forehead she bound a narrow fillet of fine, furry hares’ skin.  She donned new garments; her ahttee was made of the delicate skins of birds, her hood of white fox hides.  To all this Olafaksoah seemed blind; at times, with coarse, half-maudlin tenderness, he caressed her, called her his “little girl” and promised to “come back next spring.”  But Annadoah was useful to him otherwise.

During the days when Olafaksoah and his men were hunting or gathering furs and ivory at nearby villages along the coast, Annadoah sewed skins into garments for Olafaksoah and his men.  Sometimes she went with Olafaksoah on his expeditions and employed her coquetry upon the susceptible men of the migrating tribes to secure bargains for him.  For a box of matches she would cajole from her people ivories worth hundreds of dollars.  She persuaded them to rob themselves of the walrus meat and blubber they had gathered for winter and give them to her master in exchange for tin cups and ammunition, all of which would be useless when the night came on.  To Ootah she gave no thought until one day the white man struck her.  As he vented his rage at not securing more riches upon her during the ensuing days, her heart more and more instinctively turned to the youth “with the heart of a woman” whom she had rejected.  When Olafaksoah brought his companions to the tent her soul rose in rebellion.  In the camp there was an orgy.  None of the married men, who for a slight consideration were willing to permit their wives to dance with the traders, objected to the drunken carousal.  Ribald songs sounded strange in this region of the world.  Yet after Olafaksoah had kicked her and left her lying in the tent, high above the sound of the sailors’ doggerel songs, Annadoah frantically called aloud: 

“Ootah!  Ootah!”

For a long time she lay in a stupor.  Her face was bleeding.  When she regained consciousness the white chief and his men had left.  They had taken with them all available furs, ivories and provisions in the village.

At the door of her tent Annadoah stood, dry-eyed, her hair dishevelled.  To the south she yearningly extended her arms.  Her heart still ached toward the man who had lied to her and deserted her.  She was left, a divorced woman, alone among her people, with no one to care for her during the long winter night.

As she stood there the light of the descending sun, which was now far below the rim of the horizon, paled.  Driven by a frigid wind, howling raucously from the mountains, great snow clouds piled along the sky line.  Out at sea the tips of the waves became capped—­leprous white arms seemed reaching hopelessly for help from the depths of the sea.  The sky blackened.  The increasing gusts tore at the frail tents.  The wolf-dogs crouched low to the ground and whined.  A tremor of anxiety filled the hearts of the tribe.  Presently the clouds were torn to shreds and whipped furiously over the sky.  In the thickening grey gloom Annadoah watched the men of the tribe fastening their sleds and belongings to the earth . . . mere dark shadows.  Above her tent, tossed by the wind in its eddying flight, a raven screamed.