“Well, perhaps. Who knows?” Mary looked at Mark. He said never a word. There was no need. She could read his thoughts. He was thinking, “I love those Eskimo children, but I love Mary more. I want her always to be safe. And yet—I wonder.”
That night beside the huge, barrel stove in the Hughes’ cabin, Mr. Il-ay-ok talked long of his people who lived on the rim of a frozen sea. He spoke of the children, of their play and their simple toys, of their cheerful natures and happy smiles. With every word Mary’s interest grew. Her cheeks burned as she dreamed on of that suggested flight into the North.
“Christmas in Eskimo-land, dog-teams, reindeer and everything,” she whispered to herself. “Then perhaps Florence will be ready to return and we shall fly home together.” How she missed Florence! Then and there something like a resolve was formed in her mind. Would she go? There would be solemn family conferences, but in the end, would she go? To this question, for the moment, there came no answer.
Now Mr. Il-ay-ok was talking of other things, he was telling why that man Loome hated him. Somehow government officials had been persuaded that the Eskimo should drive their reindeer into the hills where feed was more plentiful. This they would never do; first they would sell their deer for very little. Loome and his companions were planning to profit by their misfortune.
“Now,” the little man’s eyes shone, “now, I have the papers. Here,” he patted his pocket. “Reindeer may stay as they are. The so wonderful government has said that. My people, they will be happy. But first I must show them the paper. First day of next year it will be too late. So-o, I must go. I must fly.”
“And you shall fly,” said Speed Samson. “Here. Shake on it.” They shook hands in silence. Mary’s heart burned with hope.
“Miss Santa Claus in Eskimo land,” she whispered.
Next day Madam Chicaski, who had of late been acting rather strangely, did the oddest thing of all. When in the summer Bill had returned from his fruitless search for gold, he had left his pick and shovel in the Hughes woodshed. They were still there. On this morning Mary saw the large Russian woman take the pick from the shed and march resolutely toward the giant stump that stood in the back yard. It was an innocent appearing thing, that stump. All weather-beaten and festooned with rustling morning-glory vines, it seemed a thing destined to stand there for years. And yet, as Mary watched, she felt sure that this woman meant to attack its roots, if possible to tear it from the earth.
“I wonder why?” she asked herself. At that moment her mind was filled with mingled emotion, surprise, consternation and something of alarm. This last she could not even have explained to herself.
There was, it seemed, no immediate cause for anxiety. The big woman did not swing the pick, at least, not that day. Instead as she came near to the stump, using the pick for a cane, she stood there leaning on it looking for all the world like a picture called “The Man with the Hoe.” On her face at that moment was a look Mary had seen there before, it was the gaze of one who worships at a shrine.