The old miner went with him as a guide to the big bend. Gordon had no
desire to attempt again Fifty-Mile Swamp without the help of some one
who knew every foot of the trail. Holt had taken the trip a dozen times.
With him to show the way the swamp became merely a hard, grueling mush
through boggy lowlands.
Weary with the trail, they reached the river at the end of a long day.
An Indian village lay sprawled along the bank, and through this the two
men tramped to the roadhouse where they were to put up for the night.
Holt called to the younger man, who was at the time in the lead.
"Wait a minute, Elliot."
Gordon turned. The old Alaskan was offering a quarter to a little
half-naked Indian boy. Shyly the four-year-old came forward, a step at
a time, his finger in his mouth. He held out a brown hand for the coin.
"What's your name, kid?" Holt flashed a look at Elliot that warned him
to pay attention.
"Colmac," the boy answered bashfully.
His fist closed on the quarter, he turned, and like a startled caribou
he fled to a comely young Indian woman standing near the trail.
With gleaming eyes Holt turned to Elliot. "Take a good look at the
squaw," he said in a low voice.
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