Ike stood beaming upon them while the two boys ate the dinner he had so thoughtfully prepared. As soon as they had finished he bore the empty dishes below while Alex stretched out on a seat and was soon asleep.
As the Rambler dashed through the water. Clay frequently consulted the chart and compared it with the passing shores. It was accurate as the Kid had stated. Near the middle of the afternoon, he sighted the tall cliff just beyond which the Kid had said lay the little Indian village. He awakened Alex, and turning the wheel over to him, went back to the motor. As they passed the cliff they come into sight of the village, a miserable collection of anthill-like huts. As they eased the Rambler to shore, their noses were greeted by a multitude of odors blended into one malodorous whole—the usual odor of an Esquimaux village. “You and Alex can go ashore and look around,” Clay said. “I’ll stay and look out for Case. I’ve got a hunch that there’s fish lurking in this little cove and I’m going to have a try for them. Taste good for a change, wouldn’t it?”
The village lay back a ways from the river on a high bank and this the boys scrambled up, to find themselves in the middle of the settlement. It was almost deserted, only a few old men and old women crouched in the warm sunshine in front of their wretched buildings. Only a very few children played solemnly in the sun and they looked wan and haggard. None of the faces looked attractive. They were broad, flat and stupid.
Ike, with true trader’s instinct, had brought a pack with him and a glint of interest shone in the eyes of the old men. It might contain tobacco of which they had none in many weary moons. The one who seemed in authority, approached Alex. “How,” he said.
“How yourself?” replied Alex. “Who is your chief?”
“I am a great man amongst my people,” said the native. “I am Shaman, the medicine man. I protect my people from sickness and guard them from the evil spirits of the Yukon.”
“Guess you got the wrong hunch last winter or else the Yukon spirit’s out-wrestled you,” said Alex lightly, as he glanced around at the empty huts. “Say, who’s that chap with a face like an Indian’s?”
The Shaman glanced at the still impassive face that Alex pointed out.
“Him Nichols, the story teller. He is a great man in the tribe. He keeps the people contented in the long winter’s darkness by telling them wondrous tales about when the Northland was always green and the sun shone every day warm, and game was plenty in the land. Not like now when the cold pierces to the marrow and hunger gnaws always at the empty belly.”
Alex was not taken much by the Shaman’s looks, so leaving him to the tender mercies of Ike, who was undoing his pack, he strolled on through the little village, thrusting his little freckled face in here and there and noting everything with keen eyes.