in the middle of the trail. Thus it
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?"

Sigmund shook his head. He was very busy. A scud of chocolate-colored
foam was rising in the coffee-pot, and the bacon needed turning. Also,
he was thinking about the girl with laughing eyes like summer seas, and
he was humming softly.

His mates chuckled to each other and ceased talking. Though it was past
seven, daybreak was still three hours distant. The aurora borealis had
passed out of the sky, and the camp was an oasis of light in the midst of
deep darkness. And in this light the forms of the three men were sharply
defined. Emboldened by the silence, Sigmund raised his voice and opened
the last stanza of the old song:-

"In a year, in a year, when the grapes are ripe--"

Then the night was split with a rattling volley of rifle-shots. Hawes
sighed, made an effort to straighten himself, and collapsed. Wertz went
over on an elbow with drooping head. He choked a little, and a dark
stream flowed from his mouth. And Sigmund, the Golden-Haired, his throat
a-gurgle with the song, threw up his arms and pitched across the fire.

* * * * *

The witch doctor's eyes were well blackened, and his temper none of the