Tbe WWe Wolf of tbe North 355 



Jo waited with all the patience of the Indian 

 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 after 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 under- 

 neath I could only guess, but it was quite enough 

 to spoil the outline of what was naturally a beautiful, 

 lean, 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 Jo'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 only 

 translate the flash of the wonderful aboriginal eyes 

 or guess what lay behind the mystical bronze mask, 



but that was impossible. Once more my eyes 

 turned northward. The grayness seemed a trifle 



