"Ha! Ha! You ketch boy in water, you get bes' dog."
The Esquimo had not erred in his judgment of puppies. He had indeed given the man who had cheated the Big Salmon of his son the best of the litter. At sixteen months, Fleur stood inches higher at the shoulder and weighed twenty pounds more than her brothers. Truly, with the speed and stamina of their sire, the timber wolf, coupled with Fleur's courage and power, these puppies, whose advent he awaited, should make a dog-team unrivalled on the East Coast.
"Cree up dere," continued the Esquimo, pointing toward the post clearing, "say de dog keel man."
Marcel nodded gravely. "Oui, man try kill me, she kill heem."
"Huh! De ol' dog keel bad Husky, on Kogaluk one tam."
Fleur indeed had come from a fighting strain—dogs that would battle to the death or toil in the traces until they crumpled on the snow, for those they loved or to whom they owed allegiance.