"I'm Tex Gordon, which my pardner, here, he's Toad Jones, owin* of him bein' short an' ugly, that-a-way, an' warty. Toad's hide's a reg'lar garden f'r warts—but inside, he's all to th' good. Wisht we had couple more paddles."
Once in the current, there was small need for paddles, and an hour later, riding straight and true through the rock-tossed waves of a white water rapid, the canoe, under the skilful guidance of Ick Par, shot into comparatively smooth water, and Connie's shoulders suddenly stiffened. There on the bank, unmolested by the marauding Indians, stood "Soapy" White's trading post.
"Land here!" cried the boy, sharply. And a moment later, the canoe grounded in front of the log building. Hardly had its nose touched the gravel before the boy leaped ashore and made straight for the door, closely followed by Ick Far and the two prospectors. Without ceremony, Connie pushed open the door and was met by the leering face of "Soapy" himself, who sat propped against a bale of blankets upon his counter. The man's blotched face and bleared eyes told that he had been drinking heavily, but, at the sight of the uniform he pulled himself together and favoured
