THE TRADE
The records could hardly have been worse and the machine was suffering
badly from the asthma, but the Shaman could not have shown more
appreciation had it been the grandest combination in existence. "Won't
you come Home, Bill Bailey?" seemed to give him complete satisfaction,
but "Ain't It Funny When You're Out of Money That the Only Thing You Get
Is Sympathy?" brought forth an expressive grunt, while "If You Ain't Got
No Money, Why You Needn't Come Around," appeared to afford him great
pleasure. Then Alex made the mistake he had been dreading all the
evening. After winding up the machine he slipped in a fresh record and
started it going. At the first snappy, scratching, breaking sounds, Alex
and Ike looked at each other in dismay. It was the worst record in the
lot because it had been their favorite and had been played over and over
again until it was only a battered wreck, seamed with scratches and
disfigured by cracks. Of the former Battle Hymn of the Republic there
remained only a few unintelligible words and a discordant discord.
The boys glanced at the Shaman fearfully and were surprised to find him
grinning with delight at the awful discord.
"I know that spirit," he declared, proudly, as the record ended with one
last abrupt crash, "It's the voice of Luna, the great Yukon spirit. It
is his voice. I know it. Many seasons I have heard it when he was
breaking up the ice in the spring. Have you more of the spirits to put
into the box?"
But Alex was not going to risk another mistake. It might not turn out so
fortunately next time. "There are dozens more of them," he said, "but we
are getting tired of calling them forth. It is enough for tonight. We
have proved that all white men are not liars."
"It is true," agreed the Shaman, "but," he added, thoughtfully, "you are
not grown to man's size yet."
"Maybe we trade it to the Shaman in the next village," Ike suggested
with a guileless face.
But the Shaman protested violently. "They were not all good Shamans like
himself in the other villages. They would certainly cheat and rob him.
Why did he not trade with him? He had a big heart. He always gave more
than he received. Then, too, he was losing power over his people. There
were the priests that traveled summer and winter through the land,
treating the sick for nothing and always talking against the medicine
men and forever preaching a new faith that might be all right in another
land, but which would not work in the Northland, where life was cruel
and no man could love his brother like himself. Many of his own tribe
had embraced the faith and openly laughed at his power. And soon he, the
Shaman, whose father had been a Shaman, and whose father's father had
been a Shaman, would be regarded as only a common man in the tribe. The
wondrous box would help him to regain his power. His people would be
convinced of his greatness when he summoned the spirits to talk and sing
to them, but to give up the finest team in Alaska, that was too much."
This was Ike's cue, and the bargaining that ensued was a thing worth
remembering. From the lockers, Ike brought out some of all the things
they had brought to barter, while the Shaman viewed the head with eyes
of cupidity.
Ike selected a dozen plugs of tobacco and laid them out in a row.
The Shaman eyed them with envy, but controlled himself with an effort.
"More," he grunted.
Ike wrung his hands and declared he was being robbed, but he added four
more plugs of tobacco to the row. After all it was only the beginning of
the battle and he had decided in the first place to give thirty plugs if
he had to do so. For two hours the battle raged, the pile of trinkets
before the Shaman growing steadily. Often the boys turned their heads
aside to hide their grins at Ike who, with tears in his eyes, protested
that he was being robbed, that he was a poor man with a sick child to
support, and he was taking the bread from his child's mouth to give to a
stranger, but Ike's wildest outbursts were met by the Esquimau, with a
steady demand of:
"More, more."
But it was not in the law of things for a Jew to be worsted by a mere
Esquimau, so when Ike decided that the pile had grown big enough, he
reached out and gathered it up in his arms. "We can not trade," he
shouted angrily. "Here I offer you gifts worthy of a prince, besides a
box full of spirits, and all you say is 'More, more,' all the time. All
these things I offer you for a few mangy dogs, so poor you can see their
ribs and so old and worn out that they do not snap and bite like real
huskies do. Go. Perhaps in the next village we will find a Shaman who is
not a robber."
