hurry all at once?
Bud's theory of her kind was simple enough: If they fled from you, it was because they had stolen something and were afraid you would catch them at it.

He swung around forthwith in the trail and went after her--whereat she waddled faster through the snow like a frightened duck.
"Hey! You come back here a minute! What's all the rush ?" Bud's voice and his long legs pursued, and presently he overtook her and halted her by the simple expedient of grasping her shoulder firmly.

The high-keyed howling ceased as suddenly as it had begun, and Bud, peering under the rolled edge of the red stocking cap, felt his jaw go slack with surprise.
The baby was smiling at him delightedly, with a quirk of the lips and a twinkle lodged deep somewhere in its eyes.