"God, you fool!" he whispered hoarsely, leaning down and grasping
Silvertip's arm. "Why didn't you tell me you had some one here. Who
is it?"

The Swede groaned. "By yingo, Ay plumb forget about te tarn jung
yack-ass Harlan. He coom in har dis noon time drunk like hal, wit
t'ree bottle of hootch. He tal me he iss lonesome. He iss drunk now,
Chief. He can't har not'ing."

Kilbuck drew down the blankets from the head of the man in the upper
bunk. The boyish sleeping face was flushed. Dark matted hair clung to
the damp forehead and there was a sickening odor of vile liquor in the
air. A long moment the trader looked to see if Harlan would open his
eyes. Then with a contemptuous laugh he flung the blanket over the
lean young face.

"Nothing to fear from him if he drank three bottles of Kayak Bill's
brew."

He stepped out of the door into the courtyard, adjusted his headdress
and humming a dance-hall ballad, swung down the beach path toward the
Indian Village.

CHAPTER VIII

THE OUTFIT

A week later, in the snug little cabin of the _Hoonah_, Ellen Boreland
sat opposite a folding table, where her husband, humming contentedly,
was adjusting a gold-scale. Ellen's hands were busy with mending but
her brow puckered anxiously and her eyes had purple shadows beneath
them.

From the moment she had realized the loss of her lock of hair, her
conflicting impressions of the White Chief of Katleean had crystallized
into a certainty that he meant no good to herself or to her husband.
That he desired her she had now no doubt, and while she knew in her
heart that she was in no way responsible for this, she felt more keenly
than ever that baffling sense of guilt that had attached itself to her
since her first meeting with the man. It seemed some loathed feeling
shared with the man and more gripping because of words never spoken.

Another thing troubled her: Because of him she had told her husband a
lie--the first during her ten years of married life. Her mind went
back again and again to the scene. They had come back to their room at
the post the night of the Potlatch dance. Jean, full of enthusiasm
over the events of the evening came in from her loft-room to talk it
all over with her sister. Little Loll in a corner, was solemnly
practicing the bear-antics of Heart-of-a-Grizzly. Shane Boreland, as
was his custom, sat watching his wife comb out the long beautiful
tresses that were his pride.

Suddenly h