“Huh! You got to show me. Nobody tells anybody about a strike, of course not. But ain't it plum amazin' the way everybody hits the trail just the same?”
“Squaw Creek,” Smoke whispered. “It's right. Breck gave me the tip. Shallow bedrock. Gold from the grass-roots down. Come on. We'll sling a couple of light packs together and pull out.”
Shorty's eyes closed as he lapsed back into sleep. The next moment his blankets were swept off him.
“If you don't want them, I do,” Smoke explained.
Shorty followed the blankets and began to dress.
“Goin' to take the dogs?” he asked.
“No. The trail up the creek is sure to be unbroken, and we can make better time without them.”
“Then I'll throw 'em a meal, which'll have to last 'em till we get back. Be sure you take some birch-bark and a candle.”
Shorty opened the door, felt the bite of the cold, and shrank back to pull down his ear-flaps and mitten his hands.
Five minutes later he returned, sharply rubbing his nose.