marchez_, _marche_, which the Canadian
_coureurs du bois_ used to shout to their dogs, meaning to go forward,
advance.

CHAPTER III

THE LITTLE SQUAW WITH WHITE FEET

The morning after the arrival of the schooner, Gregg Harlan woke with
an aching head and trembling limbs. As he sat on the edge of his bunk
holding his fingers against his throbbing temples, he made a mental vow
that he would drink no more of Kayak Bill's liquor; that _today_ he
would settle down to the business that had brought him to Katleean. He
had made the same vow every morning since his landing--made it
earnestly, intending to keep it, but there was something in the air of
the trading-post that made irresistible the reckless camaraderie
engendered by the hootch-cup; something that emphasized that very
quality of gay irresponsibility he had come North to lose.

The stale, close air of his little cabin sent waves of nausea through
him. Hatless and coatless he sought the open air. He turned his steps
instinctively toward the point beyond the Indian Village. On the other
side, screened from sight of the post, he was accustomed to take the
daily plunge in the bay that enabled him to throw off the immediate
effects of his hard drinking.

As he stumbled along, his lack-lustre eyes rested but a moment on the
schooner in the bay. He had not been long enough away from the world
to be other than faintly interested in the arrival, and his
recollections of the night before were nil.

The tide was low. The fresh, keen scent of seaweed came up from the
Point refreshing his sickened senses. Noisy gulls wheeled and tilted
over the brown, kelp-covered rocks and on the ridge back of the Indian
graveyard, ravens answered the gull cries with raucous soliloquies.

He was nearing the Point when his eye was attracted by a splash of
white among the boulders. Something peculiar in its outline drew his
inquiring steps. At the sound of crunching gravel under his feet a
great huskie dog rose almost from under him. The young man sprang
aside with a startled exclamation. Against the wet sand the dog's dark
coat had been practically invisible.

"Heavens, Kobuk, old boy! I thought I was seeing things!"

He passed a damp hand over his brow. The dog, strangely
undemonstrative, advanced and placed a sleek head against Gregg's knee,
its pointed muzzle down, its tail hanging dispiritedly. Vaguely
wondering what the trader's favorite lead-dog was doing amo