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Children of the Frost by Jack London

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[Illustration: "And the girl, Kasaan, crept in, very timid and quiet,
and dropped a little bag upon the things for my journey."













A weary journey beyond the last scrub timber and straggling copses,
into the heart of the Barrens where the niggard North is supposed to
deny the Earth, are to be found great sweeps of forests and stretches
of smiling land. But this the world is just beginning to know. The
world's explorers have known it, from time to time, but hitherto they
have never returned to tell the world.

The Barrens--well, they are the Barrens, the bad lands of the Arctic,
the deserts of the Circle, the bleak and bitter home of the musk-ox
and the lean plains wolf. So Avery Van Brunt found them, treeless and
cheerless, sparsely clothed with moss and lichens, and altogether
uninviting. At least so he found them till he penetrated to the white
blank spaces on the map, and came upon undreamed-of rich spruce
forests and unrecorded Eskimo tribes. It had been his intention, (and
his bid for fame), to break up these white blank spaces and diversify
them with the black markings of mountain-chains, sinks and basins, and
sinuous river courses; and it was with added delight that he came to
speculate upon the possibilities of timber belts and native villages.

Avery Van Brunt, or, in full distinction, Professor A. Van Brunt of
the Geological Survey, was second in command of the expedition, and
first in command of the sub-expedition which he had led on a side tour
of some half a thousand miles up one of the branches of the Thelon and
which he was now leading into one of his unrecorded villages. At his
back plodded eight men, two of them French-Canadian _voyageurs_,
and the remainder strapping Crees from Manitoba-way. He, alone, was
full-blooded Saxon, and his blood was pounding fiercely through his
veins to the traditions of his race. Clive and Hastings, Drake and
Raleigh, Hengest and Horsa, walked with him. First of all men of his
breed was he to enter this lone Northland village, and at the thought
an exultancy came upon him, an exaltation, and his followers noted
that his leg-weariness fell from him and that he insensibly quickened
the pace.

The village emptied itself, and a motley crowd trooped out to meet
him, men in the forefront, with bows and spears clutched menacingly,
and women and children faltering timidly in the rear. Van Brunt lifted
his right arm and made the universal peace sign, a sign which all
peoples know, and the villagers answered in peace. But to his chagrin,
a skin-clad man ran forward and thrust out his hand with a familiar
"Hello." He was a bearded man, with cheeks and brow bronzed to
copper-brown, and in him Van Brunt knew his kind.

"Who are you?" he asked, gripping the extended hand. "Andree?"

"Who's Andree?" the man asked back.

Van Brunt looked at him more sharply. "By George, you've been here
some time."

"Five years," the man answered, a dim flicker of pride in his eyes.
"But come on, let's talk."

"Let them camp alongside of me," he answered Van Brunt's glance at his
party. "Old Tantlatch will take care of them. Come on."

He swung off in a long stride, Van Brunt following at his heels
through the village. In irregular fashion, wherever the ground
favored, the lodges of moose hide were pitched. Van Brunt ran his
practised eye over them and calculated.

"Two hundred, not counting the young ones," he summed up.

The man nodded. "Pretty close to it. But here's where I live, out of
the thick of it, you know--more privacy and all that. Sit down. I'll
eat with you when your men get something cooked up. I've forgotten
what tea tastes like.... Five years and never a taste or smell.... Any
tobacco?... Ah, thanks, and a pipe? Good. Now for a fire-stick and
we'll see if the weed has lost its cunning."

He scratched the match with the painstaking care of the woodsman,
cherished its young flame as though there were never another in all
the world, and drew in the first mouthful of smoke. This he retained
meditatively for a time, and blew out through his pursed lips slowly
and caressingly. Then his face seemed to soften as he leaned back,
and a soft blur to film his eyes. He sighed heavily, happily, with
immeasurable content, and then said suddenly:

"God! But that tastes good!"

Van Brunt nodded sympathetically. "Five years, you say?"

"Five years." The man sighed again. "And you, I presume, wish to know
about it, being naturally curious, and this a sufficiently strange
situation, and all that. But it's not much. I came in from Edmonton
after musk-ox, and like Pike and the rest of them, had my mischances,
only I lost my party and outfit. Starvation, hardship, the regular
tale, you know, sole survivor and all that, till I crawled into
Tantlatch's, here, on hand and knee."

"Five years," Van Brunt murmured retrospectively, as though turning
things over in his mind.

"Five years on February last. I crossed the Great Slave early in

"And you are ... Fairfax?" Van Brunt interjected.

The man nodded.

"Let me see ... John, I think it is, John Fairfax."

"How did you know?" Fairfax queried lazily, half-absorbed in curling
smoke-spirals upward in the quiet air.

"The papers were full of it at the time. Prevanche--"

"Prevanche!" Fairfax sat up, suddenly alert. "He was lost in the Smoke

"Yes, but he pulled through and came out."

Fairfax settled back again and resumed his smoke-spirals. "I am glad
to hear it," he remarked reflectively. "Prevanche was a bully fellow
if he _did_ have ideas about head-straps, the beggar. And he pulled
through? Well, I'm glad."

Five years ... the phrase drifted recurrently through Van Brunt's
thought, and somehow the face of Emily Southwaithe seemed to rise up
and take form before him. Five years ... A wedge of wild-fowl honked
low overhead and at sight of the encampment veered swiftly to the
north into the smouldering sun. Van Brunt could not follow them. He
pulled out his watch. It was an hour past midnight. The northward
clouds flushed bloodily, and rays of sombre-red shot southward, firing
the gloomy woods with a lurid radiance. The air was in breathless
calm, not a needle quivered, and the least sounds of the camp were
distinct and clear as trumpet calls. The Crees and _voyageurs_ felt
the spirit of it and mumbled in dreamy undertones, and the cook
unconsciously subdued the clatter of pot and pan. Somewhere a child
was crying, and from the depths of the forest, like a silver
thread, rose a woman's voice in mournful chant:

"O-o-o-o-o-o-a-haa-ha-a-ha-aa-a-a, O-o-o-o-o-o-a-ha-a-ha-a."

Van Brunt shivered and rubbed the backs of his hands briskly.

"And they gave me up for dead?" his companion asked slowly.

"Well, you never came back, so your friends--"

"Promptly forgot." Fairfax laughed harshly, defiantly.

"Why didn't you come out?"

"Partly disinclination, I suppose, and partly because of circumstances
over which I had no control. You see, Tantlatch, here, was down with a
broken leg when I made his acquaintance,--a nasty fracture,--and I
set it for him and got him into shape. I stayed some time, getting my
strength back. I was the first white man he had seen, and of course I
seemed very wise and showed his people no end of things. Coached them
up in military tactics, among other things, so that they conquered the
four other tribal villages, (which you have not yet seen), and came to
rule the land. And they naturally grew to think a good deal of me, so
much so that when I was ready to go they wouldn't hear of it. Were
most hospitable, in fact. Put a couple of guards over me and watched
me day and night. And then Tantlatch offered me inducements,--in a
sense, inducements,--so to say, and as it didn't matter much one way
or the other, I reconciled myself to remaining."

"I knew your brother at Freiburg. I am Van Brunt."

Fairfax reached forward impulsively and shook his hand. "You were
Billy's friend, eh? Poor Billy! He spoke of you often."

"Rum meeting place, though," he added, casting an embracing glance
over the primordial landscape and listening for a moment to the
woman's mournful notes. "Her man was clawed by a bear, and she's
taking it hard."

"Beastly life!" Van Brunt grimaced his disgust. "I suppose, after five
years of it, civilization will be sweet? What do you say?"

Fairfax's face took on a stolid expression. "Oh, I don't know. At
least they're honest folk and live according to their lights. And then
they are amazingly simple. No complexity about them, no thousand and
one subtle ramifications to every single emotion they experience. They
love, fear, hate, are angered, or made happy, in common, ordinary, and
unmistakable terms. It may be a beastly life, but at least it is easy
to live. No philandering, no dallying. If a woman likes you, she'll
not be backward in telling you so. If she hates you, she'll tell you
so, and then, if you feel inclined, you can beat her, but the thing
is, she knows precisely what you mean, and you know precisely what
she means. No mistakes, no misunderstandings. It has its charm, after
civilization's fitful fever. Comprehend?"

"No, it's a pretty good life," he continued, after a pause; "good
enough for me, and I intend to stay with it."

Van Brunt lowered his head in a musing manner, and an imperceptible
smile played on his mouth. No philandering, no dallying, no
misunderstanding. Fairfax also was taking it hard, he thought, just
because Emily Southwaithe had been mistakenly clawed by a bear. And
not a bad sort of a bear, either, was Carlton Southwaithe.

"But you are coming along with me," Van Brunt said deliberately.

"No, I'm not."

"Yes, you are."

"Life's too easy here, I tell you." Fairfax spoke with decision.
"I understand everything, and I am understood. Summer and winter
alternate like the sun flashing through the palings of a fence, the
seasons are a blur of light and shade, and time slips by, and life
slips by, and then ... a wailing in the forest, and the dark. Listen!"

He held up his hand, and the silver thread of the woman's sorrow rose
through the silence and the calm. Fairfax joined in softly.

"O-o-o-o-o-o-a-haa-ha-a-ha-aa-a-a, O-o-o-o-o-o-a-ha-a-ha-a," he sang.
"Can't you hear it? Can't you see it? The women mourning? the funeral
chant? my hair white-locked and patriarchal? my skins wrapped in rude
splendor about me? my hunting-spear by my side? And who shall say it
is not well?"

Van Brunt looked at him coolly. "Fairfax, you are a damned fool. Five
years of this is enough to knock any man, and you are in an unhealthy,
morbid condition. Further, Carlton Southwaithe is dead."

Van Brunt filled his pipe and lighted it, the while watching slyly
and with almost professional interest. Fairfax's eyes flashed on the
instant, his fists clenched, he half rose up, then his muscles relaxed
and he seemed to brood. Michael, the cook, signalled that the meal was
ready, but Van Brunt motioned back to delay. The silence hung heavy,
and he fell to analyzing the forest scents, the odors of mould and
rotting vegetation, the resiny smells of pine cones and needles, the
aromatic savors of many camp-smokes. Twice Fairfax looked up, but said
nothing, and then:

"And ... Emily ...?"

"Three years a widow; still a widow."

