"I can't eat. I'm sick. Hurry up and finish, and hit the back-trail as fast as those dogs can travel."
Joe Pete finished his meal, washed the cups, and returned the cooking outfit to its appointed place on the load.
"You goin' ride?" he asked.
"No, I'll walk. Got to walk a while or I'll freeze."
The Indian produced from the pack a pair of snowshoes and helped Brent to fasten them on. Then he swung the dogs onto the trail and continued on his course.
"Here you!" cried Brent, "Pull those dogs around! We're going back to Dawson."
Joe Pete halted the dogs and walked back to where Brent stood beside the doused fire: "Mebbe-so we goin' back Dawson," he said, "But, firs' we goin' Fo't Norman. You tak hol' tail-rope, an' mush."
A great surge of anger swept Brent. His eyes,
red-rimmed and swollen from liquor, and watery from the glare of the new fallen snow, fairly blazed. He took a step forward and raised his arm as though to strike the Indian: "What do you mean? Damn you! Who is running this outfit? I've changed my mind. I'm not going to Fort Norman."
Joe Pete did not even step back from the up-lifted arm. "You ain' change my min' none. You droonk. I ain' hear you talk. Bye-m-bye, you git sober, Joe Pete hear you talk. You grab tail-rope now or I tie you oop agin."