BRASS
It was high noon, just two weeks from the day Connie Morgan and 'Merican
Joe pulled out of Ten Bow, and the two halted their dogs on the summit
of Bonnet Plume Pass and gazed out over the jumbled mass of peaks and
valleys and ridges that lay to the eastward. The first leg of the long
snow trail, from Ten Bow to Dawson, had been covered over a
well-travelled trail with road houses at convenient intervals. Over this
trail with Connie's team of seven big malamutes, headed by the great
ruffed wolf-dog, they had averaged forty miles a day.
At Dawson they outfitted for the trip to Fort Norman, a distance of
about five hundred miles. Connie was fortunate in being able to purchase
from a prospector eight Mackenzie River dogs which he presented to
'Merican Joe, much to the Indian's surprise and delight. The Alaska
sled was replaced by two toboggans, and 'Merican Joe nodded approval at
Connie's selection of supplies. For from now on there would be no road
houses and, for the most of the way, no trail. And their course would
thread the roughest country on the whole continent. Therefore, the
question of outfitting was a problem to be taken seriously. Too little
grub in the sub-arctic in winter means death--horrible, black-tongued,
sunken-eyed death by starvation and freezing. And too much outfit means
overstrain on the dogs, slower travel, and unless some of it is
discarded or _cached_, it means all kinds of trouble for the trail
mushers.
The surest test of a sourdough is his outfit. Connie figured the trip
should take thirty-five days, which should put them into Fort Norman on
the fifth of November. But Connie had been long enough in the North to
take that word "should" none too literally. He knew that under very
favourable conditions the trip might be made in twenty days, and he knew
also that it might take fifty days. Therefore although the month was
November, a very favourable month for hunting, and the country to be
traversed was good game country, he did not figure his rifle for a
single pound of meat. If meat were killed on the journey, well and good.
But if no meat were killed, and if they lost their way, or encountered
blizzard after howling blizzard, and their journey lengthened to fifteen
or twenty days beyond the estimated time, Connie was determined that it
should also be well and good.
He remembered men who had been found in the spring and
buried--_chechakos_, most of them who had disregarded advice, and whose
outfits had been cut down to a minimum that allowed no margin of safety
for delay. But some of them had been sourdoughs who had taken a chance
and depended on their rifles for food--it had been the same in the end.
In the spring the men who buried them read the whole story of the
wilderness tragedy in visiting their last few camps. Each day the
distance between them shortened, here a dog was killed and eaten, here
another, and another, until at the very last camp, half buried in the
sodden ashes of the last fire, would be found the kettle with its scraps
of moccasins and bits of dog harness shrivelled and dried--moccasin
soup, the very last hopeless expedient of the doomed trail musher. And
generally the grave was dug beside this fire--never far beyond it.
And so Connie added a safety margin to the regular sub-arctic standard
of grub for the trail, and when the outfit pulled out of Dawson the
toboggans carried three and one half pounds of grub apiece for each of
the thirty-five days, which was a full half pound more than was needed,
and this, together with their outfit of sleeping bags, clothing,
utensils, and nine hundred pounds of dog food, totalled thirteen hundred
and fifty pounds--ninety pounds to the dog, which with good dogs is a
comfortable load.
The summit of the Bonnet Plume pass is a bleak place. And dreary and
bleak and indescribably rugged is the country surrounding it. Connie and
'Merican Joe, seated in the lee of their toboggans, boiled a pot of tea
over the little primus stove.
"We've made good time so far," said the boy. "About three hundred miles
more and we'll hit Fort Norman."
'Merican Joe nodded. "Yes, but we got de luck. On dis side we ain' gon'
hav' so mooch luck. Too mooch plenty snow--plenty win'. An' tonight,
mor' comin'." He indicated the sky to the northward, where, beyond the
glittering white peaks, the blue faded to a sullen grey.
"You're right," answered Connie, dropping a chunk of ice into his cup of
scalding tea. "And I'd sure like to make a patch of timber. These high,
bare canyons are rotten places to camp in a blizzard. If you camp in the
middle of 'em you've got to tie yourself down or the wind might hang you
on a rock somewhere, and if you camp out of the wind against a wall, a
snow cornice might bust loose and bury you forty feet deep."