Another long silence settled down, to be broken by Fairfax finally
with a naive smile. "I guess you're right, Van Brunt. I'll go along."

"I knew you would." Van Brunt laid his hand on Fairfax's shoulder. "Of
course, one cannot know, but I imagine--for one in her position--she
has had offers--"

"When do you start?" Fairfax interrupted.

"After the men have had some sleep. Which reminds me, Michael is
getting angry, so come and eat."

After supper, when the Crees and _voyageurs_ had rolled into their
blankets, snoring, the two men lingered by the dying fire. There was
much to talk about,--wars and politics and explorations, the doings
of men and the happening of things, mutual friends, marriages,
deaths,--five years of history for which Fairfax clamored.

"So the Spanish fleet was bottled up in Santiago," Van Brunt was
saying, when a young woman stepped lightly before him and stood by
Fairfax's side. She looked swiftly into his face, then turned a
troubled gaze upon Van Brunt.

"Chief Tantlatch's daughter, sort of princess," Fairfax explained,
with an honest flush. "One of the inducements, in short, to make me
stay. Thom, this is Van Brunt, friend of mine."

Van Brunt held out his hand, but the woman maintained a rigid repose
quite in keeping with her general appearance. Not a line of her face
softened, not a feature unbent. She looked him straight in the eyes,
her own piercing, questioning, searching.

"Precious lot she understands," Fairfax laughed. "Her first
introduction, you know. But as you were saying, with the Spanish fleet
bottled up in Santiago?"

Thom crouched down by her husband's side, motionless as a bronze
statue, only her eyes flashing from face to face in ceaseless search.
And Avery Van Brunt, as he talked on and on, felt a nervousness under
the dumb gaze. In the midst of his most graphic battle descriptions,
he would become suddenly conscious of the black eyes burning into him,
and would stumble and flounder till he could catch the gait and go
again. Fairfax, hands clasped round knees, pipe out, absorbed, spurred
him on when he lagged, and repictured the world he thought he had

One hour passed, and two, and Fairfax rose reluctantly to his feet.
"And Cronje was cornered, eh? Well, just wait a moment till I run over
to Tantlatch. He'll be expecting you, and I'll arrange for you to see
him after breakfast. That will be all right, won't it?"

He went off between the pines, and Van Brunt found himself staring
into Thom's warm eyes. Five years, he mused, and she can't be more
than twenty now. A most remarkable creature. Being Eskimo, she should
have a little flat excuse for a nose, and lo, it is neither broad nor
flat, but aquiline, with nostrils delicately and sensitively formed
as any fine lady's of a whiter breed--the Indian strain somewhere, be
assured, Avery Van Brunt. And, Avery Van Brunt, don't be nervous, she
won't eat you; she's only a woman, and not a bad-looking one at that.
Oriental rather than aborigine. Eyes large and fairly wide apart, with
just the faintest hint of Mongol obliquity. Thom, you're an anomaly.
You're out of place here among these Eskimos, even if your father is
one. Where did your mother come from? or your grandmother? And Thom,
my dear, you're a beauty, a frigid, frozen little beauty with Alaskan
lava in your blood, and please don't look at me that way.

He laughed and stood up. Her insistent stare disconcerted him. A dog
was prowling among the grub-sacks. He would drive it away and place
them into safety against Fairfax's return. But Thom stretched out a
detaining hand and stood up, facing him.

"You?" she said, in the Arctic tongue which differs little from
Greenland to Point Barrow. "You?"

And the swift expression of her face demanded all for which "you"
stood, his reason for existence, his presence there, his relation to
her husband--everything.

"Brother," he answered in the same tongue, with a sweeping gesture to
the south. "Brothers we be, your man and I."

She shook her head. "It is not good that you be here."

"After one sleep I go."

"And my man?" she demanded, with tremulous eagerness.

Van Brunt shrugged his shoulders. He was aware of a certain secret
shame, of an impersonal sort of shame, and an anger against Fairfax.
And he felt the warm blood in his face as he regarded the young
savage. She was just a woman. That was all--a woman. The whole sordid
story over again, over and over again, as old as Eve and young as the
last new love-light.

"My man! My man! My man!" she was reiterating vehemently, her face
passionately dark, and the ruthless tenderness of the Eternal Woman,
the Mate-Woman, looking out at him from her eyes.

"Thom," he said gravely, in English, "you were born in the Northland
forest, and you have eaten fish and meat, and fought with frost and
famine, and lived simply all the days of your life. And there are many
things, indeed not simple, which you do not know and cannot come to
understand. You do not know what it is to long for the fleshpots afar,
you cannot understand what it is to yearn for a fair woman's face. And
the woman is fair, Thom, the woman is nobly fair. You have been woman
to this man, and you have been your all, but your all is very little,
very simple. Too little and too simple, and he is an alien man. Him
you have never known, you can never know. It is so ordained. You held
him in your arms, but you never held his heart, this man with his
blurring seasons and his dreams of a barbaric end. Dreams and
dream-dust, that is what he has been to you. You clutched at form and
gripped shadow, gave yourself to a man and bedded with the wraith of
a man. In such manner, of old, did the daughters of men whom the gods
found fair. And, Thom, Thom, I should not like to be John Fairfax in
the night-watches of the years to come, in the night-watches, when his
eyes shall see, not the sun-gloried hair of the woman by his side, but
the dark tresses of a mate forsaken in the forests of the North."

Though she did not understand, she had listened with intense
attention, as though life hung on his speech. But she caught at her
husband's name and cried out in Eskimo:--

"Yes! Yes! Fairfax! My man!"

"Poor little fool, how could he be your man?"

But she could not understand his English tongue, and deemed that she
was being trifled with. The dumb, insensate anger of the Mate-Woman
flamed in her face, and it almost seemed to the man as though she
crouched panther-like for the spring.

He cursed softly to himself and watched the fire fade from her face
and the soft luminous glow of the appealing woman spring up, of the
appealing woman who foregoes strength and panoplies herself wisely in
her weakness.

"He is my man," she said gently. "Never have I known other. It cannot
be that I should ever know other. Nor can it be that he should go from

"Who has said he shall go from thee?" he demanded sharply, half in
exasperation, half in impotence.

"It is for thee to say he shall not go from me," she answered softly,
a half-sob in her throat.

Van Brunt kicked the embers of the fire savagely and sat down.

"It is for thee to say. He is my man. Before all women he is my man.
Thou art big, thou art strong, and behold, I am very weak. See, I am
at thy feet. It is for thee to deal with me. It is for thee."

"Get up!" He jerked her roughly erect and stood up himself. "Thou art
a woman. Wherefore the dirt is no place for thee, nor the feet of any

"He is my man."

"Then Jesus forgive all men!" Van Brunt cried out passionately.

"He is my man," she repeated monotonously, beseechingly.

"He is my brother," he answered.

"My father is Chief Tantlatch. He is a power over five villages. I
will see that the five villages be searched for thy choice of all
maidens, that thou mayest stay here by thy brother, and dwell in

"After one sleep I go."

"And my man?"

"Thy man comes now. Behold!"

From among the gloomy spruces came the light carolling of Fairfax's

As the day is quenched by a sea of fog, so his song smote the light
out of her face. "It is the tongue of his own people," she said; "the
tongue of his own people."

She turned, with the free movement of a lithe young animal, and made
off into the forest.

"It's all fixed," Fairfax called as he came up. "His regal highness
will receive you after breakfast."

"Have you told him?" Van Brunt asked.

"No. Nor shall I tell him till we're ready to pull out."

Van Brunt looked with moody affection over the sleeping forms of his

"I shall be glad when we are a hundred leagues upon our way," he said.

* * * * *

Thom raised the skin-flap of her father's lodge. Two men sat with
him, and the three looked at her with swift interest. But her face
betokened nothing as she entered and took seat quietly, without
speech. Tantlatch drummed with his knuckles on a spear-heft across
his knees, and gazed idly along the path of a sun-ray which pierced a
lacing-hole and flung a glittering track across the murky atmosphere
of the lodge. To his right, at his shoulder, crouched Chugungatte, the
shaman. Both were old men, and the weariness of many years brooded in
their eyes. But opposite them sat Keen, a young man and chief favorite
in the tribe. He was quick and alert of movement, and his black eyes
flashed from face to face in ceaseless scrutiny and challenge.

Silence reigned in the place. Now and again camp noises penetrated,
and from the distance, faint and far, like the shadows of voices, came
the wrangling of boys in thin shrill tones. A dog thrust his head into
the entrance and blinked wolfishly at them for a space, the slaver
dripping from his ivory-white fangs. After a time he growled
tentatively, and then, awed by the immobility of the human figures,
lowered his head and grovelled away backward. Tantlatch glanced
apathetically at his daughter.

"And thy man, how is it with him and thee?"

"He sings strange songs," Thom made answer, "and there is a new look
on his face."

"So? He hath spoken?"

"Nay, but there is a new look on his face, a new light in his eyes,
and with the New-Comer he sits by the fire, and they talk and talk,
and the talk is without end."

Chugungatte whispered in his master's ear, and Keen leaned forward
from his hips.

"There be something calling him from afar," she went on, "and he
seems to sit and listen, and to answer, singing, in his own people's

Again Chugungatte whispered and Keen leaned forward, and Thom held her
speech till her father nodded his head that she might proceed.

"It be known to thee, O Tantlatch, that the wild goose and the swan
and the little ringed duck be born here in the low-lying lands. It
be known that they go away before the face of the frost to unknown
places. And it be known, likewise, that always do they return when the
sun is in the land and the waterways are free. Always do they return
to where they were born, that new life may go forth. The land calls to
them and they come. And now there is another land that calls, and it
is calling to my man,--the land where he was born,--and he hath it in
mind to answer the call. Yet is he my man. Before all women is he my

"Is it well, Tantlatch? Is it well?" Chugungatte demanded, with the
hint of menace in his voice.

"Ay, it is well!" Keen cried boldly. "The land calls to its children,
and all lands call their children home again. As the wild goose and
the swan and the little ringed duck are called, so is called this
Stranger Man who has lingered with us and who now must go. Also there
be the call of kind. The goose mates with the goose, nor does the swan
mate with the little ringed duck. It is not well that the swan should
mate with the little ringed duck. Nor is it well that stranger men
should mate with the women of our villages. Wherefore I say the man
should go, to his own kind, in his own land."

"He is my own man," Thom answered, "and he is a great man."