"Wait," protested the Shaman, startled at all the rich treasure he was
about to lose. "Let not a trifle upset a trade between friends. Just
give me of those shiny things a few and our trade will be complete." The
shiny things were a box of coffin trimmings which Clay had brought as a
venture because, though made of tin, they were cheap and bright and
stamped out in the shape of birds, fruits and flowers.
Alex measured out a quart of them with a reluctant hand. "Now you must
keep the dogs for us till we come back in the fall. Not starve 'em, you
understand, make them sleek and fat."
"It will take many salmon," said the Shaman. For that there should be
two more measures of the shiny birds and flowers."
Ike hastened to dole out the two measures, for he had expected to pay
much more for the dogs' keep.
Business concluded, the boys showed the Shaman how to run the
phonograph, and the wily savage departed as silently as he had come, all
his newly gained treasure tightly rolled up in his dirty, greasy parka.
"How much did the team cost us?" Alex inquired.
Ike grinned. "Not so bad, you understand. Fifty dollars as near as I can
tell and that includes their board."
"Why, that's highway robbery," Clay exclaimed. "Fifty dollars for a nine
hundred dollar team of dogs is as bad as stealing."
"It's business," said Ike, placidly. "If he was smart enough, don't you
think he would take everything we have got? Besides," he continued. "You
needn't worry about him. He will get plenty of furs with the things we
gave him. I expect he make them coffin trimmings bring him in a fur for
each trimming."
"Then the poor people of the villages have to pay for our bargain," Alex
said.
"That is business also," Ike remarked. "But I think the same as you,
Clay. We get a good trade. When we come back let's give them poor people
plenty of good things to eat, so that they will not suffer from hunger
this winter. Say we give five hundred dollars' worth of rice, sugar,
beans and flour. You see, we still have made a good trade for the team,
the Shaman makes plenty of money off his coffin trimmings, and the box,
and the poor people are contented because the hunger does not gnaw at
their bellies."
"I am too sleepy to point it out," yawned Clay, "but there's a flaw some
where in your reasoning. We beat a man out of his dogs for a few
worthless trinkets. We gain, don't we?" The man who owns the dogs gains,
the people gain also. Nobody loses. Looks to me like high finance."
"High finance," snorted Ike, indignantly. "Who ever heard of high
finance giving back food to the people--a library or an institute,
perhaps, but food, no. We might give them $500.00 worth of books," he
added thoughtfully, "on condition, you understand, that they raise
another $500.00. The Shaman could be the librarian."
"You idiot," grinned Clay, as he crawled into his bunk. "What do the
Esquimaux want with books? They are too hungry, weary, and hopeless for
books."
"Maybe," admitted Ike, as he climbed into his own bunk, "but say, it
would make us one splendid advertisement."
When they crowded up on deck after a hearty breakfast next morning,
there curled up on the bank was Buck, surrounded by his family. At sight
of Alex, he barked joyously, and the boy went ashore to bid the noble
animal farewell. "Good-bye, Buck," he whispered. "We will come back for
you soon. Be patient, for it will only be a short time. Very soon we
come and get you."
Buck wagged his tail mournfully at thought of the delay, but beamed with
joy over Alex's parting head patting.
As they backed out of the cove, Alex glanced back. Buck was leading his
family back to the settlement, but the big leader's tail drooped
mournfully and every few paces he would stop and gaze back at the
retreating boat.
The boys found that the steamer was some five miles ahead of them, but
under full speed it took but a short time to range alongside the clumsy
craft. The Kid, without waiting for an invitation, came sliding aboard.
"Well, how did you like the village?" was his first query.
"All right, except for the people, the huts and the smells," Clay
grinned and he proceeded to relate the story of their experiences.
"Sure you're going some for chekakos," the Kid commented. "I've heard of
that dog team. All the Yukon has for that matter, but few have seen it.
