CHAPTER XVIII

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.

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