"Ay, he is a great man." Chugungatte lifted his head with a faint
recrudescence of youthful vigor. "He is a great man, and he put
strength in thy arm, O Tantlatch, and gave thee power, and made thy
name to be feared in the land, to be feared and to be respected. He
is very wise, and there be much profit in his wisdom. To him are we
beholden for many things,--for the cunning in war and the secrets of
the defence of a village and a rush in the forest, for the discussion
in council and the undoing of enemies by word of mouth and the
hard-sworn promise, for the gathering of game and the making of traps
and the preserving of food, for the curing of sickness and mending of
hurts of trail and fight. Thou, Tantlatch, wert a lame old man this
day, were it not that the Stranger Man came into our midst and
attended on thee. And ever, when in doubt on strange questions, have
we gone to him, that out of his wisdom he might make things clear, and
ever has he made things clear. And there be questions yet to arise,
and needs upon his wisdom yet to come, and we cannot bear to let him
go. It is not well that we should let him go."

Tantlatch continued to drum on the spear-haft, and gave no sign that
he had heard. Thom studied his face in vain, and Chugungatte seemed to
shrink together and droop down as the weight of years descended upon
him again.

"No man makes my kill." Keen smote his breast a valorous blow. "I make
my own kill. I am glad to live when I make my own kill. When I creep
through the snow upon the great moose, I am glad. And when I draw the
bow, so, with my full strength, and drive the arrow fierce and swift
and to the heart, I am glad. And the meat of no man's kill tastes
as sweet as the meat of my kill. I am glad to live, glad in my own
cunning and strength, glad that I am a doer of things, a doer of
things for myself. Of what other reason to live than that? Why should
I live if I delight not in myself and the things I do? And it is
because I delight and am glad that I go forth to hunt and fish, and it
is because I go forth to hunt and fish that I grow cunning and strong.
The man who stays in the lodge by the fire grows not cunning and
strong. He is not made happy in the eating of my kill, nor is living
to him a delight. He does not live. And so I say it is well this
Stranger Man should go. His wisdom does not make us wise. If he be
cunning, there is no need that we be cunning. If need arise, we go
to him for his cunning. We eat the meat of his kill, and it tastes
unsweet. We merit by his strength, and in it there is no delight.
We do not live when he does our living for us. We grow fat and like
women, and we are afraid to work, and we forget how to do things for
ourselves. Let the man go, O Tantlatch, that we may be men! I am Keen,
a man, and I make my own kill!"

Tantlatch turned a gaze upon him in which seemed the vacancy of
eternity. Keen waited the decision expectantly; but the lips did not
move, and the old chief turned toward his daughter.

"That which be given cannot be taken away," she burst forth. "I was
but a girl when this Stranger Man, who is my man, came among us. And
I knew not men, or the ways of men, and my heart was in the play of
girls, when thou, Tantlatch, thou and none other, didst call me to
thee and press me into the arms of the Stranger Man. Thou and none
other, Tantlatch; and as thou didst give me to the man, so didst thou
give the man to me. He is my man. In my arms has he slept, and from my
arms he cannot be taken."

"It were well, O Tantlatch," Keen followed quickly, with a significant
glance at Thom, "it were well to remember that that which be given
cannot be taken away."

Chugungatte straightened up. "Out of thy youth, Keen, come the words
of thy mouth. As for ourselves, O Tantlatch, we be old men and we
understand. We, too, have looked into the eyes of women and felt our
blood go hot with strange desires. But the years have chilled us, and
we have learned the wisdom of the council, the shrewdness of the cool
head and hand, and we know that the warm heart be over-warm and prone
to rashness. We know that Keen found favor in thy eyes. We know that
Thom was promised him in the old days when she was yet a child. And we
know that the new days came, and the Stranger Man, and that out of our
wisdom and desire for welfare was Thom lost to Keen and the promise

The old shaman paused, and looked directly at the young man.

"And be it known that I, Chugungatte, did advise that the promise be

"Nor have I taken other woman to my bed," Keen broke in. "And I have
builded my own fire, and cooked my own food, and ground my teeth in my

Chugungatte waved his hand that he had not finished. "I am an old man
and I speak from understanding. It be good to be strong and grasp for
power. It be better to forego power that good come out of it. In the
old days I sat at thy shoulder, Tantlatch, and my voice was heard over
all in the council, and my advice taken in affairs of moment. And I
was strong and held power. Under Tantlatch I was the greatest man.
Then came the Stranger Man, and I saw that he was cunning and wise and
great. And in that he was wiser and greater than I, it was plain that
greater profit should arise from him than from me. And I had thy ear,
Tantlatch, and thou didst listen to my words, and the Stranger Man was
given power and place and thy daughter, Thom. And the tribe prospered
under the new laws in the new days, and so shall it continue to
prosper with the Stranger Man in our midst. We be old men, we two, O
Tantlatch, thou and I, and this be an affair of head, not heart. Hear
my words, Tantlatch! Hear my words! The man remains!"

There was a long silence. The old chief pondered with the massive
certitude of God, and Chugungatte seemed to wrap himself in the mists
of a great antiquity. Keen looked with yearning upon the woman, and
she, unnoting, held her eyes steadfastly upon her father's face. The
wolf-dog shoved the flap aside again, and plucking courage at the
quiet, wormed forward on his belly. He sniffed curiously at Thom's
listless hand, cocked ears challengingly at Chugungatte, and hunched
down upon his haunches before Tantlatch. The spear rattled to the
ground, and the dog, with a frightened yell, sprang sideways, snapping
in mid-air, and on the second leap cleared the entrance.

Tantlatch looked from face to face, pondering each one long and
carefully. Then he raised his head, with rude royalty, and gave
judgment in cold and even tones: "The man remains. Let the hunters be
called together. Send a runner to the next village with word to
bring on the fighting men. I shall not see the New-Comer. Do thou,
Chugungatte, have talk with him. Tell him he may go at once, if he
would go in peace. And if fight there be, kill, kill, kill, to the
last man; but let my word go forth that no harm befall our man,--the
man whom my daughter hath wedded. It is well."

Chugungatte rose and tottered out; Thom followed; but as Keen stooped
to the entrance the voice of Tantlatch stopped him.

"Keen, it were well to hearken to my word. The man remains. Let no
harm befall him."

Because of Fairfax's instructions in the art of war, the tribesmen did
not hurl themselves forward boldly and with clamor. Instead, there was
great restraint and self-control, and they were content to advance
silently, creeping and crawling from shelter to shelter. By the river
bank, and partly protected by a narrow open space, crouched the Crees
and _voyageurs_. Their eyes could see nothing, and only in vague
ways did their ears hear, but they felt the thrill of life which
ran through the forest, the indistinct, indefinable movement of an
advancing host.

"Damn them," Fairfax muttered. "They've never faced powder, but I
taught them the trick."

Avery Van Brunt laughed, knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and put it
carefully away with the pouch, and loosened the hunting-knife in its
sheath at his hip.

"Wait," he said. "We'll wither the face of the charge and break their

"They'll rush scattered if they remember my teaching."

"Let them. Magazine rifles were made to pump. We'll--good! First
blood! Extra tobacco, Loon!"

Loon, a Cree, had spotted an exposed shoulder and with a stinging
bullet apprised its owner of his discovery.

"If we can tease them into breaking forward," Fairfax muttered,--"if
we can only tease them into breaking forward."

Van Brunt saw a head peer from behind a distant tree, and with a quick
shot sent the man sprawling to the ground in a death struggle. Michael
potted a third, and Fairfax and the rest took a hand, firing at every
exposure and into each clump of agitated brush. In crossing one little
swale out of cover, five of the tribesmen remained on their faces, and
to the left, where the covering was sparse, a dozen men were struck.
But they took the punishment with sullen steadiness, coming on
cautiously, deliberately, without haste and without lagging.

Ten minutes later, when they were quite close, all movement was
suspended, the advance ceased abruptly, and the quietness that
followed was portentous, threatening. Only could be seen the green and
gold of the woods, and undergrowth, shivering and trembling to the
first faint puffs of the day-wind. The wan white morning sun mottled
the earth with long shadows and streaks of light. A wounded man lifted
his head and crawled painfully out of the swale, Michael following
him with his rifle but forbearing to shoot. A whistle ran along the
invisible line from left to right, and a flight of arrows arched
through the air.

"Get ready," Van Brunt commanded, a new metallic note in his voice.

They broke cover simultaneously. The forest heaved into sudden life.
A great yell went up, and the rifles barked back sharp defiance.
Tribesmen knew their deaths in mid-leap, and as they fell, their
brothers surged over them in a roaring, irresistible wave. In the
forefront of the rush, hair flying and arms swinging free, flashing
past the tree-trunks, and leaping the obstructing logs, came Thom.
Fairfax sighted on her and almost pulled trigger ere he knew her.

"The woman! Don't shoot!" he cried. "See! She is unarmed!"

The Crees never heard, nor Michael and his brother _voyageur_, nor Van
Brunt, who was keeping one shell continuously in the air. But Thom
bore straight on, unharmed, at the heels of a skin-clad hunter who had
veered in before her from the side. Fairfax emptied his magazine into
the men to right and left of her, and swung his rifle to meet the big
hunter. But the man, seeming to recognize him, swerved suddenly aside
and plunged his spear into the body of Michael. On the moment Thom had
one arm passed around her husband's neck, and twisting half about,
with voice and gesture was splitting the mass of charging warriors.
A score of men hurled past on either side, and Fairfax, for a brief
instant's space, stood looking upon her and her bronze beauty,
thrilling, exulting, stirred to unknown deeps, visioning strange
things, dreaming, immortally dreaming. Snatches and scraps of
old-world philosophies and new-world ethics floated through his mind,
and things wonderfully concrete and woefully incongruous--hunting
scenes, stretches of sombre forest, vastnesses of silent snow, the
glittering of ballroom lights, great galleries and lecture halls, a
fleeting shimmer of glistening test-tubes, long rows of book-lined
shelves, the throb of machinery and the roar of traffic, a fragment
of forgotten song, faces of dear women and old chums, a lonely
watercourse amid upstanding peaks, a shattered boat on a pebbly
strand, quiet moonlit fields, fat vales, the smell of hay....

