was, when this primitive theologian got back to the chief's lodge, that
his wisdom had been increased in so far as concerns the efficacy of the
white man's fist. So, when he orated then and there in the council, he
was wroth against all white men.

* * * * *

"Tumble out, you loafers! Tumble out! Grub'll be ready before you get
into your footgear!"

Dave Wertz threw off the bearskin, sat up, and yawned.

Hawes stretched, discovered a lame muscle in his arm, and rubbed it
sleepily. "Wonder where Hitchcock bunked last night?" he queried,
reaching for his moccasins. They were stiff, and he walked gingerly in
his socks to the fire to thaw them out. "It's a blessing he's gone," he
added, "though he was a mighty good worker."

"Yep. Too masterful. That was his trouble. Too bad for Sipsu. Think
he cared for her much?"

"Don't think so. Just principle. That's all. He thought it wasn't
right--and, of course, it wasn't,--but that was no reason for us to
interfere and get hustled over the divide before our time."

"Principle is principle, and it's good in its place, but it's best left
to home when you go to Alaska. Eh?" Wertz had joined his mate, and both
were working pliability into their frozen moccasins. "Think we ought to
have taken a hand?"