bit the drear lone lands that lie beyond the arctic
coast--larger even than the grey caribou wolves of the barren lands. He
knew, now, that these stories were true.

"You called Leloo a dog," he said, "but he's only half dog, and sometime
he may turn wolf."

'Merican Joe shrugged: and eyed the great wolf-dog sombrely: "No, him
ain' never turn wolf--Leloo. Him half-wolf--half-dog, but de wolf an' de
dog ain' separat', lak de front legs, an' de hin' legs. De wolf an' de
dog is mix', lak de color een de hair. You savvy? Leloo ain' never all
wolf--an' he ain' never all dog. All de tam' he wolf an' dog mix'."

Connie nodded eagerly. "I see!" he answered, and his thoughts flew to
the great brute he had seen only a few hours before running at the head
of the wolf pack. No hint of the dog in that long-drawn wolf-howl that
had brought him tensely erect in his tent and started the hair roots to
prickling along his scalp, and no hint of the dog in the silent slashes
with which he had resented the crowding of the pack. And yet a few
moments later he had defended his helpless master from that same wolf
pack--and in defending him with the devotion of the dog, he had ripped
with the peculiar flank-slash that is the death thrust of the wolf.
Later, in the tent, he had fawned dog-like upon his master--but,
wolf-like, the fawning had been soundless.

"You know Leloo well," he said.

'Merican Joe smiled: "I raised heem from de pup. I learn heem to pull.
He ees de gran' leader. I train heem to hont de caribou--de moose--de
deer. I show you som' tam. He kin fight--kill any dog--any wolf. He ain'
never git tire. He work all day lak de dog--an' all night mebbe-so he
ron wit' de wolf-pack."

"You say you've been over east of the Mackenzie; is there gold over
there?"

"I ain' see no gold."

"I'm going over there."

"W'en you go?"

"Just as soon as I can get an outfit together."

"Me--I'm goin' 'long."

"Going along! Will you go?"

'Merican Joe nodded: "You _skookum tillicum_. 'Merican Joe, she
dead--she starve--she froze--you com' 'long, mak' de fire--give de
grub--I ain' dead no mor'. I go 'long."

"Do you think there's a good chance to prospect over there? What's the
formation?"

"I ain' know mooch 'bout dat, w'at you call, fo'mation. Plent'
riv--plent' crick. Mebbe-so plent' gol'--I ain' know. But, on de barrens
is Injuns. W'en I com' way from de Innuit, I fin' um. Dey got plent'
fur. Eef you got nuff stake for tradin' o