"Dawson's 'It,' beyond a doubt."
The Colonel laughed a little ruefully.
"We used to say Minóok."
"I said Minóok, just to sound reasonable, but, of course, I meant Dawson."
And they sat there thinking, watching the ice-blocks meet, crash, go down in foam, and come up again on the lower reaches, the Boy idly swinging the great Katharine's medal to and fro. In his buckskin pocket it has worn so bright it catches at the light like a coin fresh from the mint.
No doubt Muckluck is on the river-bank at Pymeut; the one-eyed Prince, the story-teller Yagorsha, even Ol' Chief—no one will be indoors to-day.
Sitting there together, they saw the last stand made by the ice, and shared that moment when the final barrier, somewhere far below, gave way with boom and thunder. The mighty flood ran free, tearing up trees by their roots as it ran, detaching masses of rock, dissolving islands into swirling sand and drift, carving new channels, making and unmaking the land. The water began to fall. It had been a great time: it was ended.
"Pardner," says the Colonel, "we've seen the ice go out."
"No fella can call you and me cheechalkos after to-day."
"No, sah. We've travelled the Long Trail, we've seen the ice go out, and we're friends yet."