"Who? Me! Not on yer life I don't—not to the Lillimuit! Not fer all the gold in the world."
"Oh, I reckon 'tain't so bad as folks claim."
"Claim! Folks ain't in no shape to claim! They ain't no one ever come back, 'cept Carlson—an' he was loco, an' went in agin—an' that's the last of Carlson."
"What ails the country?" asked Waseche.
"They's talk of white Injuns, an' creeks that don't freeze, an'—well, they don't no one really know, but Carlson." The man shrugged and glanced over his shoulder. "If I was you, I'd hit the back trail. They's a plenty fer two in the Ten Bow claim an' pardners is pardners."
Waseche ignored the suggestion:
"I'll be pullin' fer the Lillimuit in the mo'nin'. Sorry ye won't jine me. I'll be rollin' in, now. Good-night."
"So long! An' good luck to ye. I sure hate to see ye go."
Early in the evening of the fourth day after Waseche Bill's departure for the unknown Lillimuit Connie Morgan swung McDougall's ten-dog team into Eagle.
The boy, heeding the advice of Black Jack Demaree, had curbed his impatience and religiously held himself to a ten-hour schedule, and the result was easily apparent in the way the dogs dashed up the steep trail and swung into the well-packed street of the big camp.