"You Boston man."
"No—I'm from Tennessee. But we'll overlook even that. How much you pack it over the pass." Brent pointed to the flour and held up ten fingers.
The Indian turned to his followers and spoke to them in guttural jargon. They nodded assent, and he turned to Brent: "Top Chilkoot fi' cent poun'—hondre poun', fi' dolla. Lak Lindermann, three cent poun' mor'—hondre poun' all way, eight dolla."
"You're on!" agreed Brent, "Thousand pounds, eighty dollars—all the way."
The Indian nodded, and Brent produced a ten dollar gold piece which he handed to the man, indicated that he would get the rest when they reached Lake Lindermann.
The Indian motioned to the smallest of his followers and pointing to the sack of flour, mumbled some words of jargon, whereupon the man stepped to the pack, removed Brent's straps and producing straps of his own swung the burden to his back and started off at a brisk walk.
As Brent led the way back to the beach at the head of his Indians he turned more than once to glance back at the solitary packer, but as far as he could see him, the man continued to swing along at the same brisk pace at which he had started, whereat he conceived a sudden profound respect for his hirelings. "The littlest runt of the bunch has got me skinned a thousand miles," he muttered, "But I'll learn the trick. A year from now I'll hit the trail with any of 'em."
Back at the beach the Indians were surrounded by thirty-nine clamoring, howling men who pushed and jostled one another in a frenzied attempt to hire the packers.
"No, you don't!" cried Brent, "These men are working for me. When I'm through with them you can have them, and not before."
Ugly mutterings greeted the announcement.