"Yes," answered Reeves, and drawing on cap and mittens, pushed out into the storm.
Hardly had the door closed behind him, than it opened again and Brent also disappeared in the storm.
In a little shack upon the river bank, an Indian grunted sleepily in answer to an insistent banging upon his door: "Hey, Joe Pete, come out here! I want you!"
A candle flared dully, and presently the door opened, and a huge Indian stood in the doorway rubbing his eyes with his fist.
"Come with me," ordered Brent, "To the cabin."
Silently the Indian slipped into his outer clothing and followed, and without a word of explanation, Brent led the way to his cabin. For a half hour they sat in silence, during which Brent several times drank from his bottle. Presently Reeves entered and laid a pouch upon the table. He looked questioningly at the Indian who returned the scrutiny with a look of stolid indifference.
"Joe Pete, this is Mr. Reeves. Reeves, that Injun is Joe Pete, the best damned Injun in Alaska, or anywhere else. Used to pack over the Chilkoot, until he made so much money he thought he'd try
his hand at the gold—now he's broke. Joe Pete is going with me. He and I understand each other perfectly." He picked up the sack and handed it to the Indian: "Two thousand dolla—pil chikimin. Go to police, find out trail to Mackenzie—Fort Norman. How many miles? How many days? Buy grub for two. Buy good dogs and sled. Buy two outfits clothes—plenty tabac. Keep rest of pil chikimin safe until two days on trail, then give it to me. We hit the trail at eight o'clock tomorrow morning."
Without a word the Indian took the sack and slipped silently out the door, while Reeves stared in astonishment:
"You've got a lot of confidence in that Indian!" he exclaimed. "I wouldn't trust one of them out of my sight with a dollar bill!"