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Updated: May 12, 2025
"Squaws him trash!" exclaimed the Indian. And he spat to emphasize his cynical opinion. "Some squaws," corrected Steve. Julyman glanced at him from the corners of eyes which had become mere slits before the biting drift of the wind. "All squaw," he said doggedly. Then he went on. "Squaw him all smile. Him soft. Him mak dam fool of Indian man. Squaw no good only mak pappoose, feed pappoose.
And even in the more enlightened minds of An-ina and Julyman there was a deep appreciation of the act. When the council broke up, and the fur-clad Indians moved out, Steve might well have been forgiven had he felt that his work had been well and truly done. With the going of the last Indian he promptly shouldered his pack, and Julyman and An-ina did the same.
The flat denial of his "boss" was quite without effect upon Julyman. Oolak, beside him, roused himself sufficiently to turn his head and blink enquiry at him. He was a silent creature whose admiration for those who could sustain prolonged talk was profound. "All same, boss, that so," Julyman protested without emotion. "Him same like all men. Him just man, squaw, pappoose.
The grey dawn was searching the obscurity of the fringe of woody shelter in which the camp was made the last camp on the return journey from Seal Bay to the fort. The smell of cooked meat rose from the pan which Julyman held over the fire.
Just for a moment the white man stood gazing down the shadowed trail. Then he moved off in the direction of his four-roomed log house. Left alone the Indians remained at the fireside; Oolak the silent indifferent to everything about him except the pleasant warmth of the fire; Julyman, on the contrary, angrily alert. He was listening to the sounds which grew momentarily louder and more distinct.
"Much darker, and there were no devil-men, because there just aren't any." "No. Course not," the boy agreed readily. "That's so. Well, Uncle Steve came a long, long way, and his dogs were tired, and his Indians were tired " "Wos thems like Julyman an' Oolak?" "Yes. That's who the Indians were. Uncle always has Julyman and Oolak. Well, he came to a valley where he found a little boy.
But in the fourteen years that had elapsed since his return to Unaga the raw muscle and the powerful frame of his youthful body had only gained in mass and left him the more capable of withstanding the demands which his life on the merciless plateau made upon his endurance. Julyman, too, was much the Julyman of bygone years.
Nothing left. Only two men. Boss Steve and Julyman. Oh, yes. They stan'. They look, too. They no fear. So they not burn all up. The man by the dogs much scare. He left him club, an' beat all dogs. So they all crazed with him club. They run. Oh, yes. An' the man turn. He run, too. Then Oolak see him face. Oh, yes. Him face of Oolak. Him eyes big with fear. Him cry out.
There were forty-two distinct piles of furs, each yielding the rough outline of a prone human figure beneath it. Each figure was deathly still. And the whole suggested some primitive mortuary, with its freight, awaiting identification. For many moments Steve remained powerless to withdraw his fascinated gaze. And all the while he was thinking of Julyman, and the story he had been told so long ago.
"Bimeby she come," he said, in his low, even tones, while his black, luminous eyes were definitely raised to the white man's face. "Oh, yes. Bimeby she come. An' boss then him laff lak hell. Julyman know. Julyman have much squaw. Plenty." Steve started. For a moment he stared. Then his easy smile crept into his steady eyes again and he nodded. "Sure," he said. "Bimeby she come.
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