"Him—Unaga," was all he said.
Steve followed the direction of the mitted hand pointing northward, and the smile died out of his eyes. That strange Spire filled his memory still in spite of himself. Something of the Indian's awe communicated itself to him.
But he thrust it from him and gazed out ahead again, searching the tracks they were following.
"We'll find something, anyway," he said presently. "This track's not half a day old. There's folks beyond the rise. Say, maybe we can winter hereabouts, and work along the coast. The coast line's warmer. It never hits zero on the coast till you make inside the Arctic Circle. We'll get back to home next winter. It'll be good getting back to your squaws on Caribou, eh?"
There was a note in Steve's voice which did not fail to impress itself on the Indian's keen understanding. He knew his boss was thinking of his own white squaw and the pretty blue eyes of the pappoose which made the father forget every trouble and concern when he gazed down into them. Oh, yes, Julyman understood. He understood pretty well every mood of his boss. And who should understand them if he did not? Men on the trail together learn to read each other like a book.
"Squaws him trash!" exclaimed the Indian. And he spat to emphasize his cynical opinion.
"Some squaws," corrected Steve.
Julyman glanced at him from the corners of eyes which had become mere slits before the biting drift of the wind.
"All squaw," he said doggedly. Then he went on. "Squaw him all smile. Him soft. Him mak dam fool of Indian man. Squaw no good—only mak pappoose, feed pappoose. Raise him. All the time squaw mak pappoose. Him not think nothin' more. Just pappoose. Indian man think all things. Him squaw only mak pappoose an'—trouble."
"Trouble?" Steve's smile was alight with humour.