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Updated: May 12, 2025
But there was something tremendous in the meaning of that living presence in the voiceless solitudes which the ages have failed to stir. The sleds were still. The dogs lay sprawled for rest awaiting the will of their masters. Julyman stood abreast of Steve, tall, lean, but bulky in his frosted furs. Oolak stood over his dogs, which were his first care.
Steve noted the change. He understood it. White and colour. This child had been bred amongst Indians, and his parents were white. It was always so. Even in so small a child the distinction was definite. He replied for Julyman, while the Indian only continued to grin. "Julyman only sleeps at night," he said. But Marcel pointed at the domed huts which looked so like a collection of white ant heaps.
The man that had finished talking now was the man Julyman regarded above all others. Nita took the bottle thrust into her hands, and, without a word, she rose from her chair and passed into the bedroom which the baby's room adjoined. Steve watched her go. His hungry eyes followed her every movement. His heart was torn by conflicting emotions.
Since then the look had deepened, and Julyman, in spite of his best efforts, had failed to dispel it. Even his story of a race of "hibernating" Indians had been without effect. But Julyman did not accept defeat easily. And presently he removed the foul pipe from his thin lips, and spat with great accuracy into the heart of the fire.
It was in the direction of his home. Julyman had missed the latter in his absorbed interest in the return of these folk from Deadwater. Steve reached the log home in the bluff at the same moment as a horseman reined up at his door. The man in the saddle leant over, peering into the face of the Inspector. The darkness left him uncertain. "Deadwater post?" he demanded abruptly.
It was now ready, waiting for the elements to render abortive in a few short hours the labour of many days. Julyman and Steve had spent the brief daylight in setting up a snow-break before the open sheds which housed the sleds and canoes. Oolak was at the quarters of the train dogs at the back of the store. These were his charge. He drove them, he fed them, and cared for them.
And none knew better than his scouts how often that card had meant the difference between a pipe over the warm camp-fire and the cold comfort of an icy grave. Julyman was troubled at the unease he observed in the white man's eyes. It had been there on and off for some days now.
The heart of Unaga was bared for all to see, that fierce heart which drives the bravest Indian tongue to the hush of dread. "We not mak' him that! Oh, no!" Julyman's tone was hushed and fearful. He moved close to the white man in urgent appeal. "Boss Steve not mak' him. No. Julyman all come dead. Julyman not mush on. Oh, no." "Julyman'll do just as 'Boss' Steve says."
'Uncle' Steve. And this is Julyman. He's an Indian, and very good man. And we like little boys. Don't we, Julyman?" The grin on the scout's face was still distorting his unaccustomed features as he moved along beside his boss. "Oh, yes. Julyman, him likes 'em plenty, much." "Why ain't you asleep?" demanded the boy abruptly addressing the scout and in quite a changed tone. His smile, too, had gone.
"Him Unaga!" Julyman protested, his outstretched arm shaking. "No mak' him? Yes?" "We mak' this!" It was Oolak who answered him. He spoke with a preliminary, contemptuous grunt. He, too, was pointing. But he was pointing at that which lay near at hand.
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