“That you, Uluk?” he queried, blundering forward.
Twin grunts answered and, following the direction, he made out two lounging blurs behind the wood heater’s rounded shape.
“Look here, Scarth, you’ll have to feed those dogs,” Cleaver announced, pushing forward until he was looking down at the trader’s narrow face and flickering eyes.
“Huh—huh,” Scarth grunted, giving the faintly grinning Uluk a soft kick on the leg with his sealskin mukluks. “What the heck am I goin’ to feed ’em on, eh? You Arctic angels goin’ to tumble down a bunch of manna, eh?”
The trader’s narrow shoulders quivered slightly. To cover the motion he jumped erect, pulling up his ever slipping and dirty mackinaw shirt. A yellow hand waved toward his empty shelves.
“Yes, I know you’re traded out,” Sergeant Cleaver agreed, ignoring the tone as he followed the gesture. “No grub left. You can fish though, can’t you?”
“Nothin’ doin’,” Scarth laughed. “That’s a native’s job. Think I’m goin’ to have the Esks see me an’ lose my white man’s rep? Not so’s you’d notice it.”
“Well, what about Uluk?”
“Uluk?” Scarth replied, a note of feigned astonishment in his tone. “Why, the lad’s half white, ain’t he? Got to look after his rep too. Don’t want to have the Esks see him workin’. No, sir.”
The halfbreed grinned faintly in response to the trader’s nudge.