Where the Sun Swings North

Where the Sun Swings North, by
Barrett

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Willoughby
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Title: Where the Sun Swings North
Author: Barrett Willoughby

Release Date: November 10, 2006 [eBook #19747]
Language: English
Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII)
***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK WHERE
THE SUN SWINGS NORTH***
E-text prepared by Al Haines

WHERE THE SUN SWINGS NORTH

by
BARRETT WILLOUGHBY

A. L. Burt Company Publishers ------ New York Published by
arrangement with G. P. Putnam's Sons
Printed in U. S. A. Copyright, 1922 by Florance Willoughby
This edition is issued under arrangement with the publishers G. P.
Putnam's Sons, New York And London

TO
MY MOTHER
WHO CAN MAKE A TENT IN THE WILDERNESS
SEEM LIKE HOME

In this book I write of my own country and its people as I know
them--not artfully, perhaps, but truthfully.
BARRETT WILLOUGHBY.
Katalla, Alaska.

CONTENTS

PART I

CHAPTER
I.--THE WHITE CHIEF OF KATLEEAN II.--THE CHEECHACO
III.--THE LITTLE SQUAW WITH WHITE FEET IV.--BAIT V.--THE
FUNERAL CANOES VI.--THE WHITE CHIEF MAKES MEDICINE
VII.--THE POTLATCH DANCE VIII.--THE OUTFIT IX.--HARLAN
WAKES UP X.--THE PIGEON

PART II
XI.--THE ISLAND OF THE RUBY SANDS
XII.--THE LANDING XIII.--THE CABIN XIV.--THE CASTAWAY
XV.--THE GIANT BALLS OF STONE XVI.--THE STORM
XVII.--THE MYSTERIOUS PRESENCE XVIII.--THE PERIL OF
THE SURF XIX.--HOME MAKING XX.--GOLD XXI.--KOBUK
XXII.--AT THE LONE TREE XXIII.--ELLEN XXIV.--MAROONED

PART III
XXV.--ON RATIONS
XXVI.--WINTER DAYS XXVII.--SPRING XXVIII.--THE CLEFT
XXIX.--THE SECRET OF THE CLIFFS XXX.--THE PIGEON'S
FLIGHT XXXI.--THE JUSTICE OF THE SEA XXXII.--BENEATH
THE BLOOD-RED SUN XXXIII.--ANCHORS WEIGHED

WHERE THE SUN SWINGS NORTH

CHAPTER I

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PART I
CHAPTER I
THE WHITE CHIEF OF KATLEEAN
It was quiet in the great store room of the Alaska Fur and Trading
Company's post at Kat-lee-an. The westering sun streaming in through
a side window lighted up shelves of brightly labeled canned goods and
a long, scarred counter piled high with gay blankets and men's rough
clothing. Back of the big, pot-bellied stove--cold now--that stood near
the center of the room, lidless boxes of hard-tack and crackers yawned
in open defiance of germs. An amber, mote-filled ray slanted toward
the moss-chinked log wall where a row of dusty fox and wolverine
skins hung--pelts discarded when the spring shipment of furs had been
made, because of flaws visible only to expert eyes.
At the far end of the room the possessor of those expert eyes sat before
a rough home-made desk. There was a rustle of papers and he closed
the ledger in front of him with an air of relief. He clapped his hands
smartly. Almost on the instant the curtain hanging in the doorway at the
side of the desk was drawn aside and a small, brown feminine hand
materialized.
"My cigarettes, Decitan."
The man's voice was low, with that particular vibrant quality often
found in the voices of men accustomed to command inferior peoples on
the far outposts of civilization.
The curtain wavered again and from behind the folds a brown arm, bare
and softly rounded, accompanied the hand that set down a tray of
smoking materials.
With a careless nod toward his invisible servitor, the man picked up a

cigarette and lighted it. He took one long, deep pull. Tossing it aside he
swung his chair about and faced the open doorway that gave on a
courtyard and the bay beyond.
He readjusted the scarlet band about his narrow hips. Flannel-shirted,
high-booted, he stretched his six-foot length in the tilting chair and
clasped his hands behind his head. The movement loosened a lock of
black hair which fell heavily across his forehead. His eyes, long,
narrow and the color of pale smoke, drowsed beneath brows that met
above his nose. Thin, sharply defined nostrils quivered under the
slightest emotion, and startling against the whiteness of his face, was a
short, pointed beard, black and silky as a woman's hair. When Paul
Kilbuck, the white trader of Katleean, smiled, his thin, red lips parted
over teeth white and perfect, but there was that in the long, pointed
incisors that brought to mind the clean fangs of a wolf-dog.
He closed his pale eyes now and smiled to himself. His work on the
Company's books was finished for the present. He hated the petty
details of account keeping, but since the death of old Add-'em-up Sam,
his helper and accountant, who had departed this world six months
before during a spell of delirium tremens, the trader had been obliged to
do his own.
Queer and clever things