om
the gable edge of the roof. Two monster eyes glared through the
twilight above a grinning, squared mouth twenty feet across. On either
side of the oval door stood a totem, hollow at the base and containing
the ashes of long-dead chiefs. The corner-posts were carved into
life-size grotesque figures of men.

Between Ellen and Jean sauntered Kayak Bill. Their half-fearful looks
at the Potlach-house were inspired by the stories he had told, with a
certain grim amusement, to these two fair women of the South. They
were stories told to him over the hootch-cup by the wicked
Old-Woman-Who-Would-Not-Die; tales of the long-ago heathen times when
the Potlatch-house was erected and dedicated with human sacrifices;
when for each of those carved corner-posts a slave had been murdered
and placed at the bottom of the hole that was to receive it; tales of
scores of slaves who had been slaughtered upon its completion; tales of
animal-like orgies those walls had seen--cannibal feasts, torture of
witches, fiendish carousals about the burning dead.

Tame, indeed, in comparison were the Potlatches of this day, even when
the savage spirit was stimulated by the white man's fire-water. And
tonight there could be none of that. In honor of the white women,
Kayak Bill was keeping drink from the Indians this one evening.

Ellen looked at Jean apprehensively as they pressed closely on the
heels of Shane Boreland and followed him through the low, oval door of
the Potlatch-house.

Inside the air was thick with the smoke of many pipes. Through the
haze the wall lights burned dimly. All about the sides of the great
room squatted natives in their Potlatch finery. At the farther end sat
the drummers beating in booming rhythm on war-drums made of hair-seal
stretched over rings from hollowed logs. Never during the three days
of the Potlatch did those drumbeats cease.

Near the doorway was a small slightly-raised platform. On this, in his
Shaman robes, sat the White Chief of Katleean. As they ascended the
step he rose ceremoniously to greet them and indicated some chairs near
him which had been placed in anticipation of their coming.

When the white visitors had seated themselves the drum-beats took on a
quicker staccato rhythm. There was a craning of necks toward the
doorway. Another moment and the chief dancer of the Potlatch entered
the oval.

Dancing in backwards so that the decorations on his blanket were
displayed to the best