k," he informed them, gazing smilingly up into the white
man's face. "The Injuns is all asleep. Pop's all gone away. So's Uncle
Cy. Gone long time. There's An-ina and me. That's all. I likes
An-ina--only hers always wash me."

The whole story of the post was told. The direct childish mind had taken
the short cut which maturity would probably have missed.

Steve had recovered himself, and he smiled down into the pretty, eager,
up-turned face.

"What's your name, little man?" he asked kindly.

"Marcel," the boy returned, without the least shyness.

Steve stooped down into a squatting position, and held out his hands
invitingly. There could be no mistaking his attitude. There could be no
mistaking the appeal this lonely little creature made to his generous
manhood.

"That all? Any other?"

The boy came confidently within reach of the outstretched arms, and, as
the man's mitted hands closed about him, he held up his face for the
expected caress. Steve bent his head and kissed the ready lips.

"'Es, Brand. Marcel Brand," the boy said in that slightly halting
fashion of pronouncing unaccustomed words.

Steve looked up with a start. His eyes encountered the still grinning
face of the scout.

"Do you hear that?" he demanded. "Marcel Brand. It's--it's the place
we're chasing for. Gee! it's well nigh a miracle!"

Quite suddenly he released the child and stood up. Then he picked the
little fellow up in his strong arms.

"Come on, old fellow," he said quickly. "We'll go right along up and see
your Mummy."

And forthwith he started for the frowning stockade under its mantle of
snow.

Once in Steve's arms the child allowed an arm to encircle the stranger's
neck. It was an action of complete abandonment to the new friendship,
and it thrilled the man. It carried him back over a thousand miles of
territory and weary toil to a memory of other infant arms and other
infant caresses.

"'Es. I likes you," the boy observed as they moved on. "Who's you?"

Half confidences were evidently not in his calculation. He had readily
given his, and now he looked for the natural return.

Steve laughed delightedly.

"Who's I? Why, my name's Steve. Steve Allenwood. 'Uncle' Steve. And this
is Julyman. He's an Indian, and very good man. And we like little boys.
Don't we, Julyman?"

The grin on the scout's face was still distorting his unaccustomed
features as he moved along beside his boss.

"Oh, yes. Julyman, him likes 'em--plent