“Come, Andrew,” he said; “we must push on.”

The Indian repeated the priest’s action, and went out to see to the dogs.

“Oh, are you going right away?” said the Colonel politely, and O’Flynn volubly protested.

“We thought,” said the Boy, “you’d sit awhile and smoke and—­at least, of course, I don’t mean smoke exactly—­but—­”

The Father smiled and shook his head.

“Another time I would stay gladly.”

“Where are you going now?”

“Andrew and I are on our way to the Oklahoma, the steamship frozen in the ice below here.”

“How far?” asked the Boy.

“About seven miles below the Russian mission, and a mile or so up the Kuskoquim Slough.”

“Wrecked there?”

“Oh no.  Gone into winter quarters.”

“In a slew?” for it was so Father Wills pronounced s-l-o-u-g-h.

“Oh, that’s what they call a blind river up in this country.  They come into the big streams every here and there, and cheechalkos are always mistaking them for the main channel.  Sometimes they’re wider and deeper for a mile or so than the river proper, but before you know it they land you in a marsh.  This place I’m going to, a little way up the Kuskoquim, out of danger when the ice breaks up, has been chosen for a new station by the N. A. T. and T. Company—­rival, you know, to the old-established Alaska Commercial, that inherited the Russian fur monopoly and controlled the seal and salmon trade so long.  Well, the younger company runs the old one hard, and they’ve sent this steamer into winter quarters loaded with provisions, ready to start for Dawson the instant the ice goes out.”

“Why, then, it’s the very boat that’ll be takin’ us to the Klondyke.”

“You just goin’ down to have a look at her?” asked Potts enviously.

“No.  I go to get relief for the Pymeuts.”

“What’s the matter with ’em?”

“Epidemic all summer, starvation now.”

“Guess you won’t find anybody’s got such a lot he wants to give it away to the Indians.”

“Our Father Superior has given much,” said the priest gently; “but we are not inexhaustible at Holy Cross.  And the long winter is before us.  Many of the supply steamers have failed to get in, and the country is flooded with gold-seekers.  There’ll be wide-spread want this year—­terrible suffering all up and down the river.”

“The more reason for people to hold on to what they’ve got.  A white man’s worth more ’n an Indian.”

The priest’s face showed no anger, not even coldness.

“White men have got a great deal out of Alaska and as yet done little but harm here.  The government ought to help the natives, and we believe the Government will.  All we ask of the captain of the Oklahoma is to sell us, on fair terms, a certain supply, we assuming part of the risk, and both of us looking to the Government to make it good.”