'Merican Joe grinned. "You sourdough--you know. I know you sourdough
w'en I seen you han'le de dogs--an' I know w'en you buy de grub. But
mos' I know w'en you pack de toboggan--you ain' put all de grub on wan
toboggan an' all de odder stuff on de odder toboggan----"
Connie laughed. "Lots of men have made that mistake. And then if they
get separated one dies of starvation, and the other freezes to death, or
if they lose one toboggan they're in the same fix."
'Merican Joe returned the dishes and stove to the pack and glanced at
the sky. "I ain' t'ink we mak' de timber tonight. She git dark queek
now--seven, eight mile mor' we got to camp."
"Yes," assented Connie. "And the days are getting so short that from now
on we'll quit camping at noon. We'll pull once and make a day of
it--anyway till we get a moon."
[Illustration: "In the whirling blizzard, without protection of timber,
one place was as good as another to camp, and while the Indian busied
himself with the dogs, Connie proceeded to dig a trench in the snow."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
To this plan the Indian readily agreed and a moment later struck out
ahead as "forerunner" to break trail for the dogs. Despite the fact that
there was more snow on the eastern slope, the two soon found it
insufficient to check the toboggans upon the series of steep pitches and
long slopes they now encountered. At the end of a mile a halt was made,
Connie's dogs were turned loose to follow, both toboggans were hitched
behind the Mackenzie River dogs, and while 'Merican Joe plodded ahead,
Connie had all he could do at the tail rope. An hour later the wind
suddenly changed and came roaring out of the north. The whole sky became
overcast and stinging particles of flinty snow were driven against their
faces. The storm increased in fury. The stinging particles changed to
dry, powdery snow dust that whirled and eddied about them so thickly
that Connie could not see the dogs from the rear of the toboggans.
Covering their noses and mouths, the two bored on through the white
smother--a slow moving, ghostly procession, with the snow powder matted
thick into the hairy coats of the dogs and the clothing of the mushers.
Not until darkness added to the impenetrability of the storm did
'Merican Joe halt. In the whirling blizzard, without protection of
timber, one place was as good as another to camp, and while the Indian
busied himself with the dogs Connie proceeded to dig a trench in the
snow. This trench was as long as the toboggans, and wide enough to
accommodate the two sleeping bags placed side by side. Three feet down
the boy struck ice. The sleeping bags, primus stove, and part of the
food were dumped into the trench. The loaded toboggans were tipped on
edge, one along either side, and the heavy canvas shelter tarp was
stretched over these and weighted down by doubling its edges under the
toboggans. The open ends were blocked with snow, the dogs fed and left
to make their own beds, and the two crawled into their snug quarters
where by the light of a candle they prepared a good hot meal on the
little stove and devoured it in warmth and comfort while the storm
roared harmlessly over their heads.
For two days they were storm bound, venturing out only to feed the dogs
and from time to time to relieve the tarp roof of its burden of snow.
The third day dawned cold and clear, and daylight found the outfit on
the move. They were following a creek bed, and the depth of the snow,
together with the easing of the slope, permitted the use of both teams.
No halt was made at noon and when they camped at dark they estimated
they had made fifteen miles. Five days of fair cold weather followed and
each night found them from fifteen to eighteen miles from the camp of
the night before. No game had been sighted, but on two of the nights
Leloo had left camp, and once, from some ridge far to the northward,
they had heard his long-drawn howl of the kill.
On the sixth day another storm broke. They were following the
snow-covered bed of a fair-sized river which Connie hoped would prove to
be the head-waters of the Gravel, which empties into the Mackenzie some
forty-five miles above Fort Norman. They had left the highest mountains
behind, and patches of timber appeared at frequent intervals along the
banks of the stream. As the storm thickened they camped, setting up
their tent in the shelter of a thicket, and in the morning they pushed
on despite the storm. It was nearly noon when Connie called to 'Merican
Joe, and when the Indian made his way back, the boy pointed to Leloo.
The great wolf-dog had halted in the traces and stood with nose up
sniffing the air, while the huge ruff seemed to swell to twice its size,
and the hair along its spine bristled menacingly.
They had stopped opposite a patch of timber taller than any they had
passed, the tops of the trees being visible between the gusts of
whirling snow. "Moose or a bear in there," ventured Connie. "Let's go
get him."
'Merican Joe shook his head. "No. Leloo, he ketch de man scent. He ain'
ac' lak dat for moose an' bear."
"Man scent! What would any men be doing up here?"
