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Julyman stand by teepee. Him tak rawhide. Him say, 'do so! Squaw him do. Julyman mak long trail. Him not care. Him come back him find plenty much other squaw. So!" The Indian's watchful eyes had turned again to the tracks ahead. But he had seen. The humour had completely vanished out of Steve's eyes. So had his smile. Julyman's purpose was not quite clear. He loved and revered his chief.
It was dark, dark, in contrast to the crystal splendour outspread, and frowned with the unyielding hue of the barren rock. "Boss look!" It was the first intimation of Julyman's presence. Steve accepted it without question. He was wholly absorbed in what he beheld. The Indian was at his side pointing at the monstrous tower. "Him Unaga Unaga Spire. Julyman know. Him Father wise man.
But there was nothing in his manner to suggest a mind weakening under its burden. It was simple, sane determination that looked out of his eyes. Julyman answered him, and a world of relief was in his tone. "Him dog. Him sled. All him Indian man him stop by camp. Oh, yes." Steve nodded. Then he pointed out down the river. "It's a crazy territory anyway," he said.
So does Marcel. We both want you bad. Unaga it's a hell of a country, but you come along right up there with us, and I'll fix things so you'll be as happy as that darn country'll let you be. Julyman and Oolak are going along with us. They've quit the police, same as I have. I can't do without them, same as we can't do without An-ina. We're going there for the boy. Not for ourselves. It's the weed.
Julyman was at the rough counter at the command of An-ina, whose outward calm was a perfect mask for the feelings stirred at the unexpected return of Marcel. It was all so characteristic of these people, for all there were momentous words and happenings passing, for all Marcel was conveying news of the threat to their lives which had brought him at such speed back to his home.
Him tell of Unaga Spire. Him hot. Him hot lak hell. Him all burn up snow ice. Him burn up all thing. Come. It not good. Him Unaga Spire!" A wide declining expanse stretched out before them as Steve and Julyman swung along over the snow. They were following the track of a dog train, leaving behind them the added tracks of their own snow-shoes to mark the way.
Oolak was bringing in his train, with its five powerful dogs. Julyman with a club was busy, with little Marcel's assistance, beating off the ferocious welcome of dogs of the post. For a moment he watched the boy's amazing efforts. Then as the tumult subsided he turned again to the patient woman awaiting his verdict. "You're a good woman, An-ina," he said simply.
Julyman grinned his relief that the white man saw nothing serious in that which all Indians regard as the voice of the spirits haunting their world. "Oolak eat plenty, much," he observed slyly. Steve helped himself to meat from the pan and dipped some beans from the camp kettle beside the fire. "Dreams are damn-fool things, anyway," he said.
He remembered how he had derided it as beyond belief. At last the fascination passed, and he turned his gaze in search of those things which made this extraordinary scene possible. They were there. Oh, yes. Julyman had not lied. No one had lied about these creatures of hibernation. Piles of food were set out in earthenware bowls, similar to the bowls which contained the floating lights.
Julyman responded with a swift raising of his eyes, and one of his broad, unfrequent smiles. Then, as the wagon passed, his eyes dropped again to the fire. He knew. Oh, yes, he knew. Had he not sat with many squaws who seemed desirable in his eyes? Yes, he had sat just so. Close. Oh, very close. Yes, he was glad his boss had taken himself off.
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