the
very liquor which had brought about his patients' troubles.

Among the Kagwantans of the Thlinget people he had been given the rank
of Shaman, or medicine man. To further his own ends and to keep his
hold on the natives, he had always donned the robes that went with this
conferred honor and had taken an active part in the Potlatch
ceremonies. As the years went by, with but four steamers a
twelve-month to disturb his voluntary exile and but a waning interest
in anything south of Dixon's Entrance, he had grown to have a real
enjoyment in these affairs. They served to banish any lingering
inhibitions imposed by civilization.

As he walked across the courtyard toward the little cabin of Silvertip
and his squaw, Senott, there were thoughtful lines in the White Chief's
brow. Today he would have an opportunity to impress the white women
with his importance among the wild people of the North. Today Ellen
Boreland should see him as the great chief and Shaman, banisher of
Thlinget sorcery. But--how far might he go in this character without
running the risk of becoming ridiculous? Never before had such an
audience taxed his powers of discrimination. True, by subtle speeches,
he had prepared his visitors for anything that might happen, and he
knew they would excuse much that was bizarre on his own part because of
his explanation that such ways were necessary in handling a primitive
people. But he also knew that there is but a thin dividing line
between savage pomp and ludicrous ostentation.

As he neared Silvertip's door he raised his head decisively and
mounting the steps entered without knocking.

His glance swept the small room with its snowy sand-scoured floor, its
rectangular box-stove of sheet-iron, and two corner bunks, one above
the other.

"Well, Silvertip, you and Harlan are the last ones on my list. I can't
find _him_ any place, but I see you've come to anchor all right.
What's the matter with you?" He addressed the wan-looking Silvertip in
the lower bunk.

A long-drawn sigh quivered up from the blankets, and with a shaking
hand the Swede indicated his head.

"My ol' ooman (groan) . . . lick hal outen me . . . (groan)!"

Kilbuck bent down and parted the fair, blood-matted hair on the side of
his patient's head.

"Oh, you're not much hurt, man. You and Senott ought to learn to take
a little drink together without beating each other up this way." He
laughed as he made ready to cleanse the cut.