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Steve and his Indians had returned again to the reality of things. Steve drew a deep breath. "We can't make another yard with the dogs," he said. "The snow's gone. It's gone for keeps." It was a simple statement of the facts. And Oolak and Julyman were equally alive to them. "Then him all mak' back?" There was eagerness in Julyman's question.
Maybe he was looking down into the depths of the basket which held the little white pappoose back there in his home. It was good to look at the little pappoose when there was trouble at the back of a father's eyes. It made the trouble much better. How he hated the white man, Hervey Garstaing. For once Julyman's instincts were at fault.
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.
"If he didn't take all that's coming his way at a dance," broke in the doctor's genial voice, with a laugh. The wagon was abreast of him, and Julyman's eyes were studiously concerned with the glowing heart of the fire. But nothing escaped them. Nothing ever did escape them. He closely scanned the occupants of the wagon. Dr. and Mrs.
And how he hated the sound of that voice. "Why, say, Dora," he heard him exclaim in good-natured protest, as the outline of the team loomed up out of the distance. "I don't guess Mrs. Allenwood and I sat out but two dances. Ain't that so, Nita?" Julyman's ears suddenly pricked. He may have been an uncultured savage, but he was a man, and very human.
"You can feel it now," Steve said, thrusting a hand under his fur helmet. A moment later he withdrew fingers that were moist with sweat. "If the wind came down at us out of the hills now we'd need to quit our furs. Do you get that? Quit our furs here in the dead of winter. It's getting warmer every mile." "It warm. Much warm. Oh, yes." Julyman's resources of imagination were being sorely taxed.
It was dark, dark, in contrast to the crystal splendour outspread, and frowned with the unyielding hue of the barren rock. "Boss look!" It was the first intimation of Julyman's presence. Steve accepted it without question. He was wholly absorbed in what he beheld. The Indian was at his side pointing at the monstrous tower. "Him Unaga Unaga Spire. Julyman know. Him Father wise man.
Then I laff like hell." Julyman's sympathy warmed. He felt he had struck the right note. His wide Indian face lit with an unusual smile. "Missis, him young. Very much young," he observed profoundly. "Him lak dance plenty heap. It good. Very good. Bimeby winter him come. Cold lak hell. Missis no laff. Missis not go out. Boss him by the long trail. So. Missis him sit. Oh yes.
The heart of Unaga was bared for all to see, that fierce heart which drives the bravest Indian tongue to the hush of dread. "We not mak' him that! Oh, no!" Julyman's tone was hushed and fearful. He moved close to the white man in urgent appeal. "Boss Steve not mak' him. No. Julyman all come dead. Julyman not mush on. Oh, no." "Julyman'll do just as 'Boss' Steve says."
"All Indians sleeps. All winter. My Pop says so. So does Uncle Cy. They sleeps all the time. Only An-ina don't sleep. 'Cep' at night. I doesn't sleep 'cep' at night. Indians does." The white man and Indian exchanged glances. Julyman's was triumphant. Steve's was negatively smiling. He looked up into the child's face which was just above his level. "These Indians sleep all winter?" he questioned.
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