make it. Roll in, now, ’cause we got a hard job ahead.”
The task of transporting the injured Sergeant down the steep, rough trail to the river was indeed “a hard job,” consuming the better part of two days—days of muscle-straining labour for Connie and Ick Far, and of excruciating agony for McKeever, whose injured leg protested with a wrench of fierce pain at each jolt or unavoidable bumping of the rude blanket and pole litter. But not a groan, nor a word of protest escaped him, and always he greeted the anxious looks of his bearers with encouraging, if often white-lipped, smiles. At last the river was reached and McKeever made comfortable upon his blankets in the bottom of the canoe. Ick Far took his place and, with paddle resting against the bank, looked at Connie.
“Dem Yella Knife,” he grunted, “y’u watch ’em good. Too mooch medicine man. Som’ tam’ good Injun—som’ tam’ ver’ bad.”
“So long, kid,” called McKeever, waving his hand, “you’ll go through a-whoopin’. One policeman is worth a whole band of Injuns—an’ they know it. Let ’em see you know it, too. Handle ’em like you owned ’em—an’ if anything goes