The Indian shrugged. "Hunt, trap, mebbe-so prospeck. Com' on, le's go.
It ain' no good we go in dere." He paused and pointed to the dog. "Bad
mans in dere--Leloo, he know. Bad mans smells one way--good mans smells
anudder way. Leloo ain' git mad for good mans."
"We can't go away and leave them," Connie answered. "They may be out of
luck--may need help."
Again 'Merican Joe shrugged, but offered no further objection, and
releasing Leloo from his harness the two followed him into the timber. A
short distance back from the edge they came upon a rude log cabin,
glaringly the work of inexperienced builders. No tracks were seen about
the door, and no smoke rose from the stovepipe that served as a chimney.
'Merican Joe pushed open the door.
"It's 'bout time you was comin'--an' me crippled," came a petulant voice
from the bed. "But what do you care--" The voice ceased suddenly, and
'Merican Joe sprang back from the doorway so swiftly that he knocked
Connie into the snow. As the boy picked up himself he again heard the
voice. "Git out of here, you thievin' Injun or I'll blow yer head off!"
Ignoring the protest of 'Merican Joe, Connie thrust his head in at the
doorway. "What's the matter with you?" he asked, sharply. "Are you
crazy?"
The man in the bed stared a moment and with seeming reluctance lowered
his rifle. "Who're you?" he asked, sullenly. "If you want grub y're out
of luck. We ain't got none to spare--an' I got a rifle here that says
you don't git none of it." Involuntarily, Connie's glance swept the
supplies piled along the walls and upon the shelves, and estimated a
four-man outfit.
"How many of you are there?" he asked. "And why haven't you got a fire?"
"They's two of us, an' I ain't got no fire 'cause my partner ain't
showed up to build none. I'm crippled--sunk an ax in my foot a couple
days back."
"Where is your partner?"
"I dunno. He went to look at the traps yesterday an' he ain't got back
yet." He noticed the snow clinging to Connie's garments. "Is it
snowin'?" he asked, in sudden alarm.
"Snowing!" exclaimed the boy. "Of course it's snowing--it's been snowing
since yesterday noon."
The man's voice dropped into a whine. "The winders is frosted so you
can't see out. I bet he's lost. Go find him, can't you? What're you
standin' there fer?"
Righteous indignation succeeded the flash of disgust engendered by the
man's first words. And Connie stepped closer. "Look here, who do you
think you're talking to? I don't know who you are, and I don't want to.
What I can't figure is how you ever got this far. If nobody else had
bothered to knock some common sense and decency into you it's a wonder
your partner hasn't. But I guess he don't know the difference between
you and a man or he wouldn't be your partner." Connie turned on his heel
and started for the door.
"Hey, where you goin'?" wailed the man on the bunk.
"I'm going out and tend to my dogs," answered the boy.
"Build a fire first, an' cook me some grub! I ain't had nothin' since
yesterday."
"After the dogs," said Connie as he banged the door behind him.
"Le's mush," said 'Merican Joe, when they returned to the dogs.
Connie grinned. "No, we can't do that. I've seen some pretty raw
_chechakos_, but never one like him. If we pulled out they'd probably
both die."
'Merican Joe gave an expressive shrug. "_S'pose_ we ain't got no grub.
He ain' care _we_ die."
"No, but we're men, and he----"
"He ain' so good lak Injun dog," interrupted 'Merican Joe.
"Just about--but we can't go off and leave him, at that."
Twenty minutes later Connie and the Indian entered the cabin.
"You took yer time about it," complained the man. "Hustle around now an'
cook me up a meal of vittles."
"Where's your firewood?" asked the boy, smothering his wrath.
"Go out an' cut it, same as we do."
"Don't you keep any ahead, nor any kindlings?"
"Naw, it's bad enough to cut a little at a time."
Connie's glance sought the room. "Where's the ax?"
"Out in the brush, I guess. My partner cut the wood last. I don't know
where he left it."
"Well, it's under about two feet of snow now," answered the boy dryly,
as 'Merican Joe departed to get their own ax and cut some wood.
By the time the cabin was warmed and the man fed, the storm had ceased.
"Let me have a look at your foot," said Connie. "I expect it had better
be tended to." The man assented, and the boy turned back the covers and,
despite much groaning and whining complaint, removed the bandage and
replaced it with a clean one.
"Pretty bad gash," opined Connie. "How did it happen?"
