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“The next winter at Holy Cross she ran to me shaking one day.

“‘He is here! He is here! Oh, Big man, I am afraid!’

“‘Who’s here?’ says I.

“‘He is here–Father Orloff,’ and her eyes was round and scared so that I took her up and kissed her while she clung to me–she was such a little girl.

“‘He spoke to me at the water-hole, “I have come for you.” I ran very fast, but he came behind. “Where is George?”‘ he said.

“I went out of the cabin down to the Mission, and into the house of Father Barnum. He was there.

“‘Orloff! What do ye want?’ I says.

“Father Barnum speaks up–‘he’s known for a good man the length of the river. George,’ says he, ‘Father Orloff tells me you stole the girl Metla from her tribe. ‘Tis a shameful thing for a white to take a red girl for his wife, but it’s a crime to live as you do.’

“‘What?’ says I.

“‘We can’t sell you provisions nor allow you to stay in the village.’

“Orloff grins. ‘You must go on,’ he says, ‘or give her up.’

“‘No! I’ll do neither.’ And I shows the paper from the missionary at Nulato statin’ that we were married. ‘She’s my wife,’ says I, ‘and too good for me. She’s left her people and her gods, and I’ll care for her.’ I saw how it hurt Orloff, and I laid my hand on his shoulder close to the neck. ‘I distrust ye, and sure as Fate ye’ll die the shocking death if ever harm comes to the little one.’

“That was the winter of the famine, though every winter was the same then, and I went to Anvik for grub–took all the strong men and dogs in the village. I was afraid when I left, too, for ’twas the time I should have been with her, but there was no one else to go.

“‘When you come back,’ she said, ‘there will be another–a little boy–and he will grow mighty and strong, like his father.’ She hung her arms around me, Cap, and I left with her kisses warm on my lips.

“It was a terrible trip, the river wet with overflows and the cut-offs drifted deep, so I drove back into Holy Cross a week late with bleedin’ dogs and frozen Indians strainin’ at the sled ropes.

“I heard the wail of the old women before. I come to the cabin, and when Metla had sobbed the story out in her weakness, I went back into the dark and down to the Mission. I remember how the Northern Lights flared over the hills above, and the little spruces on the summit looked to me like headstones, black against the moon–and I laughed when I saw the snow red in the night glare, for it meant blood and death.

“It was as lusty a babe as ever crowed, but Orloff had come to the sick bed and sent her squaws away. Baptism and such things he said he’d do. The little fellow died that night.

“They say the Mission door was locked and barred, but I pushed through it like paper and came into Father Barnum’s house, where they sat. Fifty below is bad for the naked flesh. I broke in, bare-headed, mittenless, and I’d froze some on the way down. He saw murder in my eyes and tried to run, but I got him as he went out of the room. He tore his throat loose from my stiffened fingers and went into the church, but I beat down the door with my naked fists, mocking at his prayers inside, and may I never be closer to death than Orloff was that night.

“Then a squaw tugged at my parka.

“‘She is dying, Anguk,’ she said, and I ran back up the hill with the cold bitin’ at my heart.