A hunter, struck between the eyes with a rifle-ball, pitched forward
lifeless, and with the momentum of his charge slid along the ground.
Fairfax came back to himself. His comrades, those that lived, had been
swept far back among the trees beyond. He could hear the fierce "Hia!
Hia!" of the hunters as they closed in and cut and thrust with their
weapons of bone and ivory. The cries of the stricken men smote him
like blows. He knew the fight was over, the cause was lost, but all
his race traditions and race loyalty impelled him into the welter that
he might die at least with his kind.

"My man! My man!" Thom cried. "Thou art safe!"

He tried to struggle on, but her dead weight clogged his steps.

"There is no need! They are dead, and life be good!"

She held him close around the neck and twined her limbs about his till
he tripped and stumbled, reeled violently to recover footing, tripped
again, and fell backward to the ground. His head struck a jutting
root, and he was half-stunned and could struggle but feebly. In the
fall she had heard the feathered swish of an arrow darting past, and
she covered his body with hers, as with a shield, her arms holding him
tightly, her face and lips pressed upon his neck.

Then it was that Keen rose up from a tangled thicket a score of feet
away. He looked about him with care. The fight had swept on and the
cry of the last man was dying away. There was no one to see. He fitted
an arrow to the string and glanced at the man and woman. Between her
breast and arm the flesh of the man's side showed white. Keen bent the
bow and drew back the arrow to its head. Twice he did so, calmly and
for certainty, and then drove the bone-barbed missile straight home
to the white flesh, gleaming yet more white in the dark-armed,
dark-breasted embrace.


Old Koskoosh listened greedily. Though his sight had long since faded,
his hearing was still acute, and the slightest sound penetrated to the
glimmering intelligence which yet abode behind the withered forehead,
but which no longer gazed forth upon the things of the world. Ah! that
was Sit-cum-to-ha, shrilly anathematizing the dogs as she cuffed
and beat them into the harnesses. Sit-cum-to-ha was his daughter's
daughter, but she was too busy to waste a thought upon her broken
grandfather, sitting alone there in the snow, forlorn and helpless.
Camp must be broken. The long trail waited while the short day refused
to linger. Life called her, and the duties of life, not death. And he
was very close to death now.

The thought made the old man panicky for the moment, and he stretched
forth a palsied hand which wandered tremblingly over the small heap
of dry wood beside him. Reassured that it was indeed there, his hand
returned to the shelter of his mangy furs, and he again fell to
listening. The sulky crackling of half-frozen hides told him that the
chief's moose-skin lodge had been struck, and even then was being
rammed and jammed into portable compass. The chief was his son,
stalwart and strong, head man of the tribesmen, and a mighty hunter.
As the women toiled with the camp luggage, his voice rose, chiding
them for their slowness. Old Koskoosh strained his ears. It was the
last time he would hear that voice. There went Geehow's lodge! And
Tusken's! Seven, eight, nine; only the shaman's could be still
standing. There! They were at work upon it now. He could hear the
shaman grunt as he piled it on the sled. A child whimpered, and a
woman soothed it with soft, crooning gutturals. Little Koo-tee, the
old man thought, a fretful child, and not overstrong. It would die
soon, perhaps, and they would burn a hole through the frozen tundra
and pile rocks above to keep the wolverines away. Well, what did it
matter? A few years at best, and as many an empty belly as a full one.
And in the end, Death waited, ever-hungry and hungriest of them all.

What was that? Oh, the men lashing the sleds and drawing tight the
thongs. He listened, who would listen no more. The whip-lashes snarled
and bit among the dogs. Hear them whine! How they hated the work and
the trail! They were off! Sled after sled churned slowly away into the
silence. They were gone. They had passed out of his life, and he faced
the last bitter hour alone. No. The snow crunched beneath a moccasin;
a man stood beside him; upon his head a hand rested gently. His son
was good to do this thing. He remembered other old men whose sons had
not waited after the tribe. But his son had. He wandered away into the
past, till the young man's voice brought him back.

"Is it well with you?" he asked.

And the old man answered, "It is well."

"There be wood beside you," the younger man continued, "and the fire
burns bright. The morning is gray, and the cold has broken. It will
snow presently. Even now is it snowing."

"Ay, even now is it snowing."

"The tribesmen hurry. Their bales are heavy, and their bellies flat
with lack of feasting. The trail is long and they travel fast. I go
now. It is well?"

"It is well. I am as a last year's leaf, clinging lightly to the stem.
The first breath that blows, and I fall. My voice is become like an
old woman's. My eyes no longer show me the way of my feet, and my feet
are heavy, and I am tired. It is well."

He bowed his head in content till the last noise of the complaining
snow had died away, and he knew his son was beyond recall. Then his
hand crept out in haste to the wood. It alone stood between him and
the eternity that yawned in upon him. At last the measure of his life
was a handful of fagots. One by one they would go to feed the fire,
and just so, step by step, death would creep upon him. When the last
stick had surrendered up its heat, the frost would begin to gather
strength. First his feet would yield, then his hands; and the numbness
would travel, slowly, from the extremities to the body. His head would
fall forward upon his knees, and he would rest. It was easy. All men
must die.

He did not complain. It was the way of life, and it was just. He had
been born close to the earth, close to the earth had he lived, and the
law thereof was not new to him. It was the law of all flesh. Nature
was not kindly to the flesh. She had no concern for that concrete
thing called the individual. Her interest lay in the species, the
race. This was the deepest abstraction old Koskoosh's barbaric mind
was capable of, but he grasped it firmly. He saw it exemplified in all
life. The rise of the sap, the bursting greenness of the willow bud,
the fall of the yellow leaf--in this alone was told the whole history.
But one task did Nature set the individual. Did he not perform it, he
died. Did he perform it, it was all the same, he died. Nature did
not care; there were plenty who were obedient, and it was only the
obedience in this matter, not the obedient, which lived and lived
always. The tribe of Koskoosh was very old. The old men he had known
when a boy, had known old men before them. Therefore it was true that
the tribe lived, that it stood for the obedience of all its members,
way down into the forgotten past, whose very resting-places were
unremembered. They did not count; they were episodes. They had passed
away like clouds from a summer sky. He also was an episode, and would
pass away. Nature did not care. To life she set one task, gave one
law. To perpetuate was the task of life, its law was death. A maiden
was a good creature to look upon, full-breasted and strong, with
spring to her step and light in her eyes. But her task was yet before
her. The light in her eyes brightened, her step quickened, she was
now bold with the young men, now timid, and she gave them of her own
unrest. And ever she grew fairer and yet fairer to look upon, till
some hunter, able no longer to withhold himself, took her to his lodge
to cook and toil for him and to become the mother of his children. And
with the coming of her offspring her looks left her. Her limbs dragged
and shuffled, her eyes dimmed and bleared, and only the little
children found joy against the withered cheek of the old squaw by the
fire. Her task was done. But a little while, on the first pinch of
famine or the first long trail, and she would be left, even as he had
been left, in the snow, with a little pile of wood. Such was the law.

He placed a stick carefully upon the fire and resumed his meditations.
It was the same everywhere, with all things. The mosquitoes vanished
with the first frost. The little tree-squirrel crawled away to die.
When age settled upon the rabbit it became slow and heavy, and could
no longer outfoot its enemies. Even the big bald-face grew clumsy and
blind and quarrelsome, in the end to be dragged down by a handful of
yelping huskies. He remembered how he had abandoned his own father
on an upper reach of the Klondike one winter, the winter before the
missionary came with his talk-books and his box of medicines. Many a
time had Koskoosh smacked his lips over the recollection of that box,
though now his mouth refused to moisten. The "painkiller" had been
especially good. But the missionary was a bother after all, for he
brought no meat into the camp, and he ate heartily, and the hunters
grumbled. But he chilled his lungs on the divide by the Mayo, and the
dogs afterwards nosed the stones away and fought over his bones.

Koskoosh placed another stick on the fire and harked back deeper into
the past. There was the time of the Great Famine, when the old men
crouched empty-bellied to the fire, and let fall from their lips dim
traditions of the ancient day when the Yukon ran wide open for three
winters, and then lay frozen for three summers. He had lost his mother
in that famine. In the summer the salmon run had failed, and the tribe
looked forward to the winter and the coming of the caribou. Then the
winter came, but with it there were no caribou. Never had the like
been known, not even in the lives of the old men. But the caribou
did not come, and it was the seventh year, and the rabbits had not
replenished, and the dogs were naught but bundles of bones. And
through the long darkness the children wailed and died, and the women,
and the old men; and not one in ten of the tribe lived to meet the sun
when it came back in the spring. That _was_ a famine!

But he had seen times of plenty, too, when the meat spoiled on their
hands, and the dogs were fat and worthless with overeating--times when
they let the game go unkilled, and the women were fertile, and the
lodges were cluttered with sprawling men-children and women-children.
Then it was the men became high-stomached, and revived ancient
quarrels, and crossed the divides to the south to kill the Pellys, and
to the west that they might sit by the dead fires of the Tananas. He
remembered, when a boy, during a time of plenty, when he saw a moose
pulled down by the wolves. Zing-ha lay with him in the snow and
watched--Zing-ha, who later became the craftiest of hunters, and who,
in the end, fell through an air-hole on the Yukon. They found him, a
month afterward, just as he had crawled halfway out and frozen stiff
to the ice.

But the moose. Zing-ha and he had gone out that day to play at hunting
after the manner of their fathers. On the bed of the creek they struck
the fresh track of a moose, and with it the tracks of many wolves. "An
old one," Zing-ha, who was quicker at reading the sign, said--"an old
one who cannot keep up with the herd. The wolves have cut him out from
his brothers, and they will never leave him." And it was so. It was
their way. By day and by night, never resting, snarling on his heels,
snapping at his nose, they would stay by him to the end. How Zing-ha
and he felt the blood-lust quicken! The finish would be a sight to

Eager-footed, they took the trail, and even he, Koskoosh, slow of
sight and an unversed tracker, could have followed it blind, it was
so wide. Hot were they on the heels of the chase, reading the grim
tragedy, fresh-written, at every step. Now they came to where the
moose had made a stand. Thrice the length of a grown man's body, in
every direction, had the snow been stamped about and uptossed. In the
midst were the deep impressions of the splay-hoofed game, and all
about, everywhere, were the lighter footmarks of the wolves. Some,
while their brothers harried the kill, had lain to one side and
rested. The full-stretched impress of their bodies in the snow was as
perfect as though made the moment before. One wolf had been caught
in a wild lunge of the maddened victim and trampled to death. A few
bones, well picked, bore witness.