"Cuttin' firewood--holdin' the stick with my foot an' the ax struck a
knot."
"You've got to learn a lot, haven't you?"
"What d'you mean--learn? How you goin' to cut firewood without you hold
it with yer foot?"
"Nex' tam dat better you hol' de chunk wit' you neck," advised 'Merican
Joe.
"Is that so! Well, believe me, I ain't takin' no advise offen no Siwash,
nor no kid, neither!"
Connie pulled his cap down over his ears and drew on his mackinaw and
mittens. "We're wasting time here, the days are short and if we're going
to find your partner we've got to get at it. How long is your trap
line, and where does it run?"
"We got about twenty-five martin traps out. They're acrost the river up
the first crick--strung along about three or four mile."
"Twenty-fi' trap! Three or four mile!" exclaimed 'Merican Joe. "How long
you be'n here?"
"Just a month. What's the matter with that? We've got eight martin an' a
wolverine an' a link!"
The Indian gave a snort of contempt. "Me--if I ain' set mor' trap as dat
every day I ain' t'ink I done nuttin'." He followed Connie to the door.
"You might's well move yer junk in here if you got your own grub. You
kin keep the fire goin' nights in case Tom don't show up, an' besides I
ain't had no one to talk to fer goin' on two months except Tom, an' we
don't git on none too good."
"Thanks," said Connie. "But we'll put up the tent when we come
back--we're a little particular, ourselves."
"They ain't no use of both of you goin' out to hunt him. One of you stay
here and tend the fire, an' cook supper in case the other one don't git
back in time."
Connie glared at the man for a moment, and burst out laughing. "If you
had a little more nerve and a whole lot less _brass_, there might be
some hope for you yet," he opined. "Did your partner have any dogs with
him?"
"Naw, we had six when we come in, but they was worked down skin pore
when we got here, an' some of 'em died, an' the rest run off. They
wasn't no good, nohow."
Connie banged the door in disgust and, taking Leloo with them, the two
struck across the river. They found the creek without difficulty and had
proceeded scarcely a mile when Leloo halted in his tracks and began
sniffing the air. This time the hair of his neck and spine did not
bristle, and the two watched him as he stood, facing a spruce-covered
hill, his head moving slightly from side to side, as his delicate
pointed nostrils quivered as if to pick up some elusive scent. "Go on,
Leloo. Go git um!" urged 'Merican Joe, and the wolf-dog trotted into the
spruce, followed by Connie and the Indian. Halfway up the slope the dog
quickened his pace, and coming suddenly upon a mound in the new-fallen
snow circled it several times and squatted upon his haunches. It took
Connie and the Indian but a few moments to scrape away the snow and
disclose the skinned carcass of a moose.
'Merican Joe pointed to the carcass. "It be'n snowin' quite a w'ile w'en
he skin de moose. He ain' goin' carry dat hide far. She heavy. He ain'
know nuttin' 'bout skinnin', an' lef' lot of meat stick to de hide. He
start hom' an' git los'."
"Lost!" exclaimed Connie. "Surely he wouldn't get lost within a mile of
his cabin!"
'Merican Joe nodded. "Him _chechako_--git los' anywheres. Git los'
somtam w'en she snowin' bad, hondre steps from cabin. Me--I know. One
git los' an' froze dead, wan tam, he go for water not so far you kin
t'row de stone."
"Well, he's probably home by this time. If he was lost he'd camp, and
he's had plenty of time since it stopped snowing."
The Indian was not so hopeful. "No, I'm t'ink he ain' got sense 'nough
to camp. He walk an' git scare, an' den he mebbe-so run till he fall
down."
"He won't do much running with that hide," grinned Connie. "Let's
separate and hunt for him. Come, Leloo--go find him!"
The two continued to the top of the timbered slope. "I don't see how
anyone could possibly get lost here. Surely he would know enough to go
down hill to the creek, and follow it to the river, wouldn't he?"
"No, w'en dey git scairt dey don't know up an' down an' crossways."
As the two were about to separate both suddenly paused to listen.
Faintly upon the air, seemingly from miles away, came the call of a
human voice. Leloo heard it too, and with ears stiffly erect stood
looking far out over the ridges. Raising his rifle, Connie fired into
the air, and almost immediately the sound of the shot was answered by
the faint call for help.
