The Indian nodded.
"All time," he said decidedly. "No man, no pappoose, then squaw him mak trouble all time. It all same. Him find man sure. All man dam fool. Squaw mak him dam fool. Julyman stand by teepee. Him tak rawhide. Him say, 'do so!' Squaw him do. Julyman mak long trail. Him not care. Him come back him find plenty much other squaw. So!"
The Indian's watchful eyes had turned again to the tracks ahead. But he had seen. The humour had completely vanished out of Steve's eyes. So had his smile. Julyman's purpose was not quite clear. He loved and revered his chief. He had no desire to hurt him. But Steve knew that the man had been saying what he had said for his benefit.
"You're a damn scoundrel, Julyman," he said, and there was less than the usual tolerance in his tone.
The Indian shrugged under his furs.
"Julyman wise man," he protested. "All the time white man say, 'one squaw.' It good! So! It fine! Indian man say one—two—five—ten squaw. Then him not care little dam!"
Steve made no reply. The man's cynicism was sufficiently brutal to make it impossible to reply without heat. And Steve had no desire to quarrel with his chief lieutenant. Besides, he was deeply attached to the rascal. So they swung up the last sharp incline in the voiceless manner in which so much of their work was done.
It was Steve who reached the brow first, and it was his arm, and his voice that indicated the discoveries beyond.
"Right!" he exclaimed. "Look, Julyman," he went on pointing. "A lodge. A lodge of neches. And—see! What's that?" There was excitement in the tone of his question. "It's—a fort!" he cried, his eyes reflecting the excitement he could no longer restrain. "A—post! A white man's trading post! What in hell! Come on!"
He moved on impetuously, and in a moment the two men were speeding down the last incline.