It was out of this spirit of happy satisfaction he had abandoned his place at the head of the outfit, and dropped abreast of his white companion. For once in his life it was his desire to talk. And the inspiration came from the fulness of his savage heart.
“The white mother much glad bimeby,” he said, in his curious halting fashion.
Clarence nodded. He paused a moment and ran his strong hands down the legs of his buckskin nether garments. The ice cold water of the river was partially squeezed out of them, but they remained saturated and chilly to the sturdy legs they covered.
“Sure,” he said in brief agreement.
“I think much,” Usak went on. “This winter trail. You mak him with me? Him Kid much good trail man. Plenty big white heart. She mak ’em good, yes. But she much soft white woman. Winter trail him hard. Placer long piece far. It no good. No. Clarence big trail man now. Snow. Ice. Storm. It nothing to big trail man Clarence—now. You come mak him with Usak? Then him Kid sleep good by the farm. All time much warm. All time much eat good. Yes?”
The boy looked up into the darkly shadowed face in the starlit night as they walked rapidly behind the great deer who were hurrying towards the homestead which they knew lay ahead. For all his weariness a great pride uplifted the youth. The desperate winter trail. The long trail which hitherto had been steadily denied him by reason of his youth and lacking experience. Usak had bid him face it. The vanity of the youth flamed up in him.
“You mean that, Usak?” he demanded sharply. And the Indian realised the tone.
“The winter trail for big man,” he said, subtly.
“Yes.”
Clarence drew a deep breath. Then after a moment he went on. And again the Indian recognised and approved the new tone that rang in his voice.