'MERICAN JOE
When Connie regained his feet Spur Mountain was silent as the tomb, and
for several moments he stood motionless gazing at the tawny shape that
lay still at the end of the stained trail, and at the patch of scrub
from which the shape had emerged. What was in that dark patch of brush?
Why had the wolves burst from it in terror? Why had the great leader
stayed until the snapping of the limb had frightened him away? And what
had happened to the wolf that lay dead in the snow? Slowly the boy
returned to his hiding place, picked up his rifle, and descended the
slope toward the patch of scrub. He stooped to examine the body of the
wolf. As he rolled it over his thoughts leaped to the great grey leader.
"Maybe his heart's all wolf," he muttered thoughtfully, as he stared at
the long slash that extended from the bottom of the flank upward almost
to the backbone--a slash as clean as if executed with a sharp knife,
and through which the animal's entrails had protruded and his life blood
had gushed to discolour the snow. "What did he do it for?" wondered
Connie as he turned from the carcass and proceeded cautiously into the
scrub.
Ten yards in he stumbled over a snow-covered object. It was a sledge of
curious design. "That's no Alaska sled," he muttered, as he stared about
him, his eyes seeking to pierce the darker gloom of the scrub. A few
feet from him was a curious white mound. Before the mound were many wolf
tracks, and there it was that the blotched trail began. Moving
cautiously, the boy examined the irregular snow-covered mound. At the
point where the wolf tracks converged he noticed a small triangular
patch of darkness close to the ground. Stooping he examined it closely
and found to his surprise that it was the opening of a shelter tent or
wikiup. Dropping upon his hands and knees he peered inside. In the
darkness he could make out nothing. Throwing off his mittens, he lighted
a match, and as the tiny flame threw its feeble light upon the interior
he made out at the farther side a gruesome looking mound of blankets.
The match burned his finger tips and the miserable shelter was once more
plunged in blackness. Involuntarily Connie shuddered. His first
inclination was to leave that place--to return to his camp and harness
his dogs and hit the back trail for Ten Bow--then, tomorrow--Even with
the thought his jaw stiffened: "If I do it'll be because I'm afraid," he
sneered. "What would my dad have done? What would Waseche do? Or Dan
McKeever? Or any of the boys? The very last thing in the world they
would do would be to run away! And I won't either. The first thing is to
find out who he is and how he comes to be lying dead way up here on Spur
Mountain."
Methodically the boy kicked the snow back from the door of the low
shelter tent, and gathering some dry branches built a fire. Then he
crawled inside, and by the light of the crackling flames proceeded to
examine the interior. One glance told the story. A battered aluminum
kettle, a small frying pan, and a canvas bag which contained nothing but
a small handful of tea, and the blankets he was wrapped in, constituted
the man's whole outfit. There was no grub--no weapon of any kind with
which to procure grub. He laid a hand on the blanket to roll the man
toward the light--and started so violently that he sent the frying pan
rattling against the kettle. For, instead of the rigid corpse of solid
ice he had expected to find, the blanket yielded beneath the pressure of
his hand! Either the man was alive, or had died so recently that his
body had not had time to freeze! Recovering himself instantly, Connie
ran his hand beneath the blanket. Yes, he was alive--there was heat
there--not much--but enough body-warmth to show that he still lived.
Scooping up a kettle of snow the boy set it upon the fire and, as it
melted, without uncovering the man, he fell to beating him with his
fists, to stimulate the lagging circulation. Heating the frying pan he
thrust it into the canvas bag and slipped it under the blankets and went
on with his beating. When the water began to boil, he withdrew the bag
and threw the tea into the kettle. Then he removed the outer blanket and
succeeded in rolling the unconscious form nearer to the fire. When he
uncovered the face he saw that the man was an Indian--a young buck of
twenty-five or thirty, and he wondered the more at his plight. Removing
the kettle from the fire, he set it beside him and succeeded in propping
the Indian's head upon his knees. With a tin cup, he dipped some
scalding tea from the kettle and allowing it to cool a little, dropped a
small quantity between the man's lips. At the third dose, the Indian
shuddered slightly, his lips moved, and he swallowed feebly. The next
time he swallowed as much as a spoonful, and then, double that amount.
