ow, Harlan."

"Sure, 's enough--for me, Chief," admitted the young man with drowsy
good nature, as his tousled head sought a more comfortable place
against the flagpole. "Pardon--casting aspersions--on your--taste in
women, Chief. Wouldn't do--it--if sober. Hate to be sober. Makes me
feel--re-responsible for so--many things. . . . Hence flowing bowl.
'Member old Omar--unborn Tomorrow and dead--Yesterday. . . . Why fret
'bout it--if--if--today--be--sweet." His voice trailed off in a murmur
and his boyish chin with its look of firmness despite his dejection,
sank slowly on his breast.

The canoes had made a landing. A dozen or more Thlinget women came
straggling up the beach laden with the fruits of their afternoon
labors: gay-colored baskets of wild strawberries, red and fragrant from
the sand-dunes along the lagoon. From the Indian Village, a short
distance down the curve of the beach where the smokes of evening fires
were rising, a welcoming buck or two came to accompany the softly
laughing squaws.

Slightly in advance of the shawled figures moving toward the group on
the steps walked one whose slenderness and grace marked her from the
rest. A scarlet shawl splashed the cream of her garments. Unlike the
other women, she wore no disfiguring handkerchief on her head. Her
face, oval and creamy-brown, was framed by two thick braids that fell
over her shoulders. In the crook of her arm rested a basket of
berries. At her side, rubbing against her now and then, came a
powerful huskie, beautiful with the lean grace of the wolf and
paw-playing as a kitten.

"Mush on,[1] Kobuk! Mush--you!" She laughed, pushing him aside 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. . .