Lost Face | Page 8

ears. Very well; we will thrust a spear in one ear and out the other. Or it

may be his eyes. Surely the medicine will be much too strong to rub on
his eyes."
The chief nodded. "You are wise, Yakaga. If he possesses no other
devil-things, we will then destroy him."
Subienkow did not waste time in gathering the ingredients for his
medicine, he selected whatsoever came to hand such as spruce needles,
the inner bark of the willow, a strip of birch bark, and a quantity of
moss-berries, which he made the hunters dig up for him from beneath
the snow. A few frozen roots completed his supply, and he led the way
back to camp.
Makamuk and Yakaga crouched beside him, noting the quantities and
kinds of the ingredients he dropped into the pot of boiling water.
"You must be careful that the moss-berries go in first," he explained.
"And--oh, yes, one other thing--the finger of a man. Here, Yakaga, let
me cut off your finger."
But Yakaga put his hands behind him and scowled.
"Just a small finger," Subienkow pleaded.
"Yakaga, give him your finger," Makamuk commanded.
"There be plenty of fingers lying around," Yakaga grunted, indicating
the human wreckage in the snow of the score of persons who had been
tortured to death.
"It must be the finger of a live man," the Pole objected.
"Then shall you have the finger of a live man." Yakaga strode over to
the Cossack and sliced off a finger.
"He is not yet dead," he announced, flinging the bloody trophy in the
snow at the Pole's feet. "Also, it is a good finger, because it is large."

Subienkow dropped it into the fire under the pot and began to sing. It
was a French love-song that with great solemnity he sang into the brew.
"Without these words I utter into it, the medicine is worthless," he
explained. "The words are the chiefest strength of it. Behold, it is
ready."
"Name the words slowly, that I may know them," Makamuk
commanded.
"Not until after the test. When the axe flies back three times from my
neck, then will I give you the secret of the words."
"But if the medicine is not good medicine?" Makamuk queried
anxiously.
Subienkow turned upon him wrathfully.
"My medicine is always good. However, if it is not good, then do by
me as you have done to the others. Cut me up a bit at a time, even as
you have cut him up." He pointed to the Cossack. "The medicine is
now cool. Thus, I rub it on my neck, saying this further medicine."
With great gravity he slowly intoned a line of the "Marseillaise," at the
same time rubbing the villainous brew thoroughly into his neck.
An outcry interrupted his play-acting. The giant Cossack, with a last
resurgence of his tremendous vitality, had arisen to his knees. Laughter
and cries of surprise and applause arose from the Nulatos, as Big Ivan
began flinging himself about in the snow with mighty spasms.
Subienkow was made sick by the sight, but he mastered his qualms and
made believe to be angry.
"This will not do," he said. "Finish him, and then we will make the test.
Here, you, Yakaga, see that his noise ceases."
While this was being done, Subienkow turned to Makamuk.

"And remember, you are to strike hard. This is not baby-work. Here,
take the axe and strike the log, so that I can see you strike like a man."
Makamuk obeyed, striking twice, precisely and with vigour, cutting out
a large chip.
"It is well." Subienkow looked about him at the circle of savage faces
that somehow seemed to symbolize the wall of savagery that had
hemmed him about ever since the Czar's police had first arrested him in
Warsaw. "Take your axe, Makamuk, and stand so. I shall lie down.
When I raise my hand, strike, and strike with all your might. And be
careful that no one stands behind you. The medicine is good, and the
axe may bounce from off my neck and right out of your hands."
He looked at the two sleds, with the dogs in harness, loaded with furs
and fish. His rifle lay on top of the beaver skins. The six hunters who
were to act as his guard stood by the sleds."
"Where is the girl?" the Pole demanded. "Bring her up to the sleds
before the test goes on."
When this had been carried out, Subienkow lay down in the snow,
resting his head on the log like a tired child about to sleep. He had lived
so many dreary years that he was indeed tired.
"I laugh at you and your strength, O Makamuk," he said. "Strike, and
strike hard."
He lifted his hand.