After that his recovery was rapid. Before the cup was half empty he had
opened his eyes and blinked foolishly into Connie's face. He gulped
eagerly at the hot liquid, but the boy would allow him only a mouthful
at a time. When the cup was empty Connie refilled it. The Indian's lips
moved. He seemed to be trying to speak.
"Talk English?" encouraged the boy with a smile.
The other nodded: "Yes--_kloshe wawa_--me spik good."
"What's your name--_kahta mika nem_?"
The Indian seemed delighted to find that the boy could speak the jargon.
He smiled: "_Nika nem_ 'Merican Joe." And having imparted the
information, plunged into a rabble of jargon that the boy was at his
wit's end to follow.
He stopped him in the middle of it: "Look here, 'Merican Joe, you talk
English--she best to talk. You know all 'bout English?"
"Yes."
"Well, you talk it then. Listen--I've got a camp over across the ridge.
Plenty grub. I go get grub. You stay here. Half an hour I come back. We
eat big."
The Indian nodded vigorously, and as Connie turned toward the door he
recoiled, and involuntarily drew the knife from his belt. For there,
standing close beside the fire, his head and huge shoulders thrust into
the doorway, his eyes gleaming like live coals, stood the great grey
leader of the wolf pack!
'Merican Joe struggled to his elbow and stretched his hand toward the
superb brute: "Ah, come Leloo! _Nika skookum tkope leloo!_" (My big
white wolf). With a bound the great animal was at the Indian's side,
nuzzling, rooting at him, licking his hands and face with his long red
tongue. Connie sat fascinated at the sight, as the Indian tugged
playfully at the pointed ears and buried his hand in the long
shimmering hair of the enormous ruff. Then the great brute settled down
close against the blanket and, raising his head, eyed Connie
indifferently, and as if to emphasize his indifference he opened his
huge jaws in a prodigious yawn--a yawn that exposed the interior of his
cavernous mouth with its wealth of gleaming fangs.
The Indian thumped the brute on the ribs and pointed to the boy.
"_Skookum tillicum._" Leloo rose, stalked to the boy, deliberately
sniffed him over from top to toe, and resumed his place.
"Is he yours?" asked Connie eagerly. "Where did you get him? Have you
got any more of 'em?"
'Merican Joe laughed: "No--no more! No more lak heem een de worl'. Leloo
you frien', now. You com' een de daytam--een de night--Leloo no hurt."
"I hope you're right," laughed the boy, "I'm going after that grub now."
And throwing some more wood on the fire, he slipped from the scrub. As
he did so, there was a scattering of tawny shapes, and where the carcass
of the dead wolf had been, there were only gnawed fragments of bones.
When he returned Leloo met him at the edge of the scrub, eyed him for a
moment, and turning deliberately, led the way to the shelter tent.
Connie viewed 'Merican Joe's attack on the food with alarm. In vain he
cautioned the Indian to go slow--to eat lightly at first--but his only
answer was a grin, and a renewed attack on the grub. The boy had brought
with him from the camp, three cans of baked beans, a bag of pilot bread,
and several pounds of pemmican, and not until the last vestige of food
was consumed, did 'Merican Joe even pause. Then he licked his fingers
and asked for more. Connie told him that in the morning they would break
camp and hit for Ten Bow. Also, that when they crossed the ridge he
could have all the grub he wanted, and with that the Indian had to
content himself. While 'Merican Joe ate the boy cooked up some fish for
Leloo, who accepted it from his hand and then settled himself beside him
upon the blanket.
