ng 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 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