"Next thing is to git him woke up," answered the Captain. Aloud, he called to Joe Pete: "All right, come on in an' give us a hand, yer pardner's stewed to the guards, an' it ain't goin' to be no cinch to wake him up."
The door opened, and Brent's heart gave a leap as he felt the hand of the big Indian upon his shoulder. If anything should go wrong now, at least the odds against him were greatly reduced insofar as the occupants of the cabin were concerned. But, there would still be the crew—they could shoot from the cover of the igloos— The hand was shaking him roughly, and it was with a feeling of vast relief that Brent allowed his head to roll about upon the stiffened muscles of his neck. A glass was pressed to his lips, and there was nothing feigned in the coughing with which he sought to remove the strangling liquor from his throat. His eyes opened, and the next instant a dipper of cold water was dashed into his face. The shaking continued, and he babbled feeble protest: "Lemme 'lone. G'way—le'me sleep!" The shaking was redoubled, and Brent blinked stupidly, and feigned maudlin anger
as the Indian slapped him with the flat of his hand, first on one cheek and then on the other. "Who you slappin'," he muttered, thickly, as he staggered to his feet and stood swaying and holding to the table for support, "C'm on an' fight!" he challenged, acting his part to a nicety, glaring owlishly about, "I c'n lick y'all. Gi'me some water, I'm burnin' up." A dipper of water was thrust into his hands and he drained it in huge gulps, "What's goin' on here?" he asked, apparently revived a little by the water, "Gi'me some hooch!"
Claw laid a conciliating hand upon his arm: "Listen, Ace-In-The-Hole," he purred, "Not no more hooch right now. It's startin' to snow, an' you got to be hittin' fer camp. Look a here," he picked up a corked bottle and extended it to Brent, "Here's a bottle fer you. Wait till you git to camp, and then go to it. 'Twon't take you only a little while—but you got to git goin'. If she thicks up on you before you git to the mountains you'll be in a hell of a fix—but you got time to make it if the Siwash will shove the dogs along. Better let him ride the sled," he said, turning to Joe Pete, "You'll make better time."
Brent took the bottle and slipped it beneath his parka: "How much?" he asked, fumbling clumsily for his sack.
"That's all right," assured Claw, "Tain't nothin' 't all. It's a present from me an' Cap. Shows we know how to treat a friend. Come over an' see us
agin, when the storm lets up. Yer welcome to anything we got."
"Much 'blige, Claw," mumbled Brent, blinking with solemn gravity, as he smothered an impulse to reach out and crush the man's wind-pipe in the grip of his hand, "Didn't know you was good fren' of mine. Know it—now—an' you, too, Cap—an' you, too, Snaggs."
"Scroggs," corrected the mate, "Asa Scroggs."
"Sure—Scroggs—'scuse me—mus' be little full. My name's Ace, too—Ace-In-The-Hole—pair of aces, haw, haw, haw! Pair to draw to, I'll say. Well, s'long. Tell you what," he said, as he turned to the door, leaning heavily upon Joe Pete, "You come on over to my camp, when the storm lets up. Right on the river—can't miss it—Bloody Falls—where Old Hearne's Injuns butchered the poor Eskimos—damn shame! Bring over plenty of hooch—I've got the dust to pay for it—bring dozen bottles—plenty dust back there in camp—an' it'll be my treat."