Then he moved quickly to the boy’s side and took the pan and camp kettle from his hands. And his actions were accompanied by a swift protest in a voice that rarely softened.
“Him Injun work,” he said gruffly. And the manner of it left no doubt as to the definite understanding of their relations. It was the man’s fierce pride that his mission was to serve the white folk entrusted to his care.
Clarence yielded, but his thin cheeks flushed. Then he laughed but without mirth. He was a strapping youth of unusual physique. At sixteen he was all the man his mother claimed for him, for somehow the hardship of the trail had eaten into his youthful character and robbed it of the boyhood his years should have made his. He was serious, completely serious, and his freckled face and brown eyes looked something weary of the labour thus early flung on him.
“It’s most always that way, Usak,” he grumbled sharply. “Nothin’s my work you’ve got time to do.”
The Indian made no reply. He moved quickly over to the three great caribou, standing ready for the trail, harnessed to their long, trailing carryalls. They were fine, powerful bucks, long-trained to the work, and their widespreading, downy antlers, now in full growth and almost ready for their annual shedding, indicated their tally of years in the service of the northern trail. He bestowed the gear in its allotted place in the outfit and returned to the fire.
For a few moments he held out his brown hands to the warming embers, squatting low on his haunches. Then he turned to the boy. His reply to the youth’s challenge had been carefully considered.
“What you mak him this word?” he said, in his harsh way. “You my white boss I lak him mak work for. It good. Oh, yes. Someday it come you grow big white man lak to the good boss, Marty. I know. Then you think ’em this dam Injun no good. Him mak white boy-work for him. No good. I, whiteman, no work for Injun man. Oh no.” His black eyes smiled, and his smile had no more softness in it than his frown. “I tell you,” he went on. “I think much big think. You mak big trail man bimeby. Bimeby Usak die dead. Maybe he get kill ’em all up on winter trail. Who knows? Then he think much for him Kid. He think much for him white-mother, Hesther. Him say, Usak all dead. No matter. Him Clarence big fine trail man. Him mak good all thing Usak no more do. So Usak not care the big spirit tak him. So. Whiteman tell Injun all time work. It so. The good boss, Marty, speak so. Injun man no good, never.”
Clarence turned quickly. He, too, was squatting over the welcome fire. A sharp retort was on his lips. He knew that the Indian was his master on the trail. He knew that the man was almost superhuman in his ability. He knew that the man’s desire was just as he said. But somehow the spirit in him refused to accept the other’s self-abnegation. Usak was his teacher, not his servant. And somehow he felt there was no right, no justice, for all the difference in colour, that this creature should so humble himself by reason of that absurd difference.
But his lips closed again without a spoken word. He was held silent under the sway of the man’s powerful influence. And so, as it was always, Usak had his way.
After a moment the white youth accepted the position thrust on him.