Where the Sun Swings North | Page 7

Harlan, swaying in
the doorway of his cabin, steadied himself while the silvery harmony
stole into his clouded senses.
"Strange--strange," he muttered, "a violin--playing like that--in
Katleean. Dreams--more--dreams--" He stumbled into the room and the
weeping Indian girl guided his footsteps to the narrow bunk in the
corner.
In the after-sunset light that precedes the long Alaskan twilight there is
some rare quality that seems to bring nearer objects on the water.
Kayak Bill in the doorway, took another long look through the glasses,
then stepped down to the White Chief's side. His voice was the first to
break the enchanted silence that followed the strains of the violin.
"That wind-jammer's the Hoonah I been a-tellin' you of, Chief," he
drawled, holding out the binoculars. "There's two women aboard o' her,
instead o' one. 'Pears to me like one o' them's purty young, and it's her
that's standin' in the stern a-playin' o' the fiddle."

[1] Corruption of the French marchez, marche, which the Canadian
coureurs du bois used to shout to their dogs, meaning to go forward,
advance.
CHAPTER III

THE LITTLE SQUAW WITH WHITE FEET
The morning after the arrival of the schooner, Gregg Harlan woke with
an aching head and trembling limbs. As he sat on the edge of his bunk
holding his fingers against his throbbing temples, he made a mental
vow that he would drink no more of Kayak Bill's liquor; that today he
would settle down to the business that had brought him to Katleean. He
had made the same vow every morning since his landing--made it
earnestly, intending to keep it, but there was something in the air of the
trading-post that made irresistible the reckless camaraderie engendered
by the hootch-cup; something that emphasized that very quality of gay
irresponsibility he had come North to lose.
The stale, close air of his little cabin sent waves of nausea through him.
Hatless and coatless he sought the open air. He turned his steps
instinctively toward the point beyond the Indian Village. On the other
side, screened from sight of the post, he was accustomed to take the
daily plunge in the bay that enabled him to throw off the immediate
effects of his hard drinking.
As he stumbled along, his lack-lustre eyes rested but a moment on the
schooner in the bay. He had not been long enough away from the world
to be other than faintly interested in the arrival, and his recollections of
the night before were nil.
The tide was low. The fresh, keen scent of seaweed came up from the
Point refreshing his sickened senses. Noisy gulls wheeled and tilted
over the brown, kelp-covered rocks and on the ridge back of the Indian
graveyard, ravens answered the gull cries with raucous soliloquies.
He was nearing the Point when his eye was attracted by a splash of
white among the boulders. Something peculiar in its outline drew his
inquiring steps. At the sound of crunching gravel under his feet a great
huskie dog rose almost from under him. The young man sprang aside
with a startled exclamation. Against the wet sand the dog's dark coat
had been practically invisible.
"Heavens, Kobuk, old boy! I thought I was seeing things!"

He passed a damp hand over his brow. The dog, strangely
undemonstrative, advanced and placed a sleek head against Gregg's
knee, its pointed muzzle down, its tail hanging dispiritedly. Vaguely
wondering what the trader's favorite lead-dog was doing among the
boulders on the Point, Harlan patted the animal's broad back and turned
to the object that had attracted his attention.
What he had at first taken to be seaweed was a mass of long dark hair.
Beneath it a damp, clinging cream-colored garment outlined the dead
body of an Indian girl.
"God!" came Gregg's awed whisper, as he bent above the pitiful little
heap. "The White Chief's Naleenah! . . . Poor little devil!"
Steadied by the tragedy he did not understand, he stooped and gathered
up the still form. He started back to the trader's quarters, little dreaming
that the last earthly act performed by those small hands now so still,
had been for himself. But if Kobuk, following close at his heels, could
have spoken, he would have told of the manner of her going, the night
before.
The trading-post of Katleean had lain wrapped in moonlight and
slumber when Naleenah, after obeying her master's instructions to the
extent of making the drunken young white man comfortable, crept from
the doorway of Harlan's cabin. Kobuk, waiting outside for the mistress
who had fed him since puppy days, pressed closely to her side as she
crossed the courtyard.
At the beachline, where silvered rice-grass grew tall among the piles of
whitened driftwood, she paused, looking with wistful eyes toward the
Indian Village