“And would you like to shoot that one?” Mary asked, nodding toward the retreating figure.
“Not now. Mebby byum bye. You see,” the little man smiled, “I go to visit your country. I am—”
At that moment Florence Huyler, Mary’s big cousin came booming along from behind the pile of goods, to cry: “Ah! There you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
“Florence,” Mary stopped her, “this is Mr. Il-ay-ok. He’s from Alaska, and he wants to kill a white man, but not just now.” She laughed in spite of herself.
“But this is Alaska.” Florence, who was big and strong as a man, looked at the little man and smiled as she asked, “Is this your home?”
“No—no,” the little man bowed. “Much more north my home. Cape Nome sometimes and sometimes Cape Prince Wales.”
“Oh you’ve been in Nome?” Florence’s eyes shone. “My grandfather went there years and years ago. He never came back.”
“Name please?” the little man asked.
“Tom Kennedy.”
“Ah yes,” the little man beamed. “I know him. Big man. Very good man.”