Again, they ceased the uplift of their snowshoes at a second stand.
Here the great animal had fought desperately. Twice had he been
dragged down, as the snow attested, and twice had he shaken his
assailants clear and gained footing once more. He had done his task
long since, but none the less was life dear to him. Zing-ha said it
was a strange thing, a moose once down to get free again; but this one
certainly had. The shaman would see signs and wonders in this when
they told him.

And yet again, they come to where the moose had made to mount the bank
and gain the timber. But his foes had laid on from behind, till he
reared and fell back upon them, crushing two deep into the snow. It
was plain the kill was at hand, for their brothers had left them
untouched. Two more stands were hurried past, brief in time-length and
very close together. The trail was red now, and the clean stride of
the great beast had grown short and slovenly. Then they heard the
first sounds of the battle--not the full-throated chorus of the chase,
but the short, snappy bark which spoke of close quarters and teeth to
flesh. Crawling up the wind, Zing-ha bellied it through the snow, and
with him crept he, Koskoosh, who was to be chief of the tribesmen in
the years to come. Together they shoved aside the under branches of a
young spruce and peered forth. It was the end they saw.

The picture, like all of youth's impressions, was still strong with
him, and his dim eyes watched the end played out as vividly as in
that far-off time. Koskoosh marvelled at this, for in the days which
followed, when he was a leader of men and a head of councillors, he
had done great deeds and made his name a curse in the mouths of the
Pellys, to say naught of the strange white man he had killed, knife to
knife, in open fight.

For long he pondered on the days of his youth, till the fire died down
and the frost bit deeper. He replenished it with two sticks this time,
and gauged his grip on life by what remained. If Sit-cum-to-ha had
only remembered her grandfather, and gathered a larger armful, his
hours would have been longer. It would have been easy. But she was
ever a careless child, and honored not her ancestors from the time the
Beaver, son of the son of Zing-ha, first cast eyes upon her. Well,
what mattered it? Had he not done likewise in his own quick youth? For
a while he listened to the silence. Perhaps the heart of his son might
soften, and he would come back with the dogs to take his old father on
with the tribe to where the caribou ran thick and the fat hung heavy
upon them.

He strained his ears, his restless brain for the moment stilled. Not a
stir, nothing. He alone took breath in the midst of the great silence.
It was very lonely. Hark! What was that? A chill passed over his body.
The familiar, long-drawn howl broke the void, and it was close at
hand. Then on his darkened eyes was projected the vision of the
moose--the old bull moose--the torn flanks and bloody sides, the
riddled mane, and the great branching horns, down low and tossing to
the last. He saw the flashing forms of gray, the gleaming eyes, the
lolling tongues, the slavered fangs. And he saw the inexorable circle
close in till it became a dark point in the midst of the stamped snow.

A cold muzzle thrust against his cheek, and at its touch his soul
leaped back to the present. His hand shot into the fire and dragged
out a burning faggot. Overcome for the nonce by his hereditary fear of
man, the brute retreated, raising a prolonged call to his brothers;
and greedily they answered, till a ring of crouching, jaw-slobbered
gray was stretched round about. The old man listened to the drawing
in of this circle. He waved his brand wildly, and sniffs turned to
snarls; but the panting brutes refused to scatter. Now one wormed his
chest forward, dragging his haunches after, now a second, now a third;
but never a one drew back. Why should he cling to life? he asked, and
dropped the blazing stick into the snow. It sizzled and went out. The
circle grunted uneasily, but held its own. Again he saw the last stand
of the old bull moose, and Koskoosh dropped his head wearily upon his
knees. What did it matter after all? Was it not the law of life?


"A bidarka, is it not so? Look! a bidarka, and one man who drives
clumsily with a paddle!"

Old Bask-Wah-Wan rose to her knees, trembling with weakness and
eagerness, and gazed out over the sea.

"Nam-Bok was ever clumsy at the paddle," she maundered reminiscently,
shading the sun from her eyes and staring across the silver-spilled
water. "Nam-Bok was ever clumsy. I remember...."

But the women and children laughed loudly, and there was a gentle
mockery in their laughter, and her voice dwindled till her lips moved
without sound.

Koogah lifted his grizzled head from his bone-carving and followed
the path of her eyes. Except when wide yaws took it off its course, a
bidarka was heading in for the beach. Its occupant was paddling with
more strength than dexterity, and made his approach along the zigzag
line of most resistance. Koogah's head dropped to his work again, and
on the ivory tusk between his knees he scratched the dorsal fin of a
fish the like of which never swam in the sea.

"It is doubtless the man from the next village," he said finally,
"come to consult with me about the marking of things on bone. And the
man is a clumsy man. He will never know how."

"It is Nam-Bok," old Bask-Wah-Wan repeated. "Should I not know my
son?" she demanded shrilly. "I say, and I say again, it is Nam-Bok."

"And so thou hast said these many summers," one of the women chided
softly. "Ever when the ice passed out of the sea hast thou sat and
watched through the long day, saying at each chance canoe, 'This is
Nam-Bok.' Nam-Bok is dead, O Bask-Wah-Wan, and the dead do not come
back. It cannot be that the dead come back."

"Nam-Bok!" the old woman cried, so loud and clear that the whole
village was startled and looked at her.

She struggled to her feet and tottered down the sand. She stumbled
over a baby lying in the sun, and the mother hushed its crying and
hurled harsh words after the old woman, who took no notice. The
children ran down the beach in advance of her, and as the man in the
bidarka drew closer, nearly capsizing with one of his ill-directed
strokes, the women followed. Koogah dropped his walrus tusk and went
also, leaning heavily upon his staff, and after him loitered the men
in twos and threes.

The bidarka turned broadside and the ripple of surf threatened to
swamp it, only a naked boy ran into the water and pulled the bow high
up on the sand. The man stood up and sent a questing glance along the
line of villagers. A rainbow sweater, dirty and the worse for wear,
clung loosely to his broad shoulders, and a red cotton handkerchief
was knotted in sailor fashion about his throat. A fisherman's
tam-o'-shanter on his close-clipped head, and dungaree trousers and
heavy brogans, completed his outfit.

But he was none the less a striking personage to these simple
fisherfolk of the great Yukon Delta, who, all their lives, had stared
out on Bering Sea and in that time seen but two white men,--the census
enumerator and a lost Jesuit priest. They were a poor people, with
neither gold in the ground nor valuable furs in hand, so the whites
had passed them afar. Also, the Yukon, through the thousands of years,
had shoaled that portion of the sea with the detritus of Alaska till
vessels grounded out of sight of land. So the sodden coast, with its
long inside reaches and huge mud-land archipelagoes, was avoided by
the ships of men, and the fisherfolk knew not that such things were.

Koogah, the Bone-Scratcher, retreated backward in sudden haste,
tripping over his staff and falling to the ground. "Nam-Bok!" he
cried, as he scrambled wildly for footing. "Nam-Bok, who was blown off
to sea, come back!"

The men and women shrank away, and the children scuttled off between
their legs. Only Opee-Kwan was brave, as befitted the head man of
the village. He strode forward and gazed long and earnestly at the

"It _is_ Nam-Bok," he said at last, and at the conviction in his voice
the women wailed apprehensively and drew farther away.

The lips of the stranger moved indecisively, and his brown throat
writhed and wrestled with unspoken words.

"La la, it is Nam-Bok," Bask-Wah-Wan croaked, peering up into his
face. "Ever did I say Nam-Bok would come back."

"Ay, it is Nam-Bok come back." This time it was Nam-Bok himself who
spoke, putting a leg over the side of the bidarka and standing with
one foot afloat and one ashore. Again his throat writhed and wrestled
as he grappled after forgotten words. And when the words came forth
they were strange of sound and a spluttering of the lips accompanied
the gutturals. "Greeting, O brothers," he said, "brothers of old time
before I went away with the off-shore wind."

He stepped out with both feet on the sand, and Opee-Kwan waved him

"Thou art dead, Nam-Bok," he said.

Nam-Bok laughed. "I am fat."

"Dead men are not fat," Opee-Kwan confessed. "Thou hast fared well,
but it is strange. No man may mate with the off-shore wind and come
back on the heels of the years."

"I have come back," Nam-Bok answered simply.

"Mayhap thou art a shadow, then, a passing shadow of the Nam-Bok that
was. Shadows come back."

"I am hungry. Shadows do not eat."

But Opee-Kwan doubted, and brushed his hand across his brow in sore
puzzlement. Nam-Bok was likewise puzzled, and as he looked up and down
the line found no welcome in the eyes of the fisherfolk. The men and
women whispered together. The children stole timidly back among their
elders, and bristling dogs fawned up to him and sniffed suspiciously.

"I bore thee, Nam-Bok, and I gave thee suck when thou wast little,"
Bask-Wah-Wan whimpered, drawing closer; "and shadow though thou be, or
no shadow, I will give thee to eat now."

Nam-Bok made to come to her, but a growl of fear and menace warned
him back. He said something in a strange tongue which sounded like
"Goddam," and added, "No shadow am I, but a man."

"Who may know concerning the things of mystery?" Opee-Kwan demanded,
half of himself and half of his tribespeople. "We are, and in a breath
we are not. If the man may become shadow, may not the shadow become
man? Nam-Bok was, but is not. This we know, but we do not know if this
be Nam-Bok or the shadow of Nam-Bok."

Nam-Bok cleared his throat and made answer. "In the old time long ago,
thy father's father, Opee-Kwan, went away and came back on the heels
of the years. Nor was a place by the fire denied him. It is said ..."
He paused significantly, and they hung on his utterance. "It is said,"
he repeated, driving his point home with deliberation, "that Sipsip,
his _klooch_, bore him two sons after he came back."

"But he had no doings with the off-shore wind," Opee-Kwan retorted.
"He went away into the heart of the land, and it is in the nature of
things that a man may go on and on into the land."

"And likewise the sea. But that is neither here nor there. It is said
... that thy father's father told strange tales of the things he saw."

"Ay, strange tales he told."

"I, too, have strange tales to tell," Nam-Bok stated insidiously. And,
as they wavered, "And presents likewise."

He pulled from the bidarka a shawl, marvellous of texture and color,
and flung it about his mother's shoulders. The women voiced a
collective sigh of admiration, and old Bask-Wah-Wan ruffled the gay
material and patted it and crooned in childish joy.

