The Son of the Wolf, Jack London [the lemonade war series .txt] 📗

of humor or ludicrous happening. Prince was led away by these uncrowned heroes who had seen history made, who regarded the great and the romantic as but the ordinary and the incidental in the routine of life. He passed his precious tobacco among them with lavish disregard, and rusty chains of reminiscence were loosened, and forgotten odysseys resurrected for his especial benefit.

When conversation dropped and the travellers filled the last pipes and lashed their tight-rolled sleeping furs. Prince fell back upon his comrade for further information.

“Well, you know what the cowboy is,” Malemute Kid answered, beginning to unlace his moccasins; “and it’s not hard to guess the British blood in his bed partner. As for the rest, they’re all children of the coureurs du bois, mingled with God knows how many other bloods. The two turning in by the door are the regulation ‘breeds’ or bois brulés. That lad with the worsted breech scarf⁠—notice his eyebrows and the turn of his jaw⁠—shows a Scotchman wept in his mother’s smoky tepee. And that handsome looking fellow putting the capote under his head is a French half-breed⁠—you heard him talking; he doesn’t like the two Indians turning in next to him. You see, when the ‘breeds’ rose under the Riel the full-bloods kept the peace, and they’ve not lost much love for one another since.”

“But I say, what’s that glum-looking fellow by the stove? I’ll swear he can’t talk English. He hasn’t opened his mouth all night.”

“You’re wrong. He knows English well enough. Did you follow his eyes when he listened? I did. But he’s neither kith nor kin to the others. When they talked their own patois you could see he didn’t understand. I’ve been wondering myself what he is. Let’s find out.”

“Fire a couple of sticks into the stove!” Malemute Kid commanded, raising his voice and looking squarely at the man in question.

He obeyed at once.

“Had discipline knocked into him somewhere.” Prince commented in a low tone.

Malemute Kid nodded, took off his socks, and picked his way among recumbent men to the stove. There he hung his damp footgear among a score or so of mates.

“When do you expect to get to Dawson?” he asked tentatively.

The man studied him a moment before replying. “They say seventy-five mile. So? Maybe two days.”

The very slightest accent was perceptible, while there was no awkward hesitancy or groping for words.

“Been in the country before?”

“No.”

“Northwest Territory?”

“Yes.”

“Born there?”

“No.”

“Well, where the devil were you born? You’re none of these.” Malemute Kid swept his hand over the dog drivers, even including the two policemen who had turned into Prince’s bunk. “Where did you come from? I’ve seen faces like yours before, though I can’t remember just where.”

“I know you,” he irrelevantly replied, at once turning the drift of Malemute Kid’s questions.

“Where? Ever see me?”

“No; your partner, him priest, Pastilik, long time ago. Him ask me if I see you, Malemute Kid. Him give me grub. I no stop long. You hear him speak ’bout me?”

“Oh! you’re the fellow that traded the otter skins for the dogs?”

The man nodded, knocked out his pipe, and signified his disinclination for conversation by rolling up in his furs. Malemute Kid blew out the slush lamp and crawled under the blankets with Prince.

“Well, what is he?”

“Don’t know⁠—turned me off, somehow, and then shut up like a clam. But he’s a fellow to whet your curiosity. I’ve heard of him. All the coast wondered about him eight years ago. Sort of mysterious, you know. He came down out of the North in the dead of winter, many a thousand miles from here, skirting Bering Sea and traveling as though the devil were after him. No one ever learned where he came from, but he must have come far. He was badly travel-worn when he got food from the Swedish missionary on Golovin Bay and asked the way south. We heard of all this afterward. Then he abandoned the shore line, heading right across Norton Sound. Terrible weather, snowstorms and high winds, but he pulled through where a thousand other men would have died, missing St. Michaels and making the land at Pastilik. He’d lost all but two dogs, and was nearly gone with starvation.

“He was so anxious to go on that Father Roubeau fitted him out with grub; but he couldn’t let him have any dogs, for he was only waiting my arrival, to go on a trip himself. Mr. Ulysses knew too much to start on without animals, and fretted around for several days. He had on his sled a bunch of beautifully cured otter skins, sea otters, you know, worth their weight in gold. There was also at Pastilik an old Shylock of a Russian trader, who had dogs to kill. Well, they didn’t dicker very long, but when the Strange One headed south again, it was in the rear of a spanking dog team. Mr. Shylock, by the way, had the otter skins. I saw them, and they were magnificent. We figured it up and found the dogs brought him at least five hundred apiece. And it wasn’t as if the Strange One didn’t know the value of sea otter; he was an Indian of some sort, and what little he talked showed he’d been among white men.

“After the ice passed out of the sea, word came up from Nunivak Island that he’d gone in there for grub. Then he dropped from sight, and this is the first heard of him in eight years. Now where did he come from? and what was he doing there? and why did he come from there? He’s Indian, he’s been nobody knows where, and he’s had discipline, which is unusual for an Indian. Another mystery of the North for you to solve, Prince.”

“Thanks awfully, but I’ve got too many on hand as it is,” he replied.

Malemute Kid was already breathing heavily; but the young mining engineer gazed straight up through the thick darkness, waiting for the strange orgasm which stirred his blood to