"Where did you come from? And where are you are going? And how did you
come to be out of grub?" asked Connie, when 'Merican Joe had lighted a
villainous looking black pipe.
"Me--I'm com' far," he pointed toward the east. "I'm goin' to
Kuskokwim. A'm liv' on Kuskokwim--be'n gon' t'ree year. I'm los' my
outfit w'en de ice brek on Charley River, 'bout ten day 'go."
"And you kept on for the Kuskokwim without any grub, and with no rifle!"
"Yes--I'm lucky I'm hav' my blankets an' kettle on de front of de
sled--de ice no ketch."
"But where did you get the dog--or wolf--or whatever Leloo is?"
"I'm git heem ver' far--" again he paused and pointed to the east.
"Beyond the big mountains?"
"Yes."
"Beyond the big river--the Mackenzie?"
"Yes. I'm desert from de whaler wan year 'go. I com' on de--w'at you
call Innuit. I liv' wit dem long tam. All tam snow. All tam ice. All tam
col'. 'Cross de big water--de sea--" he pointed north. "Cross on ice.
Com' on de lan'--beeg lan', all rock, an' snow an' ice. We hunt de musk
ox. T'ree, four day we mush nort'. _Spose_ bye-m-bye we fin' ol'
_igloo_. Woof! Out jomp de beeg white wolf! Mor' bigger as any wolf I
ever seen. I take my rifle an' shoot heem, an' w'en de shot mak' de
beeg noise, out com' anudder wan. She aint' so beeg--an' she ain' white
lak de beeg wolf. She ron an' smell de dead wolf. She look on us. She
look on our sled dogs. She com' close. Den she run off agin. An' she
mak' all de tam de leetle whine. She ain' no wolf--she dog! Bye-m-bye
she ron back in _igloo_. Ol' Sen-nick him say dat bad medicine--but me,
I ain' care 'bout de Innuit medicine, an' I fol' de dog. I start to
crawl een de _igloo_ an' dat dog she growl lak she gon eat me oop. I
com' back an' mak' de snare an' pull her out, an' I gon' on een, an' I
fin' wan leetle pup. He ees de gran pup. Him look lak de beeg white wolf
an' I ketch um. Een de snow w'ere de roof cave een sticks out som'
seal-skin _mukluks_. Lays a dead man dere. I tak hol' an' try to pull um
out but she too mooch froze. So I quit try an' lef' heem dere."
"Was it a white man?" cried Connie.
'Merican Joe shook his head: "I ain' know--I can't pull heem out. Dat
good plac' to lef' heem anyhow. He frooze lak' de iron. I hont roun' an'
he ain' lef' no grub. Him starve an' freeze, an' hees dogs is all dead
but wan, an' she mate oop wit' de beeg white wolf. I giv' ol' Sen-nick
de dog an' I kep' de pup. See, Leloo ees de pup. Mos' two year ol'--an'
de bes' sled dog een all de worl'!"
As Connie watched 'Merican Joe refill his pipe he thought how near
history had come to repeating itself. The boy studied Leloo as he lay
quiet upon the edge of the blanket. He had heard of the great white
wolves that inhabit the drear lone lands that lie beyond the arctic
coast--larger even than the grey caribou wolves of the barren lands. He
knew, now, that these stories were true.
"You called Leloo a dog," he said, "but he's only half dog, and sometime
he may turn wolf."
'Merican Joe shrugged: and eyed the great wolf-dog sombrely: "No, him
ain' never turn wolf--Leloo. Him half-wolf--half-dog, but de wolf an' de
dog ain' separat', lak de front legs, an' de hin' legs. De wolf an' de
dog is mix', lak de color een de hair. You savvy? Leloo ain' never all
wolf--an' he ain' never all dog. All de tam' he wolf an' dog mix'."
