"I fancy it might injure the lace curtains," laughed his brother, who looked as well pleased as any of the group, while touching the bit of calico draping at the tiny window.
But Pete was now going out of doors and they all trooped after him. Surrounding the Indian they plied him with a hundred questions. They wanted to know where he and his squaw had learned to make a home like this,—where he got so much of civilization,—who had taught his squaw to keep house,—who played the accordian,—where he got tools to work with, and many other things; above all, where he bought certain accessories to his cabin which they had never seen in Dawson.
Flinging, as they did, all these questions at the poor fellow in a breath, MacDougall feared he would be stalled for replies, and finally halted for him to make a beginning; but Pete only remarked quietly, twitching his thumb toward the southeast:
"Fort by big lake. White man,—mission,—teach um Indian," unconcernedly, as though it was of every day occurrence, and there was no further explanation necessary.
"Do they talk as we do?" asked MacDougall.
"No."
"What do you call them?"
"Father Petroff,—teach um. Indian sick,—fix um. Heap good man," and Pete turned away, thinking this sufficient.
"Ask him how far it is to the Fort, Mac," said one of the men.
"Not now. He has had enough quizzing for this time. It is evidently a Russian Mission on one of the big lakes,—which mission, and what lake, I don't know. But we must pitch our tents, cook our supper, and feed the dogs. Poor fellows! They shall have a good long rest soon for they've well earned it," and George MacDougall patted the snow white head of the nearest malamute looking up into his face for sympathy.