Where the Sun Swings North | Page 8

cuddled in the crescent curve of the beach. The weird,
ghostly totems of her people rose above the roofs, catching the
moonbeams fearfully on their mystic carvings. Stern and forbidding
they seemed, as if guarding the quiet shelters at their feet against one
who had forsaken them for the more luxurious cabins of the white
man. . . . Slowly she turned from the tribal emblems of her clan to look
back at the log trading-post, dim and softly grey and splashed with
shadows. . . . So still she stood and so long, that the dog grew restless

and rubbed his cold nose against her hand. She sighed, a tired,
quivering sigh like that of a child who has been hurt, and with bowed
head, stumbled along the trail that led down to the water.
Over a dark line of hills glowed the glorious red-gold orb of Sha-hee-yi,
The-Moon-When-All-Things-Make-Their-Winter-Homes.
Unbelievably large and round and clear it stood out against the
night-blue, throwing a path of shimmering gold across the bay to her
little feet. With eyes raised to its splendor, she waded out slowly,
steadily, into the moonlit, whispering waves. . . .
At the edge of the beach Kobuk settled on his haunches, watching her
with questioning, side-turned head. He whined uneasily.
The scarlet shawl slipped from her shoulders and floated off behind
her. . . . The water crept above her waist . . . her shoulders. Her
wide-eyed, frightened face caught the light. . . . Then the ripples closed
above her head. A moment later her long hair, loosed from its braids,
swayed on the amber-lighted surface like seaweed, then the moonpath
lay quiet as before.
On the shore Kobuk waited, his slant eyes blinking at the moon.
Occasionally he raised his pointed nose and uttered a muffled whine
that ended in a short, querulous yelp. . . . Hours passed. . . . The tide
began to ebb, leaving a dark line of sand at the edge of the water. . . .
After a long while Kobuk went in search of his mistress, and having
found her, watched beside her until Harlan came and bore her away.
As the young man ascended the steps to the store platform he was
dimly aware of encountering a tall, dark stranger, who afterward
proved to be the owner of the schooner that had come in the evening
before. Shane Boreland, whose figure was blocking the doorway,
stepped aside to let Gregg pass into the building with his burden.
From about the stove, where several men were already gathered, came
low exclamations, and the White Chief, who had been following
Boreland to the door, stopped suddenly at the sight of Harlan. His face
went as cold and emotionless as that of the dead girl.

"Take her in to Decitan," he said shortly, with a gesture toward his
quarters back of the store. Turning on his heel, he walked out to the
platform where Boreland stood waiting.
"A damned sad ending to their little domestic difficulty," he murmured
softly, as befitted one with a large heart and a kindly understanding of
the follies of youth. "But young Harlan, my bookkeeper, hasn't been
long enough in the North to appreciate the intensity of these little
hot-blooded savages. I told him, when he took Naleenah, . . ." The
Chief, as if he had said too much, let his sentence trail off into silence.
He shook his head in apparent sorrow, but his eyes were fixed on the
schooner that rode at anchor in the bay.
"But don't let this incident mar your arrival, Boreland," Paul Kilbuck
went on, and then, with the frontier heartiness he knew so well how to
assume, he set about tendering Boreland the hospitality of the post,
urging the prospector to bring his family ashore for a visit during the
time of the coming Potlatch. This was a festival, he assured the master
of the Hoonah, which could not fail to interest Mrs. Boreland and her
younger sister.
Even as the trader planned for the reception of the white women, the
squaws who had borne him children were preparing the body of little
Naleenah for its resting place below the ridge where the grave-houses
and totems of the Thlinget dead huddled among the wild celery bushes.
Quietly that night, just before moon-set she was laid away so that her
funeral might cast no sadness on the coming visitors. On the grave, the
silent women of the household placed the treasures that had been dear
to the heart of the White Chief's favorite: a string of cheap beads, a
scarlet shawl, gaudy painted cup and two dead pigeons, progenitors of
the flock that now cooed and fluttered in and out of the high wire
enclosure back of the