CHAPTER XII
ON THE TRAIL
At noon Joe Pete swung the outfit into the lee of a thicket, built a fire, and brewed tea. Brent woke up and the Indian loosened the babiche line that had secured him, coiled the rope carefully, and without a word, went on with his preparation of the meal. Brent staggered and stumbled about in the snow in an effort to restore circulation to his numbed arms and legs. His head ached fiercely, and when he could in a measure control his movements, he staggered to the fire. Joe Pete tendered him a cup of steaming tea. Brent smelled of the liquid with disgust: "To hell with tea!" he growled thickly, "I want hooch. I've got to have it—just one drink."
Joe Pete drank a swallow of tea, and munched unconcernedly at a piece of pilot bread.
"Give me a drink of hooch! Didn't you hear me? I need it," demanded Brent.
"Hooch no good. Tea good. Ain' got no hooch—not wan drink."
"No hooch!" cried Brent, "I tell you I've got to
have it! I thought I could get away with it, this trailing without hooch—but, I can't. How far have we come?"
"Bout 'leven mile."
"Well, just as soon as you finish eating you turn that dog team around. We're going back." Brent was consumed by a torturing thirst. He drank the tea in great gulps and extended his cup for more. He drank a second and a third cup, and the Indian offered him some bread. Brent shook his head: