Where the Sun Swings North | Page 6

as
she advanced.
When she smiled up at the white men her face was lighted by
long-lashed childish eyes, warm and brown as a sun-shot pool in the
forest.
The White Chief rose. With an imperious gesture he motioned the other
Indians back.
"Ah cgoo, Naleenah! Come here!" In rapid, guttural Thlinget he spoke

to the girl, pointing from time to time to the now unconscious Harlan.
As she listened the smile faded from her face. Her smooth brow
puckered. . . . She turned troubled eyes to Kayak Bill, sitting silent,
imperturbable, in a cloud of tobacco smoke, his interest apparently
fixed where the slight breeze was ruffling the evening radiance of the
water.
Still mutely questioning, Naleenah glanced at the figure of the young
white man, slumped in stupor against the flag-pole. . . . A look of
unutterable scorn distorted her face. Then she looked up at the White
Chief shaking her head in quick negation.
At her rebellion Kilbuck's voice shot out stingingly like the lash of a
whip. With a hurt, stunned expression the girl shrank back. Her shawl
shivered into a vivid heap about her feet. The basket of berries slipped
unheeded to the sand, their wild fragrance scenting the air about her.
While he was still speaking she started forward, her wide, idolatrous
eyes raised to his, her little berry-stained hands held out beseechingly.
"No--no, Paul!" Anguish and pleading were in her broken English. "No,
no! I can not do! Too mooch, too mooch I loof you, Paul!" Brimming
tears overflowed and rolled slowly down her cheeks.
Kayak Bill rose hastily and stalked across the platform into the store.
The White Chief turned away with tightening lips, but there was no
softening in his smoke-colored eyes. It would be to his interest to have
his bookkeeper a squaw-man. The old Hudson Bay Company factors
had proved the advantage of having their employees take Indian
women. For his own health's sake he must get rid of Naleenah. The
tubercular girl would live longer in the house of a white man than with
her own people, where he would soon be forced to send her. He was,
therefore, doing her a kindness in turning her over to Harlan.
He lighted a cigarette, inhaled a deep draught, and tossing the scarcely
burned weed away, crossed deliberately to the huddled figure of Gregg
Harlan. He shook him by the shoulder.

"Wake up!" he ordered, "and go to your bunk."
From Kayak Bill's cabin doorway several men drifted curiously toward
the store steps. The natives gathered closer.
The bookkeeper raised his head and passed a slow hand over
bewildered eyes.
"Beg--pardon, Chief," he said quickly, as he rose on unsteady legs,
"making sleeping porch--of your--steps. . . . Awf-lly tired. . ."
Wavering, he clung for support to the flag-pole.
With a peremptory gesture Kilbuck motioned to Naleenah.
"Take this man to his cabin," he snapped, "and--" he paused
significantly, "remember what I have told you."
The girl came forward with drooping head and listless arms. She
paused dully beside the flag-pole. The trader placed the arm of the
stupefied young man across her slim shoulders. Obediently she led her
charge away in the direction of the small cabins across the courtyard.
Though the eyes of the spectators had been intent on the drama of the
steps, only Kayak Bill, perhaps, knew its real significance. The old man
now stood in the doorway of the store, his sombrero pushed to the back
of his head, a pair of binoculars held against his eyes.
From around the point beyond the Indian Village and into the bay, a
white-sailed schooner had drifted. As it advanced there was wafted
across the water a faint and silvery fragment of melody which endured
but a moment and was gone.
The White Chief turned his back on the courtyard and for the first time
noted Kayak Bill's attitude. He followed the direction of the old man's
gaze and beheld the incoming vessel just as the white men and Indians
behind him broke out in a babble of interest and curiosity.
There floated inshore the rattle of the windlass letting go the anchor

chain. On the deck of the schooner men ran about as the sails were
lowered. The vessel swung gently until the bow headed into the current
of the incoming tide.
"Get out the canoe, Silvertip," ordered the trader, turning to his
henchman, "and take Swimming Wolf with you. Find out who's----"
He broke off, wondering, incredulous, for at that moment across the
water came the golden singing of a violin. Wonderfully low and tender
it began. Swelling, it rose and soared and trembled, then with lingering,
chorded sweetness died away like the exquisite music of a dream.
The listeners on the shore stood spellbound. Gregg