“Me no got’m,” said John, sourly.
Garry turned to go, but paused, and asked idly after the dogs. Were there any good dogs to be had—say, round the Backs? No, only pups. All the grown sledge-dogs were dead of the sickness. Maybe the Montagnais at Moon River might have some. Garry crawled out, not stopping to argue that the Montagnais only had curs.
Once home, he thawed out the fish in the frying-pan. He was silent and very thoughtful. After he had served Kob and helped himself, he brought out the bottle, and sat holding it in both hands, reading and re-reading that unfinished message. At last, he stood up with a long sigh, stretching both arms above his head. He held them so a minute, still thinking. When he lowered his arms, he had made up his mind. He went slowly to the bunk.
“Kob!”
Kob blinked up at him, full-fed and kindly.
“Kob, I got to find out about this here—about this war.”
“Why, you’ll know when things open up in the spring, Garry.”
“I can’t wait so long. I have to know now, Kob. I guess I’ll have to make Fort Scarlett and—and find out.”
Kob lay motionless, staring up at him, and into his mild, pale eyes fear suddenly leapt, alive and vivid.
“You’d go to Fort Scarlett—go an’ leave me here like this—”