"He has tales to tell," Koogah muttered. "And presents," a woman

And Opee-Kwan knew that his people were eager, and further, he was
aware himself of an itching curiosity concerning those untold tales.
"The fishing has been good," he said judiciously, "and we have oil in
plenty. So come, Nam-Bok, let us feast."

Two of the men hoisted the bidarka on their shoulders and carried
it up to the fire. Nam-Bok walked by the side of Opee-Kwan, and the
villagers followed after, save those of the women who lingered a
moment to lay caressing fingers on the shawl.

There was little talk while the feast went on, though many and curious
were the glances stolen at the son of Bask-Wah-Wan. This embarrassed
him--not because he was modest of spirit, however, but for the fact
that the stench of the seal-oil had robbed him of his appetite, and
that he keenly desired to conceal his feelings on the subject.

"Eat; thou art hungry," Opee-Kwan commanded, and Nam-Bok shut both his
eyes and shoved his fist into the big pot of putrid fish.

"La la, be not ashamed. The seal were many this year, and strong men
are ever hungry." And Bask-Wah-Wan sopped a particularly offensive
chunk of salmon into the oil and passed it fondly and dripping to her

In despair, when premonitory symptoms warned him that his stomach was
not so strong as of old, he filled his pipe and struck up a smoke. The
people fed on noisily and watched. Few of them could boast of intimate
acquaintance with the precious weed, though now and again small
quantities and abominable qualities were obtained in trade from the
Eskimos to the northward. Koogah, sitting next to him, indicated that
he was not averse to taking a draw, and between two mouthfuls,
with the oil thick on his lips, sucked away at the amber stem. And
thereupon Nam-Bok held his stomach with a shaky hand and declined the
proffered return. Koogah could keep the pipe, he said, for he had
intended so to honor him from the first. And the people licked their
fingers and approved of his liberality.

Opee-Kwan rose to his feet "And now, O Nam-Bok, the feast is ended,
and we would listen concerning the strange things you have seen."

The fisherfolk applauded with their hands, and gathering about them
their work, prepared to listen. The men were busy fashioning spears
and carving on ivory, while the women scraped the fat from the hides
of the hair seal and made them pliable or sewed muclucs with threads
of sinew. Nam-Bok's eyes roved over the scene, but there was not the
charm about it that his recollection had warranted him to expect.
During the years of his wandering he had looked forward to just this
scene, and now that it had come he was disappointed. It was a bare and
meagre life, he deemed, and not to be compared to the one to which he
had become used. Still, he would open their eyes a bit, and his own
eyes sparkled at the thought.

"Brothers," he began, with the smug complacency of a man about to
relate the big things he has done, "it was late summer of many summers
back, with much such weather as this promises to be, when I went away.
You all remember the day, when the gulls flew low, and the wind blew
strong from the land, and I could not hold my bidarka against it. I
tied the covering of the bidarka about me so that no water could get
in, and all of the night I fought with the storm. And in the morning
there was no land,--only the sea,--and the off-shore wind held me
close in its arms and bore me along. Three such nights whitened into
dawn and showed me no land, and the off-shore wind would not let me

"And when the fourth day came, I was as a madman. I could not dip my
paddle for want of food; and my head went round and round, what of the
thirst that was upon me. But the sea was no longer angry, and the soft
south wind was blowing, and as I looked about me I saw a sight that
made me think I was indeed mad."

Nam-Bok paused to pick away a sliver of salmon lodged between his
teeth, and the men and women, with idle hands and heads craned
forward, waited.

"It was a canoe, a big canoe. If all the canoes I have ever seen were
made into one canoe, it would not be so large."

There were exclamations of doubt, and Koogah, whose years were many,
shook his head.

"If each bidarka were as a grain of sand," Nam-Bok defiantly
continued, "and if there were as many bidarkas as there be grains of
sand in this beach, still would they not make so big a canoe as this I
saw on the morning of the fourth day. It was a very big canoe, and
it was called a _schooner_. I saw this thing of wonder, this great
schooner, coming after me, and on it I saw men--"

"Hold, O Nam-Bok!" Opee-Kwan broke in. "What manner of men were
they?--big men?"

"Nay, mere men like you and me."

"Did the big canoe come fast?"


"The sides were tall, the men short." Opee-Kwan stated the premises
with conviction. "And did these men dip with long paddles?"

Nam-Bok grinned. "There were no paddles," he said.

Mouths remained open, and a long silence dropped down. Opee-Kwan
borrowed Koogah's pipe for a couple of contemplative sucks. One of the
younger women giggled nervously and drew upon herself angry eyes.

"There were no paddles?" Opee-Kwan asked softly, returning the pipe.

"The south wind was behind," Nam-Bok explained.

"But the wind-drift is slow."

"The schooner had wings--thus." He sketched a diagram of masts and
sails in the sand, and the men crowded around and studied it. The wind
was blowing briskly, and for more graphic elucidation he seized the
corners of his mother's shawl and spread them out till it bellied like
a sail. Bask-Wah-Wan scolded and struggled, but was blown down the
beach for a score of feet and left breathless and stranded in a heap
of driftwood. The men uttered sage grunts of comprehension, but Koogah
suddenly tossed back his hoary head.

"Ho! Ho!" he laughed. "A foolish thing, this big canoe! A most foolish
thing! The plaything of the wind! Wheresoever the wind goes, it goes
too. No man who journeys therein may name the landing beach, for
always he goes with the wind, and the wind goes everywhere, but no man
knows where."

"It is so," Opee-Kwan supplemented gravely. "With the wind the going
is easy, but against the wind a man striveth hard; and for that they
had no paddles these men on the big canoe did not strive at all."

"Small need to strive," Nam-Bok cried angrily. "The schooner went
likewise against the wind."

"And what said you made the sch--sch--schooner go?" Koogah asked,
tripping craftily over the strange word.

"The wind," was the impatient response.

"Then the wind made the sch--sch--schooner go against the wind." Old
Koogah dropped an open leer to Opee-Kwan, and, the laughter growing
around him, continued: "The wind blows from the south and blows the
schooner south. The wind blows against the wind. The wind blows one
way and the other at the same time. It is very simple. We understand,
Nam-Bok. We clearly understand."

"Thou art a fool!"

"Truth falls from thy lips," Koogah answered meekly. "I was over-long
in understanding, and the thing was simple."

But Nam-Bok's face was dark, and he said rapid words which they had
never heard before. Bone-scratching and skin-scraping were resumed,
but he shut his lips tightly on the tongue that could not be believed.

"This sch--sch--schooner," Koogah imperturbably asked; "it was made of
a big tree?"

"It was made of many trees," Nam-Bok snapped shortly. "It was very

He lapsed into sullen silence again, and Opee-Kwan nudged Koogah, who
shook his head with slow amazement and murmured, "It is very strange."

Nam-bok took the bait. "That is nothing," he said airily; "you should
see the _steamer_. As the grain of sand is to the bidarka, as the
bidarka is to the schooner, so the schooner is to the steamer.
Further, the steamer is made of iron. It is all iron."

"Nay, nay, Nam-Bok," cried the head man; "how can that be? Always iron
goes to the bottom. For behold, I received an iron knife in trade from
the head man of the next village, and yesterday the iron knife slipped
from my fingers and went down, down, into the sea. To all things there
be law. Never was there one thing outside the law. This we know. And,
moreover, we know that things of a kind have the one law, and that all
iron has the one law. So unsay thy words, Nam-Bok, that we may yet
honor thee."

"It is so," Nam-Bok persisted. "The steamer is all iron and does not

"Nay, nay; this cannot be."

"With my own eyes I saw it."

"It is not in the nature of things."

"But tell me, Nam-Bok," Koogah interrupted, for fear the tale would
go no farther, "tell me the manner of these men in finding their way
across the sea when there is no land by which to steer."

"The sun points out the path."

"But how?"

"At midday the head man of the schooner takes a thing through which
his eye looks at the sun, and then he makes the sun climb down out of
the sky to the edge of the earth."

"Now this be evil medicine!" cried Opee-Kwan, aghast at the sacrilege.
The men held up their hands in horror, and the women moaned. "This be
evil medicine. It is not good to misdirect the great sun which drives
away the night and gives us the seal, the salmon, and warm weather."

"What if it be evil medicine?" Nam-Bok demanded truculently. "I, too,
have looked through the thing at the sun and made the sun climb down
out of the sky."

Those who were nearest drew away from him hurriedly, and a woman
covered the face of a child at her breast so that his eye might not
fall upon it.

"But on the morning of the fourth day, O Nam-Bok," Koogah suggested;
"on the morning of the fourth day when the sch--sch--schooner came
after thee?"

"I had little strength left in me and could not run away. So I was
taken on board and water was poured down my throat and good food given
me. Twice, my brothers, you have seen a white man. These men were all
white and as many as have I fingers and toes. And when I saw they were
full of kindness, I took heart, and I resolved to bring away with me
report of all that I saw. And they taught me the work they did, and
gave me good food and a place to sleep.

"And day after day we went over the sea, and each day the head man
drew the sun down out of the sky and made it tell where we were. And
when the waves were kind, we hunted the fur seal and I marvelled much,
for always did they fling the meat and the fat away and save only the

Opee-Kwan's mouth was twitching violently, and he was about to make
denunciation of such waste when Koogah kicked him to be still.

"After a weary time, when the sun was gone and the bite of the frost
come into the air, the head man pointed the nose of the schooner
south. South and east we travelled for days upon days, with never the
land in sight, and we were near to the village from which hailed the

"How did they know they were near?" Opee-Kwan, unable to contain
himself longer, demanded. "There was no land to see."

Nam-Bok glowered on him wrathfully. "Did I not say the head man
brought the sun down out of the sky?"

Koogah interposed, and Nam-Bok went on.

"As I say, when we were near to that village a great storm blew up,
and in the night we were helpless and knew not where we were--"

"Thou hast just said the head man knew--"

"Oh, peace, Opee-Kwan! Thou art a fool and cannot understand. As I
say, we were helpless in the night, when I heard, above the roar of
the storm, the sound of the sea on the beach. And next we struck with
a mighty crash and I was in the water, swimming. It was a rock-bound
coast, with one patch of beach in many miles, and the law was that I
should dig my hands into the sand and draw myself clear of the surf.
The other men must have pounded against the rocks, for none of them
came ashore but the head man, and him I knew only by the ring on his

"When day came, there being nothing of the schooner, I turned my face
to the land and journeyed into it that I might get food and look upon
the faces of the people. And when I came to a house I was taken in and
given to eat, for I had learned their speech, and the white men are
ever kindly. And it was a house bigger than all the houses built by us
and our fathers before us."

