"Neveh yo' mind about that. Jes' do as I said, an' then swing that theah pack of mine around heah an' prop me up agin' it beside the fiah. Afteh that, I want yo' an' O'Brien to take Mac's dawgs an' yo'n an' wo'k yo' way to the top of yondeh hill an' see if yo' c'n find out how fah this heah ravine runs—get busy, now."
The boy obeyed without question and soon he and the Irishman were headed for the hill a quarter of a mile up the ravine.
"I wonder what he's up to?" speculated the boy, with puckered brow. "You don't suppose it's his leg—fever, or something, that's made him kind of—of queer?"
"No, no, lad. Oi don't know phwat's on his moind—but min loike him—they mostly knows phwat they're doin'—er they wouldn't be doin' ut."
From the top of the hill they saw that, as far as the eye could reach, the ravine cut the tundra in an unbroken line.
"They ain't no other cr-rossin'," said O'Brien, so they retraced their steps to the bridge, where they could see Waseche bending close over the tiny fire.
"Why, he's frying some meat!" exclaimed Connie, "and we just had breakfast!" They were close now, and Waseche removed a frying pan from the flame and poked gingerly at its contents with a piece of brushwood. Apparently satisfied, he placed it beside him upon the snow. Connie glanced into the pan where, instead of a caribou steak, the boy saw three yellow sticks of dynamite.
"Why, you told me——!"
"Yes, kid, I done tol' yo' long ago, neveh to thaw out no giant in a pan—an' I meant it! Mos'ly, yo' c'n do it—if yo' careful—but, sometimes she jes' nachelly lets go, without no provocation, an' then—well, yo' rec'lect how we-all wiped po' Gus Meekin offen the bushes an' rocks, a half a mile from wheah his fiah was."
"But, you——"