The woman drove straight to the purpose at which she aimed. All the problems concerning the lives of the men she loved held for her a perfectly simple solution. Steve would come back to her in his own good time. There was nothing to be considered on that score. Marcel loved the white girl, Keeko. He must meet her again when the winter broke, or he would know no happiness. Then he must go—go now—so that he should be there to greet her when her canoes came up out of the south.
Self never entered into An-ina's calculations. So long as the path of life was made as smooth and pleasant for her men folk as the Northland would permit there was nothing else with which she need concern herself. She would be alone, unprotected. When the Sleepers roused from their torpor their trade must be seen to. Well, that was all right. She could see to it all. She saw nothing in these things which must be allowed to interfere with the happiness of any one belonging to her. Then, too, there was the white girl Keeko. Her simple woman's mind was stirred to wonder and curiosity as to the woman who had taken possession of the heart of the man who was to her as a son.
The unselfishness of it all appealed to the simple heart of the youth. But the passion that had taken possession of him overrode his finer scruples. The selflessness of the woman was the mother in An-ina. The emotions of the man were the emotions belonging to those primal laws of nature wherein self stands out supreme over every other instinct. An-ina was urging him to go—to go now—to leave her unprotected. It was the very thing for which he had blamed Uncle Steve. And he knew from the moment her words had been spoken that he intended to take her at her word. He shook his head, but his eyes were shining.
"I just can't do it, An-ina," he said a little desperately. "I can't leave you here alone. Suppose——"
An-ina interrupted him with her low, almost voiceless laugh.
"An-ina know," she said with a curious gentle derision which was calculated out of her years of study of the youth. "An-ina no good. She not nothing, anyway. Indian man come beat her head. She fall dead quick. Oh, yes. She not know gun from the 'gee-pole.' She got not two hands. She not learn shoot caribou, same like Marcel. She big fool-woman. An-ina know. Marcel think that. Steve not think that way. Oh, no. Boss Steve plenty wise. So Marcel come wise—later." Again came her low laugh. "This Keeko. This white girl so like the sun, the moon, all him star. Marcel love her? Oh, yes? An-ina say 'no.' Marcel not love her. Marcel love her, he say: 'An-ina no 'count Indian woman. She go plumb to hell—anyway. She nothing. Only Keeko. Marcel love her all to death. He go find her. He not care. Only so he find her.'"
Marcel stood dumb with amazement. His eyes were alight with a laugh he strove to restrain, but they were alight with something else, too. An-ina watched him. And her laugh came again as she flung her final taunt.
"Indian man say him love An-ina?" she cried. "Indian man not come fetch her—quick? Indian man say him not leave mother for An-ina? Then An-ina spit at him."
It was the savage breaking through the years of simple culture. The appeal of it all was beyond Marcel's power to resist. Suddenly he flung out his two great arms, and the hands that were immense with his muscular strength came down on the woman's soft, ample shoulders, and he held her in a great affectionate embrace.
"That's fixed it, you dear mother thing!" he cried, his face flushing with the joy of it all, the shame of it. "I'm going right away. I'm just going to leave you right here to the darn Sleepers, to the wolves, and the dogs, and any old thing that fancies to get around. There's no woman going to spit at—your Marcel."