Connie nodded eagerly. "I see!" he answered, and his thoughts flew to
the great brute he had seen only a few hours before running at the head
of the wolf pack. No hint of the dog in that long-drawn wolf-howl that
had brought him tensely erect in his tent and started the hair roots to
prickling along his scalp, and no hint of the dog in the silent slashes
with which he had resented the crowding of the pack. And yet a few
moments later he had defended his helpless master from that same wolf
pack--and in defending him with the devotion of the dog, he had ripped
with the peculiar flank-slash that is the death thrust of the wolf.
Later, in the tent, he had fawned dog-like upon his master--but,
wolf-like, the fawning had been soundless.
"You know Leloo well," he said.
'Merican Joe smiled: "I raised heem from de pup. I learn heem to pull.
He ees de gran' leader. I train heem to hont de caribou--de moose--de
deer. I show you som' tam. He kin fight--kill any dog--any wolf. He ain'
never git tire. He work all day lak de dog--an' all night mebbe-so he
ron wit' de wolf-pack."
"You say you've been over east of the Mackenzie; is there gold over
there?"
"I ain' see no gold."
"I'm going over there."
"W'en you go?"
"Just as soon as I can get an outfit together."
"Me--I'm goin' 'long."
"Going along! Will you go?"
'Merican Joe nodded: "You _skookum tillicum_. 'Merican Joe, she
dead--she starve--she froze--you com' 'long, mak' de fire--give de
grub--I ain' dead no mor'. I go 'long."
"Do you think there's a good chance to prospect over there? What's the
formation?"
"I ain' know mooch 'bout dat, w'at you call, fo'mation. Plent'
riv--plent' crick. Mebbe-so plent' gol'--I ain' know. But, on de barrens
is Injuns. W'en I com' way from de Innuit, I fin' um. Dey got plent'
fur. Eef you got nuff stake for tradin' outfit you mak' de beeg
money--you ain' care eef de gol' aint' dere."
"You meaning trading with the Indians--free trading?"
"Yes--de free traders skin 'em--dey cheat 'em--an' sell de hooch----"
"But--the Hudson's Bay Company! How about them?"
"De H.B.C. all right--but dey ain' go out after de Injun. Dey got de
reg'lar post. De Injun got to mush mebbe-so mor' as hondre mile--two
hondre. _Spose_ de free traders ketch um firs'. De Injun never git to de
post. You got nuff for de stake?"
Connie laughed: "Yes, I've got enough for the stake, all right. But I'm
not so keen for the trading outfit. We can take along some traps,
though, and if there isn't any gold--we'll take out some fur. And,
you'll sure go with me? When can you start?"
The Indian glanced out of the low door. "It daylight--le's go."
"But, how about the Kuskokwim?"
'Merican Joe shrugged. "Kuskokwim kin wait. She ain' no good. Me--I'm
stay 'long wit' you. You pay me wages w'at you want. I good man--me. You
wait--I show you. You good man, too. I seen plent' good man--plent' bad
man--I know--me."
The Indian reached out his hand, and Connie shook it--and thus was the
bargain struck.
"Will you sell Leloo?" asked the boy.
The Indian shook his head: "No!"
"Five hundred dollars?"
"No! Fi' hondre dolla--fi't'ousan' dolla--no!" The Indian crawled out
the door followed by Connie and Leloo. Going to the sled, 'Merican Joe
picked up a loop of _babiche_ line and threw it about Leloo's neck. He
handed the end of the line to Connie. "Leloo heem you dog," he said.
"What!" cried the boy.
"Heem b'long you--I giv' heem----"
"No! No! Let me buy him."
The Indian drew himself erect: "I ain' sell Leloo. You giv' me my
life--I giv' you Leloo. Me--'Merican Joe good man. You good man. Wan
good man wit' anodder. It ees frien's."
So Connie Morgan took the line from the hand of 'Merican Joe and as his
eyes rested upon the superb lines of the great silver brute, his heart
thrilled with the knowledge that he was the possessor of the greatest
wolf-dog in all the North.