d dynamite like an Eskimo
to seal oil, Kayak. He's been at Katleean three months now, and I'll
be damned if he's been sober three times since he landed. Seems to be
hitting it up extra strong now that the Potlatch is due--" Kilbuck
lowered his voice--"I want nothing said to him of the prospector and
his white wife, _understand_?"

At the dictatorial tone flung into the last sentence there came a
narrowing of the old hootch-maker's eyes. It was seldom that Paul
Kilbuck spoke thus to Kayak Bill.

The singer was crossing the courtyard now with steps of exaggerated
carefulness. Suddenly he paused. His dark eyes, in vague, alcoholic
meditation, sought the distant peaks stained with the blush-rose of
sunset. The evening-purple of the hills fringed the bay with mystery.
Gulls floated high on lavender wings, their intermittent plaint
answering the Indian voices that drifted up from the beach where the
canoes were landing.

Kayak Bill moved over on the step, indicating the space beside him.

"Come along side o' me, son, and get yore bearin's!" he called.

"Yes, Harlan, stop your mooning and come here. I want to talk to you."

Gregg Harlan turned, and the smile that parted his lips, though born in
a liquor-fogged brain, was singularly winning.

"Chief," his words came distinctly but with careful deliberation, "an
outsider would think--that I am--a--fellow of rare--judgment and
s-sound phil-os-ophy from the way--you're always--wanting to
talk--to--me."

He advanced and seated himself on the steps near the base of the
flag-pole, leaning heavily against it. The gay recklessness that is
the immediate effect of the fiery native brew of the North was
evidently wearing away, and preceding the oblivion that was fast coming
upon him, stray glimpses of his past, bits of things he had read or
heard, and snatches of poetry flashed on the screen of his mind.

"It doesn't go with me--Chief. Don't--bring on--your--little
forest--maiden--Naleenah--again. Tired--hearing about--her.
Know--what you say: Up here--my people--never know. _Me_--a squaw man!
Lord! What do I want--with--a squaw?" He laughed as at some blurred
vision of his brain. "It's not that--I'm so damned virtuous, Chief.
But I'm--fas-fas-tid-ious. That's it--fastidious----"

Paul Kilbuck's eyes flashed a cold steel grey. "We'll see how
fastidious you'll be a year from now." His lip lifted on one side
exposing a long, pointed tooth. "That'll be enough, n