“What could you do now if you had cartridges for your rifle?” Duncan asked.
“Get caribou.” The Eskimo’s eyes were alight with hope.
“But they have gone far north.”
“Some caribou. Not all caribou. Come more soon.”
“What?” Gordon Duncan was on his feet.
“Yes. Come more. Not tell lie, mine. Come more. Mebby to-morrow. Mebby next day. Can’t tell. Come, that’s all.”
“Then, see here!” Gordon Duncan unbound his bundle of bows. “They’ll all shoot true and strong,” he said. “Just give me the right man to draw them. There are old men among you?”
“Three,” said the Eskimo. “Kit-me-suk, Teragloona, Omnakok.”
“Send for the wisest of them all.”
The man was brought in. There followed two hours of talking, relating, explaining, planning. Through the young interpreter the aged Eskimo related adventures of long ago, tales of mighty caribou hunts he had known before the white man came with his firearms.