During the preparation of the midday meal Connie told Waseche of how he had found 'Merican Joe, starved and unconscious in his little snow-covered shelter tent, and of how, out of gratitude, the Indian had presented him with Leloo. Waseche eyed the great ruffed animal sombrely, as Connie dwelt upon his curiously mixed nature—how he ran the ridges at night at the head of the wolf pack, and of how, ripping and slashing, he had defended his helpless master against the fangs of those same wolves.
"Well, son," he drawled, when the boy had concluded, "he's the finest brute I ever seen—barrin' none. But keep your eye on him. If he ever gits his dates mixed—if he ever turns wolf when he'd ort to be dog—good-night!"
"I'll watch him," smiled the boy. "And, Waseche, where do you think 'Merican Joe came from?"
"Well," grinned his big partner, "fetchin' such a lookin' brute-beast as that along with him—I'd hate to say."
"He came from beyond the Mackenzie! He knows the country."
"That's prob'ly why he come away," answered Waseche, dryly.
"But he's going back—he's going with me. We're going to hit the trail for Dawson tomorrow, and hit across the mountains by way of Bonnet Plume Pass, and outfit at Fort Norman on the Mackenzie, and then strike out for the eastern end of Great Bear Lake, and the barren grounds. We're going to trap the rest of the winter and next summer we're going to prospect and figure on starting a trading post. We've got it all worked out."
"Oh, jest like that, eh? It ort to be right smart of a little ja'nt. With nothin' between Dawson an' Fort Norman—an' nothin' beyond."
"We might make another strike. And if we don't we can trap."
"Yup, that's a great idee—that trappin'. If you both work like a dog all winter out in them there barren lands, an' freeze an' starve, an' have good luck with your traps, you'd ort to clean up as much as two dollars a day."