Men crowded and jostled for the opportunity to contribute, and when they were satisfied, Smoke hefted the heavy basin with both hands and grinned.

“It will keep the whole tribe in grub for the rest of the winter,” he said.  “Now for the dogs.  Five light teams that have some run in them.”

A dozen teams were volunteered, and the camp, as a committee of the whole, bickered and debated, accepted and rejected.

“Huh!  Your dray-horses!” Long Bill Haskell was told.

“They can pull,” he bristled with hurt pride.

“They sure can,” he was assured.  “But they can’t make time for sour apples.  They’ve got theirs cut out for them bringing up the heavy loads.”

As fast as a team was selected, its owner, with half a dozen aids, departed to harness up and get ready.

One team was rejected because it had come in tired that afternoon.  One owner contributed his team, but apologetically exposed a bandaged ankle that prevented him from driving it.  This team Smoke took, overriding the objection of the crowd that he was played out.

Long Bill Haskell pointed out that while Fat 0lsen’s team was a crackerjack, Fat Olsen himself was an elephant.  Fat Olsen’s two hundred and forty pounds of heartiness was indignant.  Tears of anger came into his eyes, and his Scandinavian explosions could not be stopped until he was given a place in the heavy division, the craps-player jumping at the chance to take out Olsen’s light team.

Five teams were accepted and were being harnessed and loaded, but only four drivers had satisfied the committee of the whole.

“There’s Cultus George,” some one cried.  “He’s a trail-eater, and he’s fresh and rested.”

All eyes turned upon the Indian, but his face was expressionless, and he said nothing.

“You’ll take a team,” Smoke said to him.

Still the big Indian made no answer.  As with an electric thrill, it ran through all of them that something untoward was impending.  A restless shifting of the group took place, forming a circle in which Smoke and Cultus George faced each other.  And Smoke realized that by common consent he had been made the representative of his fellows in what was taking place, in what was to take place.  Also, he was angered.  It was beyond him that any human creature, a witness to the scramble of volunteers, should hang back.  For another thing, in what followed, Smoke did not have Cultus George’s point of view—­did not dream that the Indian held back for any reason save the selfish, mercenary one.

“Of course you will take a team,” Smoke said.

“How much?” Cultus George asked.

A snarl, spontaneous and general, grated in the throats and twisted the mouths of the miners.  At the same moment, with clenched fists or fingers crooked to grip, they pressed in on the offender.

“Wait a bit, boys,” Smoke cried.  “Maybe he doesn’t understand.  Let me explain it to him.  Look here, George.  Don’t you see, nobody is charging anything.  They’re giving everything to save two hundred Indians from starving to death.”  He paused, to let it sink home.