n the barges would start
up the Athabasca, which meant _south_; while he, in his big war canoe,
would head up the Peace, which meant _west_. He was going as far as
Hudson's Hope, and this was within two hundred and fifty miles of where
David wanted to go. He proved that fact by digging up an old Company
map. David's heart beat an excited tattoo. This was more than he had
expected. Almost too good to be true. "You can _work_ your way up there
with me," declared Hatchett, clicking his pipe stem. "Won't cost you a
cent. Not a dam' cent. Work. Eat. Smoke. Fine trip. Just for company. A
man needs company once in a while--decent company. Ice will go by middle
of May. Two weeks. Meanwhile, have a devil of a time playing cribbage."

They did. Cribbage was Hatchett's one passion, unless another
was--beating the Indians. "Rascally devils," he would say, driving his
cribbage pegs home. "Always trying to put off poor fur on me for good.
Deserve to be beat. And I beat 'em. Dam-if-I-don't."

"How did you lose your teeth?" David asked him at last. They were
playing late one night.

Hatchett sat up in his chair as if stung. His eyes bulged as he looked
at David, and his pipe stem clicked fiercely.

"Frenchman," he said. "Dirty pig of a Frenchman. No use for 'em. None.
Told him women were no good--all women were bad. Said he had a woman.
Said I didn't care--all bad just the same. Said the woman he referred to
was his wife. Told him he was a fool to have a wife. No warning--the
pig! He biffed me. Knocked those two teeth out--_down_! I'll get him
some day. Flay him. Make dog whips of his dirty hide. All Frenchmen
ought to die. Hope to God they will. Starve. Freeze."

In spite of himself David laughed. Hatchett took no offense, but the
grimness of his long, sombre countenance remained unbroken. A day or two
later he discovered Hatchett in the act of giving an old, white-haired,
half-breed cripple a bag of supplies. Hatchett shook himself, as if
caught in an act of crime.

"I'm going to kill that old Dog Rib soon as the ground's soft enough to
dig a grave," he declared, shaking a fist fiercely after the old Indian.
"Beggar. A sneak. No good. Ought to die. Giving him just enough to keep
him alive until the ground is soft."

After all, Hatchett's face belied his heart. His tongue was like a
cleaver. It ripped things generally--was terrible in its threatening,
but harmless, and tremendously amusing to David. He liked Hatchett. His
cada