“How many deer must you have to keep you until game comes?”
“Mebby—mebby,” the Indian stared at her in astonishment, “Mebby two, mebby three.”
“All right,” said Marian, “you have killed a fine doe. That was bad, but I forgive you.” She held our her hand to grasp the native’s bony fingers.
“Now,” she said briskly, “since you have killed her, you may keep the meat. Terogloona,” she turned to the Eskimo, “point out two young bucks, the best we have. Tell him he may kill them and that he and his friends may take them to their cabin.”
“I—I—” the Indian attempted to speak. Failing utterly, he turned and walked a few steps away, then turning, struck straight away toward the spot where the red and yellow campfire gleamed.
“That is his camp?” asked Marian.
Terogloona nodded silently.
“They will come for the meat, and will give us no further trouble?”
“Eh-eh” smiled the Eskimo. “The daughter of my master has acted wisely. The man who starves, he is different. These reindeer,” he waved his arms toward the herd, “they belong to my master and his daughter. When men are not starving—yes. When men are starving—no. To the starving all things belong. Bill Scarberry, he remember yet. Indians of Little Sticks, they never forget.”
As Marian turned to retrace her steps to camp, she chanced to glance up at the other camp where, but an hour before, she had seen the flash of the purple flame. It was closer than she thought. The flash of flame was gone, but she was sure she caught the outlines of a tent; surer still that she saw a solitary figure atop a nearby knoll. Sitting as if on watch, this solitary man held a rifle across his knees.