"It was a mighty house," Koogah said, masking his unbelief with

"And many trees went into the making of such a house," Opee-Kwan
added, taking the cue.

"That is nothing." Nam-Bok shrugged his shoulders in belittling
fashion. "As our houses are to that house, so that house was to the
houses I was yet to see."

"And they are not big men?"

"Nay; mere men like you and me," Nam-Bok answered. "I had cut a stick
that I might walk in comfort, and remembering that I was to bring
report to you, my brothers, I cut a notch in the stick for each person
who lived in that house. And I stayed there many days, and worked, for
which they gave me _money_--a thing of which you know nothing, but
which is very good.

"And one day I departed from that place to go farther into the land.
And as I walked I met many people, and I cut smaller notches in the
stick, that there might be room for all. Then I came upon a strange
thing. On the ground before me was a bar of iron, as big in thickness
as my arm, and a long step away was another bar of iron--"

"Then wert thou a rich man," Opee-Kwan asserted; "for iron be worth
more than anything else in the world. It would have made many knives."

"Nay, it was not mine."

"It was a find, and a find be lawful."

"Not so; the white men had placed it there And further, these bars
were so long that no man could carry them away--so long that as far as
I could see there was no end to them."

"Nam-Bok, that is very much iron," Opee-Kwan cautioned.

"Ay, it was hard to believe with my own eyes upon it; but I could not
gainsay my eyes. And as I looked I heard...." He turned abruptly upon
the head man. "Opee-Kwan, thou hast heard the sea-lion bellow in his
anger. Make it plain in thy mind of as many sea-lions as there be
waves to the sea, and make it plain that all these sea-lions be made
into one sea-lion, and as that one sea-lion would bellow so bellowed
the thing I heard."

The fisherfolk cried aloud in astonishment, and Opee-Kwan's jaw
lowered and remained lowered.

"And in the distance I saw a monster like unto a thousand whales.
It was one-eyed, and vomited smoke, and it snorted with exceeding
loudness. I was afraid and ran with shaking legs along the path
between the bars. But it came with the speed of the wind, this
monster, and I leaped the iron bars with its breath hot on my

Opee-Kwan gained control of his jaw again. "And--and then, O Nam-Bok?"

"Then it came by on the bars, and harmed me not; and when my legs
could hold me up again it was gone from sight. And it is a very common
thing in that country. Even the women and children are not afraid. Men
make them to do work, these monsters."

"As we make our dogs do work?" Koogah asked, with sceptic twinkle in
his eye.

"Ay, as we make our dogs do work."

"And how do they breed these--these things?" Opee-Kwan questioned.

"They breed not at all. Men fashion them cunningly of iron, and feed
them with stone, and give them water to drink. The stone becomes fire,
and the water becomes steam, and the steam of the water is the breath
of their nostrils, and--"

"There, there, O Nam-Bok," Opee-Kwan interrupted. "Tell us of other
wonders. We grow tired of this which we may not understand."

"You do not understand?" Nam-Bok asked despairingly.

"Nay, we do not understand," the men and women wailed back. "We cannot

Nam-Bok thought of a combined harvester, and of the machines wherein
visions of living men were to be seen, and of the machines from which
came the voices of men, and he knew his people could never understand.

"Dare I say I rode this iron monster through the land?" he asked

Opee-Kwan threw up his hands, palms outward, in open incredulity. "Say
on; say anything. We listen."

"Then did I ride the iron monster, for which I gave money--"

"Thou saidst it was fed with stone."

"And likewise, thou fool, I said money was a thing of which you know
nothing. As I say, I rode the monster through the land, and through
many villages, until I came to a big village on a salt arm of the sea.
And the houses shoved their roofs among the stars in the sky, and the
clouds drifted by them, and everywhere was much smoke. And the roar
of that village was like the roar of the sea in storm, and the people
were so many that I flung away my stick and no longer remembered the
notches upon it."

"Hadst thou made small notches," Koogah reproved, "thou mightst have
brought report."

Nam-Bok whirled upon him in anger. "Had I made small notches! Listen,
Koogah, thou scratcher of bone! If I had made small notches, neither
the stick, nor twenty sticks, could have borne them--nay, not all the
driftwood of all the beaches between this village and the next. And if
all of you, the women and children as well, were twenty times as many,
and if you had twenty hands each, and in each hand a stick and a
knife, still the notches could not be cut for the people I saw, so
many were they and so fast did they come and go."

"There cannot be so many people in all the world," Opee-Kwan objected,
for he was stunned and his mind could not grasp such magnitude of

"What dost thou know of all the world and how large it is?" Nam-Bok

"But there cannot be so many people in one place."

"Who art thou to say what can be and what cannot be?"

"It stands to reason there cannot be so many people in one place.
Their canoes would clutter the sea till there was no room. And they
could empty the sea each day of its fish, and they would not all be

"So it would seem," Nam-Bok made final answer; "yet it was so. With my
own eyes I saw, and flung my stick away." He yawned heavily and rose
to his feet. "I have paddled far. The day has been long, and I am
tired. Now I will sleep, and to-morrow we will have further talk upon
the things I have seen."

Bask-Wah-Wan, hobbling fearfully in advance, proud indeed, yet awed by
her wonderful son, led him to her igloo and stowed him away among the
greasy, ill-smelling furs. But the men lingered by the fire, and a
council was held wherein was there much whispering and low-voiced

An hour passed, and a second, and Nam-Bok slept, and the talk went on.
The evening sun dipped toward the northwest, and at eleven at
night was nearly due north. Then it was that the head man and the
bone-scratcher separated themselves from the council and aroused
Nam-Bok. He blinked up into their faces and turned on his side to
sleep again. Opee-Kwan gripped him by the arm and kindly but firmly
shook his senses back into him.

"Come, Nam-Bok, arise!" he commanded. "It be time."

"Another feast?" Nam-Bok cried. "Nay, I am not hungry. Go on with the
eating and let me sleep."

"Time to be gone!" Koogah thundered.

But Opee-Kwan spoke more softly. "Thou wast bidarka-mate with me when
we were boys," he said. "Together we first chased the seal and drew
the salmon from the traps. And thou didst drag me back to life,
Nam-Bok, when the sea closed over me and I was sucked down to the
black rocks. Together we hungered and bore the chill of the frost, and
together we crawled beneath the one fur and lay close to each other.
And because of these things, and the kindness in which I stood to
thee, it grieves me sore that thou shouldst return such a remarkable
liar. We cannot understand, and our heads be dizzy with the things
thou hast spoken. It is not good, and there has been much talk in the
council. Wherefore we send thee away, that our heads may remain clear
and strong and be not troubled by the unaccountable things."

"These things thou speakest of be shadows," Koogah took up the strain.
"From the shadow-world thou hast brought them, and to the shadow-world
thou must return them. Thy bidarka be ready, and the tribespeople
wait. They may not sleep until thou art gone."

Nam-Bok was perplexed, but hearkened to the voice of the head man.

"If thou art Nam-Bok," Opee-Kwan was saying, "thou art a fearful and
most wonderful liar; if thou art the shadow of Nam-Bok, then thou
speakest of shadows, concerning which it is not good that living men
have knowledge. This great village thou hast spoken of we deem the
village of shadows. Therein flutter the souls of the dead; for the
dead be many and the living few. The dead do not come back. Never have
the dead come back--save thou with thy wonder-tales. It is not meet
that the dead come back, and should we permit it, great trouble may be
our portion."

Nam-Bok knew his people well and was aware that the voice of the
council was supreme. So he allowed himself to be led down to the
water's edge, where he was put aboard his bidarka and a paddle thrust
into his hand. A stray wild-fowl honked somewhere to seaward, and the
surf broke limply and hollowly on the sand. A dim twilight brooded
over land and water, and in the north the sun smouldered, vague and
troubled, and draped about with blood-red mists. The gulls were flying
low. The off-shore wind blew keen and chill, and the black-massed
clouds behind it gave promise of bitter weather.

"Out of the sea thou earnest," Opee-Kwan chanted oracularly, "and
back into the sea thou goest. Thus is balance achieved and all things
brought to law."

Bask-Wah-Wan limped to the froth-mark and cried, "I bless thee,
Nam-Bok, for that thou remembered me."

But Koogah, shoving Nam-Bok clear of the beach, tore the shawl from
her shoulders and flung it into the bidarka.

"It is cold in the long nights," she wailed; "and the frost is prone
to nip old bones."

"The thing is a shadow," the bone-scratcher answered, "and shadows
cannot keep thee warm."

Nam-Bok stood up that his voice might carry. "O Bask-Wah-Wan, mother
that bore me!" he called. "Listen to the words of Nam-Bok, thy son.
There be room in his bidarka for two, and he would that thou camest
with him. For his journey is to where there are fish and oil in
plenty. There the frost comes not, and life is easy, and the things of
iron do the work of men. Wilt thou come, O Bask-Wah-Wan?"

She debated a moment, while the bidarka drifted swiftly from her, then
raised her voice to a quavering treble. "I am old, Nam-Bok, and soon I
shall pass down among the shadows. But I have no wish to go before my
time. I am old, Nam-Bok, and I am afraid."

A shaft of light shot across the dim-lit sea and wrapped boat and man
in a splendor of red and gold. Then a hush fell upon the fisherfolk,
and only was heard the moan of the off-shore wind and the cries of the
gulls flying low in the air.


There was complaint in the village. The women chattered together with
shrill, high-pitched voices. The men were glum and doubtful of aspect,
and the very dogs wandered dubiously about, alarmed in vague ways by
the unrest of the camp, and ready to take to the woods on the first
outbreak of trouble. The air was filled with suspicion. No man was
sure of his neighbor, and each was conscious that he stood in like
unsureness with his fellows. Even the children were oppressed and
solemn, and little Di Ya, the cause of it all, had been soundly
thrashed, first by Hooniah, his mother, and then by his father, Bawn,
and was now whimpering and looking pessimistically out upon the world
from the shelter of the big overturned canoe on the beach.

