Chief Namakagon, warm and secure under his bearskin robe and a seven-inch layer of snow, woke in the middle of the night. He lifted the corner of the robe enough to see the flickering of flames coming from the campfire.
“The muskrat!” he thought, “He has started another fire. He thinks he is alone.” The chief carefully reached down and pulled his knife from its sheath, then moved more of the robe to better see the campsite, fifty yards away. Large, wet snowflakes were falling fast. He stared through the falling snow trying to locate the bandit. He moved just a bit, feeling the snow on his black, fur blanket slide off. He still could not see Percy Wilkins.
Namakagon slowly sat up to get a better view. He started to stand, then, whoosh! Something struck him in the back and, as he glanced up, struck him again in the back of his head. Namakagon fell face-first into the snow. The old Indian quickly rolled over to see the his own walking stick again coming down toward his head. He tried to scramble to his knees but slipped in the snow as it struck his right arm forcing his knife from his hand and into the snow. He rolled again as the staff came down once more, missing his head by less than an inch.
Now Namakagon sprang to his feet, but before he could catch his balance, it hit him again, slamming him to the forest floor, thick with snow. He tried to get up, but his old muscles would not do what they could in his youth. The woods fell silent now. The snow continued to fall.