Part 6 (1/2)

Waseche ignored the suggestion:

”I'll be pullin' fer the Lillimuit in the mo'nin'. Sorry ye won't jine me. I'll be rollin' in, now. Good-night.”

”So long! An' good luck to ye. I sure hate to see ye go.”

Early in the evening of the fourth day after Waseche Bill's departure for the unknown Lillimuit Connie Morgan swung McDougall's ten-dog team into Eagle.

The boy, heeding the advice of Black Jack Demaree, had curbed his impatience and religiously held himself to a ten-hour schedule, and the result was easily apparent in the way the dogs dashed up the steep trail and swung into the well-packed street of the big camp.

In front of a wooden building marked ”Post Office,” he halted. A large man, just emerging from the door, stared in amus.e.m.e.nt at the tiny _parka_-clad figure that confronted him.

”h.e.l.lo, son!” he called. ”Where might you be headin' fer?”

”I'm hunting for Waseche Bill,” the youngster replied. ”Have you seen him?”

”That'll be Scotty McDougall's team,” observed the man.

”Yes, but have you seen Waseche?”

”You'll be Sam Morgan's boy,” the man continued.

”Yes, sir.”

”Well, come on along up to the _ho_tel.”

”Is Waseche there?” eagerly inquired the boy.

”Well, no, he ain't jes' right there, this very minute,” replied the man, evasively.

”Where has he gone?” asked the boy, with a sudden fear in his heart.

”Oh, jes' siyou'd out on a little prospectin' trip. Come on, I'll give ye a hand with the dogs--supper'll be about ready.”

That evening Connie Morgan found himself the centre of an interested group of miners--rough, kindly men, who welcomed him warmly, asked the news of Ten Bow, and recounted in awkward, hesitating sentences stories of his father. Before turning into the bunk a.s.signed to him, the boy sought out the proprietor of the hotel, who sat in the centre of an interested group, discussing local politics with a man from Circle.

”I'll pay my bill now, because I want to hit the trail before breakfast,” he said, producing the well-filled pouch that Black Jack Demaree had thrust into his hand. Big Jim Sontag chuckled way back in his beard as he regarded his littlest guest.

”Go 'long, yo', sonny! Shove yo' poke in yo' pocket. Yo' welcome to stop undeh my roof long as yo' want to. Why, if I was to cha'ge yo' fo' boa'd an' lodgin' afteh what yo' pap done fo' me, up on Tillimik--hope the wolves'll eat me, hide an' taller!”

The man called Joe came around the stove and stood looking down at the boy.

”Look here, son, where you aimin' to hit fer so early in the mornin'?”

”Why, to find Waseche, of course!” The boy seemed surprised at the question.

”To the Lillimuit!” someone gasped, but Joe silenced him.

”Son,” he said, speaking slowly, ”Waseche Bill's struck out fer the Lillimuit--the country where men don't come back from. Waseche's a man--an' a good one. He knows what he's up agin', an' if he wants to take a chanct that's his business. But, jes' between us, Waseche won't come back.” The boy's small shoulders stiffened and his eyes flashed, as the little face uptilted to look into the man's eyes.

”If Waseche don't come back, then I don't come back either!” he exclaimed. ”He's my _pardner_! I've _got_ to find him!”