"You sent them then?"
"No, no! But, I knew that they would think the same as I did, that you wanted to trade them hooch, so I followed them when they slipped out of the village. Both nights I followed, and I pressed my ear close to the door, so that I heard all you said."
Brent smiled: "I have some recollection of asking one of those wooden images something about a certain warlike young lady——"
The girl interrupted him with a laugh: "Yes, I heard that, and I heard you swear at the hooch traders, and tell the Indians there was no hooch in the cabin, and I was glad."
The man's eyes sought hers in a swift glance: "Why—why were you glad?" he asked.
"Because I—because you—because I didn't want to kill you. And I would have killed you if you had sold them hooch."
"You wouldn't—really——"
"Yes, I would!" cried the girl, and Brent saw that the dark eyes flashed, "I would kill a hooch-runner as I would a wolf. They are wolves. They're worse than wolves! Wolves kill for meat, but they kill for money. They take the fur that would put bread in the mouths of the women and the little babies, and they make the men drunken and no good. There used to be thirty of us in the band, and now there are only sixteen. Two of the men deserted their families since we came here, because they would not stay where there was no hooch." The girl ceased speaking and glanced quickly upward: "Snow!" she cried, "It is starting to snow, and darkness will soon be here. I must draw these caribou, before they freeze." She drew the knife from her belt and stepped to the carcass of the bull. But Brent took it from her hand.
"Let me do it," he said, eagerly, "You stand there and tell me how, and we'll have it done in no time."
"Tell you how!" exclaimed the girl, "What do you mean?" Brent laughed: "I'm afraid I'm still an awful chechako about some things. I can shoot them, all right, but there has always been someone to do the drawing, and skinning, and cutting up. But, I'll learn quickly. Where do I begin?"