For a long, long time the boy stood staring out over the dim trail of the river and then with clenched fists he stepped again into the room. A hurried inspection of the pack showed that the man had taken most of the remaining fish and considerable of the food, also Waseche Bill's rifle was missing from its place in the far corner. With tight-pressed lips, Connie laid the fire in the little stove and watched dumbly as the tiny yellow sparks shot upward past the holes in the rusty pipe. Vainly the mind of the boy strove to grasp the situation, but his lips formed only the words which he repeated over and over again, as if seeking their import:
"He's gone—he's gone—O'Brien's gone." He could not understand it. Among the dwellers in the great white land the boy had known only men whose creed was to stick together until the end. From the hour he first set foot upon the dock at Anvik, to this very moment, with the single exception of the little rat-faced man at Ten Bow, the boy had learned to love the big men of the North—men whose vices were rugged vices—flaunting and unashamed and brutish, perhaps—but men, any one of whom would face privation, want, and toil—death itself—with a laugh in his teeth for the privilege of helping a friend—and who would fight to divide his last ounce of bacon with his enemy. For not by rule of life—but life itself men live upon the edges of the world, where little likes and hates are forgotten, and all stand shoulder to shoulder against their common enemy—the North! These were the men the boy had known. And now, for the first time, he was confronted by another kind of man—a man so yellow that, rather than face the perils and hardships of the trail, he had deserted those who had rescued him from a band of savages—and not only deserted, but had taken with him the only means by which the others could hope to reach civilization, and had left a wounded man and a little boy to die in the wilderness—bushed!
The dull soul-hurt of the boy flashed into swift anger and, flinging open the door, he shook a small fist toward the south.
"My dad followed British Kronk eight hundred miles through the snow before he caught him—and then—you just wait."
"You cur!" he shouted. "You dirty cur! You piker! You think you've fixed us—but you wait! They say my dad followed British Kronk eight hundred miles through the snow before he caught him—and then—you just wait! You tried to starve Waseche!"
"Heah! Heah! What's all this?" asked the man, who had raised himself to his elbow upon the bunk. The boy faced him:
"He's beat it!" he choked. "He swiped Mac's dogs and breezed!" for a moment the man stared uncomprehendingly:
"Yo' mean O'Brien—he's gone?"