230 . The Ptarmigan Family 



cross which browned his skin and blackened his 

 long, straight hair. What he thought of the pros- 

 pect did not matter, nor would he tell ; his kind 

 never do until it is all over. All he wanted out 

 of me was a decision one way or the other. If I 

 said " Go," he would lead away north without a 

 word of comment ; if I said " No," he would merely 

 go into the cabin and lie and smoke. Perhaps 

 toward night he might say, " We'd best gone." 



He was a picturesque-looking tramp in the gay 

 garb of the lumberman. How much he had on 

 underneath I could only guess, but it was quite 

 enough to spoil the outline of what was naturally 

 a beautiful, leanly strong figure. On his head, 

 six feet from his heels, was a shocking bad hat, a 

 black felt he had picked up somewhere. Bad as 

 it was, it stuck on and shaded his eyes. His long 

 hair protected his ears and that was sufficient. 

 Only his small, narrow feet were Indian. They 

 were hidden in as pretty a pair of moccasins as 

 I had seen. But a glance at his face told the 

 story. Somewhere not far back in Joe's pedigree 

 lay the cross, and in this case the blending of the 

 blood of the indomitable voyageur with that of 

 the redskin had produced a grand man, — game, 

 untiring, wizard of woodland, a child till the hot 

 blood was roused, an Indian when the devil was 

 unchained. 



For a few moments I hesitated. If I could 