And to make the matter worse, Scundoo, the shaman, was in disgrace,
and his known magic could not be called upon to seek out the
evil-doer. Forsooth, a month gone, he had promised a fair south wind
so that the tribe might journey to the _potlatch_ at Tonkin, where
Taku Jim was giving away the savings of twenty years; and when the day
came, lo, a grievous north wind blew, and of the first three canoes to
venture forth, one was swamped in the big seas, and two were pounded
to pieces on the rocks, and a child was drowned. He had pulled the
string of the wrong bag, he explained,--a mistake. But the people
refused to listen; the offerings of meat and fish and fur ceased to
come to his door; and he sulked within--so they thought, fasting in
bitter penance; in reality, eating generously from his well-stored
cache and meditating upon the fickleness of the mob.

The blankets of Hooniah were missing. They were good blankets, of most
marvellous thickness and warmth, and her pride in them was greatened
in that they had been come by so cheaply. Ty-Kwan, of the next village
but one, was a fool to have so easily parted with them. But then,
she did not know they were the blankets of the murdered Englishman,
because of whose take-off the United States cutter nosed along the
coast for a time, while its launches puffed and snorted among the
secret inlets. And not knowing that Ty-Kwan had disposed of them in
haste so that his own people might not have to render account to the
Government, Hooniah's pride was unshaken. And because the women envied
her, her pride was without end and boundless, till it filled the
village and spilled over along the Alaskan shore from Dutch Harbor to
St. Mary's. Her totem had become justly celebrated, and her name
known on the lips of men wherever men fished and feasted, what of the
blankets and their marvellous thickness and warmth. It was a most
mysterious happening, the manner of their going.

"I but stretched them up in the sun by the side-wall of the house,"
Hooniah disclaimed for the thousandth time to her Thlinget sisters. "I
but stretched them up and turned my back; for Di Ya, dough-thief
and eater of raw flour that he is, with head into the big iron pot,
overturned and stuck there, his legs waving like the branches of a
forest tree in the wind. And I did but drag him out and twice knock
his head against the door for riper understanding, and behold, the
blankets were not!"

"The blankets were not!" the women repeated in awed whispers.

"A great loss," one added. A second, "Never were there such blankets."
And a third, "We be sorry, Hooniah, for thy loss." Yet each woman
of them was glad in her heart that the odious, dissension-breeding
blankets were gone. "I but stretched them up in the sun," Hooniah
began for the thousand and first time.

"Yea, yea," Bawn spoke up, wearied. "But there were no gossips in the
village from other places. Wherefore it be plain that some of our own
tribespeople have laid unlawful hand upon the blankets."

"How can that be, O Bawn?" the women chorussed indignantly. "Who
should there be?"

"Then has there been witchcraft," Bawn continued stolidly enough,
though he stole a sly glance at their faces.

"_Witchcraft!_" And at the dread word their voices hushed and each
looked fearfully at each.

"Ay," Hooniah affirmed, the latent malignancy of her nature flashing
into a moment's exultation. "And word has been sent to Klok-No-Ton,
and strong paddles. Truly shall he be here with the afternoon tide."

The little groups broke up, and fear descended upon the village. Of
all misfortune, witchcraft was the most appalling. With the intangible
and unseen things only the shamans could cope, and neither man, woman,
nor child could know, until the moment of ordeal, whether devils
possessed their souls or not. And of all shamans, Klok-No-Ton, who
dwelt in the next village, was the most terrible. None found more
evil spirits than he, none visited his victims with more frightful
tortures. Even had he found, once, a devil residing within the body of
a three-months babe--a most obstinate devil which could only be driven
out when the babe had lain for a week on thorns and briers. The body
was thrown into the sea after that, but the waves tossed it back again
and again as a curse upon the village, nor did it finally go away till
two strong men were staked out at low tide and drowned.

And Hooniah had sent for this Klok-No-Ton. Better had it been if
Scundoo, their own shaman, were undisgraced. For he had ever a gentler
way, and he had been known to drive forth two devils from a man
who afterward begat seven healthy children. But Klok-No-Ton! They
shuddered with dire foreboding at thought of him, and each one felt
himself the centre of accusing eyes, and looked accusingly upon his
fellows--each one and all, save Sime, and Sime was a scoffer whose
evil end was destined with a certitude his successes could not shake.

"Hoh! Hoh!" he laughed. "Devils and Klok-No-Ton!--than whom no greater
devil can be found in Thlinket Land."

"Thou fool! Even now he cometh with witcheries and sorceries; so
beware thy tongue, lest evil befall thee and thy days be short in the

So spoke La-lah, otherwise the Cheater, and Sime laughed scornfully.

"I am Sime, unused to fear, unafraid of the dark. I am a strong man,
as my father before me, and my head is clear. Nor you nor I have seen
with our eyes the unseen evil things--"

"But Scundoo hath," La-lah made answer. "And likewise Klok-No-Ton.
This we know."

"How dost thou know, son of a fool?" Sime thundered, the choleric
blood darkening his thick bull neck.

"By the word of their mouths--even so."

Sime snorted. "A shaman is only a man. May not his words be crooked,
even as thine and mine? Bah! Bah! And once more, bah! And this for thy
shamans and thy shamans' devils! and this! and this!"

And snapping his fingers to right and left, Sime strode through the
on-lookers, who made over-zealous and fearsome way for him.

"A good fisher and strong hunter, but an evil man," said one.

"Yet does he flourish," speculated another.

"Wherefore be thou evil and flourish," Sime retorted over his
shoulder. "And were all evil, there would be no need for shamans. Bah!
You children-afraid-of-the-dark!"

And when Klok-No-Ton arrived on the afternoon tide, Sime's defiant
laugh was unabated; nor did he forbear to make a joke when the shaman
tripped on the sand in the landing. Klok-No-Ton looked at him sourly,
and without greeting stalked straight through their midst to the house
of Scundoo.

Of the meeting with Scundoo none of the tribespeople might know, for
they clustered reverently in the distance and spoke in whispers while
the masters of mystery were together.

"Greeting, O Scundoo!" Klok-No-Ton rumbled, wavering perceptibly from
doubt of his reception.

He was a giant in stature, and towered massively above little Scundoo,
whose thin voice floated upward like the faint far rasping of a

"Greeting, Klok-No-Ton," he returned. "The day is fair with thy

"Yet it would seem ..." Klok-No-Ton hesitated.

"Yea, yea," the little shaman put in impatiently, "that I have fallen
on ill days, else would I not stand in gratitude to you in that you do
my work."

"It grieves me, friend Scundoo ..."

"Nay, I am made glad, Klok-No-Ton."

"But will I give thee half of that which be given me."

"Not so, good Klok-No-Ton," murmured Scundoo, with a deprecatory wave
of the hand. "It is I who am thy slave, and my days shall be filled
with desire to befriend thee."

"As I--"

"As thou now befriendest me."

"That being so, it is then a bad business, these blankets of the woman

The big shaman blundered tentatively in his quest, and Scundoo smiled
a wan, gray smile, for he was used to reading men, and all men seemed
very small to him.

"Ever hast thou dealt in strong medicine," he said. "Doubtless the
evil-doer will be briefly known to thee."

"Ay, briefly known when I set eyes upon him." Again Klok-No-Ton
hesitated. "Have there been gossips from other places?" he asked.

Scundoo shook his head. "Behold! Is this not a most excellent mucluc?"

He held up the foot-covering of sealskin and walrus hide, and his
visitor examined it with secret interest.

"It did come to me by a close-driven bargain."

Klok-No-Ton nodded attentively.

"I got it from the man La-lah. He is a remarkable man, and often have
I thought ..."

"So?" Klok-No-Ton ventured impatiently.

"Often have I thought," Scundoo concluded, his voice falling as he
came to a full pause. "It is a fair day, and thy medicine be strong,

Klok-No-Ton's face brightened. "Thou art a great man, Scundoo, a
shaman of shamans. I go now. I shall remember thee always. And the man
La-lah, as you say, is a remarkable man."

Scundoo smiled yet more wan and gray, closed the door on the heels of
his departing visitor, and barred and double-barred it.

Sime was mending his canoe when Klok-No-Ton came down the beach, and
he broke off from his work only long enough to ostentatiously load his
rifle and place it near him.

The shaman noted the action and called out: "Let all the people come
together on this spot! It is the word of Klok-No-Ton, devil-seeker and
driver of devils!"

He had been minded to assemble them at Hooniah's house, but it was
necessary that all should be present, and he was doubtful of Sime's
obedience and did not wish trouble. Sime was a good man to let alone,
his judgment ran, and withal, a bad one for the health of any shaman.

"Let the woman Hooniah be brought," Klok-No-Ton commanded, glaring
ferociously about the circle and sending chills up and down the spines
of those he looked upon.

Hooniah waddled forward, head bent and gaze averted.

"Where be thy blankets?"

"I but stretched them up in the sun, and behold, they were not!" she


"It was because of Di Ya."


"Him have I beaten sore, and he shall yet be beaten, for that he
brought trouble upon us who be poor people."

"The blankets!" Klok-No-Ton bellowed hoarsely, foreseeing her desire
to lower the price to be paid. "The blankets, woman! Thy wealth is

"I but stretched them up in the sun," she sniffled, "and we be poor
people and have nothing."

He stiffened suddenly, with a hideous distortion of the face, and
Hooniah shrank back. But so swiftly did he spring forward, with
in-turned eyeballs and loosened jaw, that she stumbled and fell down
grovelling at his feet. He waved his arms about, wildly flagellating
the air, his body writhing and twisting in torment. An epilepsy seemed
to come upon him. A white froth flecked his lips, and his body was
convulsed with shiverings and tremblings.

The women broke into a wailing chant, swaying backward and forward in
abandonment, while one by one the men succumbed to the excitement till
only Sime remained. He, perched upon his canoe, looked on in mockery;
yet the ancestors whose seed he bore pressed heavily upon him, and
he swore his strongest oaths that his courage might be cheered.
Klok-No-Ton was horrible to behold. He had cast off his blanket and
torn his clothes from him, so that he was quite naked, save for a
girdle of eagle-claws about his thighs. Shrieking and yelling, his
long black hair flying like a blot of night, he leaped frantically
about the circle. A certain rude rhythm characterized his frenzy, and
when all were under its sway, swinging their bodies in accord with

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