Chumfo, the Super-sense 



tion) and wonder why luck should elect to light 

 on a worthless old dog and take no heed of what 

 seemed to me then a precious young man. But I 

 have since changed my mind; and here is one of 

 the many observations which made me change it. 



Years afterward my Indian guide, Simmo, was 

 camped with a white man beside a salmon river. 

 It was a rough night, and a storm was roaring 

 over the big woods. For shelter they had built a 

 bark commoosie, and for comfort a fire of birch 

 logs. At about nine o'clock they turned in, each 

 wrapped in his blanket, and slept soundly but 

 lightly, as woodsmen do, after a long day on the 

 trail. Some time later hours, probably, for the 

 fire was low, the storm hushed, the world intensely 

 still the white man was awakened by a touch, 

 and opened his eyes to find his companion in a 

 tense, listening attitude. 



"Bes' get out of here quick, 'fore somet'ing 

 come," said the Indian, and threw off his blanket. 



"But why what how do you know?" queried 

 the white man, startled but doubting, for he had 

 listened and heard nothing. 



The Indian, angered as an Indian of the woods 

 always is when you question or challenge his craft, 

 made an impatient gesture. "Don' know how; 

 don' know why; just know. Come!" he called 

 sharply, and the white man followed him away 

 6 [69] 