"That's funny," cried the boy. "Sound don't travel very fast. How could
he possibly have answered as soon as that?"
Placing his hands to his mouth, 'Merican Joe launched a yell that seemed
fairly to tear through the spaces, echoing and re-echoing across, the
valley.
Again came the answering call, faintly, as from a great distance.
Locating the direction of the sound which seemed to come from somewhere
near the head of a parallel valley, they plunged straight down the
opposite slope. At the bottom they paused again, and again the Indian
sent his peculiar penetrating yell hurtling through the air. Again it
was answered, but this time it came from up the slope. Faintly it
reached their ears, seemingly farther away than before. The sound was
repeated as the two stood looking at each other in bewilderment.
'Merican Joe's eyes seemed bulging from his head. "_Tamahnawus_," he
whispered. "W'at you call, de ghos'. He git froze, an' hees ghos' run
'roun' de hills an' yell 'bout dat! Me--I'm gon'!" Abruptly the Indian
turned and started as fast as his webs would let him in the direction of
the river.
"Come back here!" cried Connie. "Don't be a fool! There ain't any
_tamahnawuses_--and if there are, I've got the medicine that will lick
'em! I brought one in once that had run a whole tribe of Injuns off
their hunting ground."
'Merican Joe, who had halted at the boy's command, looked dubious. "I
ain' huntin' no _tamahnawus_--I ain' los' none!"
"You come with me," laughed the boy, "and I'll show you your
_tamahnawus_. I've got a hunch that fellow has dropped into a cave or
something and can't get out. And he can't be so very far off either."
With Connie in the lead they ascended the slope in the direction of the
sound which came now from a point upstream from where they had
descended. Once more Leloo paused and sniffed, the hair of his back
bristling. Whatever the object of his attention, it seemed to lie
beneath the outspreading branches of a large spruce. Connie peered
beneath the branches where an oblong of snow appeared to have been
disturbed from under the surface. Even as he looked the sound of a
voice, plain enough now to distinguish the words, reached his ears.
"Git me out of here! Ain't you never comin'? Or be you goin' to leave me
here 'cause I burnt them pancakes?"
"Come on out," called Connie. "What's the matter with you?"
"Come on out! How kin I? Who be you?"
Connie reached the man's side and proceeded to scrape away the snow,
while 'Merican Joe stood at a respectful distance, his rifle at full
cock. "Come on Joe!" the boy called, at length. "Here's your
_tamahnawus_--and it's going to take two of us to get him out."
When the snow had been removed both Connie and the Indian stared in
surprise. There lay the man closely wrapped in his moose skin, fur side
in, and the heavy hide frozen to the hardness of iron!
"I'm all cramped up," wailed the man. "I can't move."
The man was wrapped, head and all, in the frozen hide. Fortunately, he
had left an air space but this had nearly sealed shut by the continued
freezing of his breath about its edges.
Rolling him over the two grasped the edge of the heavy hide and
endeavoured to unroll it, but they might as well have tried to unroll
the iron sheathing of a boiler.
"We've got to build a fire and thaw him out," said Connie.
"Tak' um to de cabin," suggested the Indian. "Kin drag um all same
toboggan."
The plan looked reasonable but they had no rope for a trace line. Connie
overcame the difficulty by making a hole with his hand ax in a flap of
the hide near the man's feet, and cutting a light spruce sapling which
he hooked by means of a limb stub into the hole.
By using the sapling in the manner of a wagon tongue, they started for
the cabin, keeping to the top of the ridge where the snow was shallow
and wind-packed.
All went well until they reached the end of the ridge. A mile back,
where they had ascended the slope, the pitch had not been great, but as
they neared the river the sides grew steeper, until they were confronted
by a three hundred foot slope with an extremely steep pitch. This slope
was sparsely timbered, and great rocks protruded from the snow. Connie
was for retracing the ridge to a point where the ascent was not so
steep, but 'Merican Joe demurred.
[Illustration: "The third day dawned cold and clear, and daylight found
the outfit on the move."
