Waseche Bill chuckled happily to himself:
"Yo' sho' cain't," he agreed. "Black Jack's right about that—trouble is, I nevah know'd much about frawgs."
CHAPTER IX
THE WHITE DEATH
It was yet dark when Waseche Bill opened his eyes and blinked sleepily into the small face that smiled down at him in the light of the flickering fire. The rich aroma of boiling coffee and the appetizing odour of bacon roused him to his senses and he grinned happily at the words of the boy:
"Come on, pardner, grub's ready! And you better fly at it, too. 'Cause if I know anything about it, we'll sure know we've done something by the time we get the outfit out of this hole."
Waseche glanced upward where the tiny stars winked coldly between the high walls of the gloomy gorge in which Sam Morgan's boy found himself held prisoner when the huge mass of ice detached itself from the side of the glacier and crashed into the canyon.
"Yo' sho's on the job, son—seem's if I jest got good an' asleep. What time is it?" he asked, as he crawled from beneath his robes.
"Six o'clock," answered the boy extending a cup of steaming coffee.