I saw them once on the trail and I'd been glad to have traded my team
for them and given two hundred dollars to boot, which is going some, for
I've got one of the best teams on the Yukon." The kid will be a lot of
help too, if you can raise him. The Pymauts live not far from the Holy
Cross Mission and the fathers have taught many of them to speak English
and have converted many. He'll come handy interpreting for you when you
get down to trading with the tribes. I reckon I'll step below and see
how both of those chaps are making out," he said.
He was back soon with a smile on his face. "They are both sound asleep,"
he said and I wouldn't disturb them. "Sleep's the best healer there is.
I'll see them again after they are awake," he said.
"Do you think your party would like to take a spin on the _Rambler_
today," Clay asked, thoughtfully. "I mean of course, Miss--er--"
"Ethel Mason," supplied the Kid promptly. "Miss Ethel Mason and her
parents, I mean, of course," Clay said. "It would be a change from that
slow, lumbering steamboat. They could troll for salmon--there are lots
of them around here and we could have a fish dinner and maybe they would
like the change from the steamer for even a day."
"They would," exclaimed the Kid, brightly.
"It's rough on them--being only two women amongst such a raft of men.
'Course the men don't, many of them, mean anything wrong but they
haven't seen anything but ugly Indian squaws for so long that they can't
help but stare when they see a pretty face peeping up like a flower out
of the snow. Sure, they will come. I'll get one of the crew to fix up a
boatswain's chair and lower them all three down easy."
"I'm so sorry you can't come, Mr. Kid," said Ike, regretfully.
"But I am coming," declared the Kid emphatically. "Why not?"
"I thought you had to stay on board and guard that mail," said Ike,
innocently.
The Kid reddened. "I'll go up and tell them and see about getting that
chair ready," he said, hurriedly, as he clambered up the rope.
"In a few minutes the chair was ready and the two old folks, followed by
the girl, were lowered to the _Rambler's_ decks.
Clay immediately decided that he liked all three of the visitors. The
girl had a frank, boyish-looking face, charming in its gentleness and
firmness. Her father was a great giant of a man with the quaintly gentle
air of authority that one comes to associate with country storekeepers
or local postmasters, while his wife was a kind-faced, motherly-looking
woman. Clay decided that the Kid was right. These three gentle folks
were not of the kind to meet the rough, lawless element of gold-mad
Dawson.
Mrs. Mason at once declared her desire to see the sick boys, of whom the
Yukon Kid had told her.
Ike led her below, having already informed the invalids of her coming.
Case ground his teeth to shut out the groans. He was feeling worse than
usual that morning. His wounds were knitting and the tortured nerves
were crying out for mercy. He looked up suddenly to see a kindly face
with tear-filled eyes bending over him and to hear a quite motherly
voice saying, "You poor, poor boy; how you must be suffering." A few
deft pats to the pillow and a rearrangement of the blankets gave Case
unspeakable relief. "Now, boy, just keep still and try to go to sleep,"
commanded the gentle voice. "As soon as I look at that other poor boy.
I'm going to come back and read to you for a while."
The little Esquimau met Mrs. Mason's eyes with the dark mournful gaze
bred by the untold suffering of hundreds of generations of hunger,
suffering ancestors. The good woman groaned at the sight of the
skin-covered bones. "You speak English?" she inquired with lips that
trembled with emotion.
"Yes, I speak the English," he said weakly. "Learn it at Holy Cross
Mission. Here all the same as Holy Cross, all clean and white and every
one good and kind."
"You must lie still and get well," commanded the lady, "so you can tell
me much about the Holy Cross, and, always, eat of the things I send you.
They will make you well and strong. Good-bye, I'll see you again soon,"
and the tender-hearted woman stumbled up the cabin stairs with eyes that
could scarcely see through the tears that blinded them.
"Go right back to the steamer," she commanded Clay. "You boys have done
your best for your sick companions, but there are some things you lack
and I am going back to get them."
Clay signalled to Alex to turn around and in a few minutes the _Rambler_
was tearing her way back to the steamer.