"Yes," he half laughed, "it pretty wild; not much good for anything."
"People seem to think it valuable," I said. "There is a lot of litigation—of fighting going on now about it."
"Oh! that the way always," he said, as though speaking of a long accepted fact. "Always fight over that place. Hundreds of years ago they fight about it; Indian people; they say hundreds of years to come everybody will still fight—never be settled what that place is, who it belong to, who has right to it. No, never settle. Deadman's Island always mean fight for someone."
"So the Indians fought amongst themselves about it?" I remarked, seemingly without guile, although my ears tingled for the legend I knew was coming.
"Fought like lynx at close quarters," he answered. "Fought, killed each other, until the island ran with blood redder than that sunset, and the sea-water about it was stained flame color—it was then, my people say, that the scarlet fire-flower was first seen growing along this coast."
"It is a beautiful color—the fire-flower," I said.
"It should be fine color, for it was born and grew from the hearts of fine tribes-people—very fine people," he emphasized.
We crossed to the eastern rail of the bridge, and stood watching the deep shadows that gathered slowly and silently about the island; I have seldom looked upon anything more peaceful.
The chief sighed. "We have no such men now, no fighters like those men, no hearts, no courage like theirs. But I tell you the story; you understand it then. Now all peace; to-night all good tillicums; even dead man's spirit does not fight now, but long time after it happen those spirits fought."
"And the legend?" I ventured.