"Quey!" said Joe Lecroix, his black eyes snapping with pleasure at the martial appearance lent the room by the rifles and kits of the men.
"Bo'-jo'! Where you from?" answered the Ontario man, using the Ojibway salutation. "You look like the end of a long trail over the snow."
"Oua, yes! My name ees Joe Lecroix. I travel one moon from Half-Way-House, four sleeps from Mistassini Lac."
"Well, I'll be damned! So you've been on the trail a month and want to enlist?"
"Oua! Fur no good! I cum to fight for de Beeg Chief. I am good man. Strong as bull moose, run lak de wolf."
The Cree squared his shoulders, shifting his gaze from one to another of his hearers as if challenging them to disprove his words.
"Well! Well! A month on the trail in midwinter over the Height-of-Land! That's some spirit, men!"
The sergeant turned to the others, whose faces pictured the impression the physique and story of the Cree had made.
"I don't know whether they've enlisted any Indians yet, Joe; but I'll take you to an officer."
The Indian's face fell. Almost fiercely he repeated: "I am good man—can shoot, run wid dog-team, bow-man on Company beeg canoe. I can fight strong for de Great Fader!"
"I believe your story, my boy! You sure look like a rough customer in a mix-up, and any man who comes clear from Rupert Land to enlist deserves
