“That trader feller didn’t reckon that way,” he said. “There isn’t a thing to worry from here to the Great Falls,” he said. “And Loon Creek is twenty miles this side of them. We’re liable to find it tough on the creek. But that’s not new. We’ll be at work then with a fixed headquarters, and we can travel light. Ben Needham said we could get through this stuff if we fancied taking a chance. He guessed if we knew it there wasn’t any sort of chance about it. Well, we don’t know it. And I’m taking no chances. You see, there’s more to this thing than chasing a simple gold trail.” He laughed. “Guess we aren’t civilians any longer. We’re police. You and me, and Mike. And we’ve got our orders from our superiors who don’t stand for disobedience. We’re being paid a dollar a day to make good. And I don’t reckon the police pay out such a powerful bunch of money to folks to make a failure. Come right on. We’ll get back and eat. Then we’ll start in on the portage.”
They re-traced their steps to the camp that had been pitched well below the rough waters.
It was a busy scene. The five great laden canoes were moored nose on to the bank, and two smaller vessels were drawn up clear of the water on the mud. It was an imposing fleet, equipped to the last detail, and old Ben Needham had done it less than justice when he had contemptuously characterised it for the benefit of the Kid. This was no Cheechako outfit laden with the useless equipment engendered of inexperience.
It was an equipment such as only the wide experience of Wilder and Chilcoot could have designed. It was made up of everything which the outlands of the North demanded, from dogs and sleds to a miniature army of Breeds and hard-living whitemen, armed to encounter human hostility as well as the fiercest onslaughts of Nature’s most antagonistic moods. Furthermore, full preparation for a long sojourn in an inhospitable region had been made.
Hot food had been made ready when they reached the camp, and dogs and men were busily engaged satisfying keen appetite for all the fierce heat of the day and the shadelessness prevailing everywhere. The leader’s camp had been set apart, and Red Mike, a red-haired, giant Irishman, whose only sober moments were breathed beyond the drink-laden atmosphere of the dance halls of Placer, was awaiting their return. He was third in command, and his responsibility was that of quartermaster, and river man, and for the discipline of the ruffian crew of the expedition. His greeting was characteristic.
“Chance is the salt of life,” he cried, in a pleasant brogue, addressing Wilder. “Are we takin’ it, boss?”
Wilder shook his head.
“No,” he said.
“Then sure you’ll set in an’ eat,” was the prompt retort. “Guess portage was invented by the divil himself, an’ the Holy Fathers don’t reckon we need to get in a hurry knockin’ at Hell’s gates. This sow-belly’s as tough as dried snakes. I don’t seem to notice even the flies yearning. Tea? Gee! It’s poor sort of hooch, even when you’ve skimmed the stewed flies clear. I—Mother of Snakes! Wher’ did that come from?”
The man’s blue eyes were turned on the shining waters. His roving gaze had been caught by the sight of a small hide kyak heading for the camp. It was propelled by a single paddle dipping in the noiseless fashion which belongs to the river Indians. And he squatted with a mouthful of sow-belly poised ready to be devoured.