Peluk proved anything but difficult to engage.
“Mebbe better I go show first pass in mountains. Very hard pass to find if not know how. But—mus' ask lady. No can go if lady say 'No.'”
And madame, after a moment's thought, gave her consent.
“What Peluk says is quite true,” she admitted. “The first passage to the northwest is difficult. Once through that you will find a stream which you must follow. I will give and explain to you a trail map.”
I was somewhat perplexed by her readiness of consent, her evident intent to make our departure easier, her apparent desire to so direct us that we might avoid mishap. I was further astonished when from her desk she selected a map and handed it to me with the suggestion that I make a copy of it. I took it to my room where I might work undisturbed, and spread it upon the table. It did not present the appearance of having been used in trail work. It was too white, clean, unsoiled; but there could be no doubt that whoever had produced it was a skilled cartographer; and, furthermore, its copious explanatory notes were in English and in that same precise, small handwriting that I had observed in the grammar I had surreptitiously copied. It was while working on it that the thought came that perhaps I could lead the shaman to indicate on the map the place where was buried that white man who might be none other than Barnes. And then, if he could not be induced to conduct us to the spot, or if it was too far away, there was the chance that we could find it ourselves.
Peluk was at his everlasting task of carving when I visited him on the following morning. The day was a trifle brighter than usual. The light of the window against which he sat made of him an almost solid silhouette—no—more like one of the old Dutch paintings wherein the artist has permitted the light to flow vaguely around the outlines of head and face, to so disperse itself as to show a fold of a garment here and there, to suggest indistinct, almost elusive shapes. The shaman appeared like a monstrous idol, as he sat there against the light.
“Ummh!” he said. “Lady say can go? Very good. Think mebbe good you take four more good dogs from village. What you trade forum? Ummh? Think mebbe you got something I like. Ummh?”
This acquisition had been in my mind for days; but knowing the enormous value a native of Alaska places upon his dogs, I had deemed it beyond fulfillment. I offered him my watch. He grinned and produced one of his own, cumbersome, heavily incased in silver. In vain I tried to get him to accept a tiny camera, a gold match box well wrought and engraved. Always he inspected the proffered article, studied it for a moment, grinned, handed it back, and with a chuckle shook his head.
“Nossing more?” he queried, reaching for his unfinished button and carving steel, as if our attempt at trade had failed.
“Nothing I can think of. You don't care for money. You have a watch.”
He glanced at me from the corners of his eyes without movement of his head, reverted to the button, held it up to the light as if to inspect it more closely, and said, “Mebbe got gun—what you callum—'volver? Shootum mebbe five, six, mebbe more times. Mebbe I like that for dogs, ummmh?”
Why on earth should this man covet my revolver? It was useless to me in that land where shotgun and rifle are the only firearms which can slay for food. I thought it but fair to enlighten him of its possibilities.
“A Colt's pistol doesn't shoot as far as a rifle,” I explained. “Shoots good, but not like rifle. Understand. Shoots true. Kills. But—not a long distance. Did you ever shoot one?”
“Nope,” he responded promptly. “But me shaman. Nobody got what you callum? Peestol! Yes that it! Peestol! Make me big mans here, ummh? Good! For peestol and cartlidges me give four dog. Very good dog. We trade?”
“Yes,” I agreed. “I've got a pistol up at the great house.”
“Other white mans got one, too? Mebbe more trade, ummh?”
“No,” I said, “he has none. But I'll trade. I'd like to see the dogs.”
“Good!” he said, arising with the startling quickness that seemed impossible to such a bulky form. “You go fetchum peestol. I go ketchum dog.” He stopped, rubbed his chin with his fingers, grinned, and added, “Mebbe best say nossings anybody, ummh? Me like make quiet—see? Like make other Injuns think me big man when showum what got.”
He put his hands to hips that were lean, despite his great shoulders and chest, and bent forward with an explosion of laughter. “Foolum some time mebbe, ummh?”