Drawn by Frank E. Schoonover]
"It git dark queek, now. We git um down all right. Turn um roun' an'
mak de pole lak de tail rope on de toboggan--we hol' um back easy." The
early darkness was blurring distant outlines and the descent at that
point meant the saving of an hour, so Connie agreed and for the first
twenty yards all went well. Then suddenly the human toboggan struck the
ice of a hillside spring and shot forward. The pole slipped from the
snowy mittens of the two and, enveloped in a cloud of flying snow, the
man in the frozen moose hide went shooting down the slope! Connie and
'Merican Joe barely saved themselves from following him, and, squatting
low on their webs they watched in a fascination of horror as the flying
body struck a tree trunk, shot sidewise, ploughed through the snow,
struck a rock, bounded high into the air, struck another rock and,
gaining momentum with every foot, shot diagonally downward--rolling,
whirling, sliding--straight for the brink of a rock ledge with a sheer
drop of twenty-five or thirty feet. Over the edge it shot and landed
with a loud thud among the broken rock fragments of the valley floor.
"We ought to have gone back!" shuddered the boy. "He's dead by this
time."
'Merican Joe shrugged. "Anyhow, dat com' queek. Dat better as if he lay
back onder de tree an' froze an' starve, an' git choke to deat' w'en his
air hole git froze shut. He got good strong coffin anyhow."
Relieved of their burden it was but the work of a few moments to gain
the floor of the valley and hasten to the form wedged tightly between
two upstanding boulders, where they were greeted by the voice of the
man raised in whining complaint.
"Are you hurt?" eagerly asked Connie, kneeling at the man's side and
looking at him closely.
"Naw, I ain't hurt but can't you pick out no smoother trail? I'm all
jiggled up!" In his relief at finding the man unharmed, Connie
laughingly promised a smoother trail, and as he and the Indian pried him
from between the rocks with a young tree, the boy noted that the frozen
moose hide had scarcely been dented by its contact with the trees and
rocks.
In the cabin the stove was crammed with wood and the man laid upon the
floor close beside it, but it was nearly daylight the following morning
before the hide had thawed sufficiently for the combined efforts of
Connie and the Indian to unroll it. All night the two tended the fire
and listened to the petty bickering and quarrelling of the two helpless
partners, the man in the bunk taunting the other with being a fool for
wrapping up in a green moose hide, and being in turn called a fool for
chopping his own foot. It was disgusting in the extreme to Connie but at
last the humour of the situation got the better of his disgust, and he
roared with laughter, all of which served to bring down the combined
reviling of both men upon his head.
When at last the man was extricated from his prison and found to be
little the worse for his adventure, he uttered no word of thanks to his
rescuers. Indeed, his first words were in the nature of an indirect
accusation of theft.
"Whur's my marten?" he asked, eying them with suspicion.
"What marten? We didn't see any marten," answered the boy.
"Well, I hed one. Tuk it out of a trap just before I seen the moose.
It's funny you didn't see it." Connie answered nothing, and as the man
devoured a huge breakfast without asking his rescuers to join him, he
continued to mutter and growl about his lost marten. Daylight was
breaking and Connie, bottling his wrath behind tight-pressed lips, rose
abruptly, and prepared to depart.
"Whur you goin'?" asked the man, his cheeks distended with food. "You
lay around here soakin' up heat all night; looks like you could anyways
cut a little wood an' help worsh these dishes! An', say, don't you want
to buy some moose meat? I'll sell you all you want fer two-bits a
pound, an' cut it yerself."
For a moment Connie saw red. His fists clenched and he swallowed hard
but once more his sense of humour asserted itself, and looking the man
squarely in the eye he burst into a roar of laughter, while 'Merican
Joe, who possessed neither Connie's self-restraint nor his sense of
humour, launched into an unflattering tirade of jumbled Indian, English,
and jargon, that, could a single word of it have been understood, would
have goaded even the craven _chechakos_ to warfare.
Two hours later, as they sat in their cozy tent, pitched five miles down
the river, and devoured their breakfast, Connie grinned at his
companion.
"Big difference in men--even in _chechakos_, ain't there, Joe?"
"Humph," grunted the Indian.
"No one else within two hundred miles of here--his partner crippled so
he never could have found him if he tried, and he never would have
tried--a few more hours and he would have been dead--we come along and
find him--and he not only don't offer us a meal, but accuses us of
stealing his marten--and offers to _sell_ us moose meat--at two-bits a
pound! I wish some of the men I know could have the handling of those
birds for about a month!"
"Humph! If mos' w'ite men I know got to han'le um dey ain' goin' live no
mont'--you bet!"
"Anyway," laughed the boy, "we've sure learned the difference between
_nerve_ and _brass_!"