’I am not as the Fox.  My tongue is frozen like the river.  I cannot make great talk.  My words are few.  The Fox says great deeds are afoot this night.  Good!  Talk flows from his tongue like the freshets of the spring, but he is chary of deeds.

’This night shall I do battle with the Wolf.  I shall slay him, and Zarinska shall sit by my fire.  The Bear has spoken.’  Though pandemonium raged about him, ‘Scruff’ Mackenzie held his ground.

Aware how useless was the rifle at close quarters, he slipped both holsters to the fore, ready for action, and drew his mittens till his hands were barely shielded by the elbow gauntlets.  He knew there was no hope in attack en masse, but true to his boast, was prepared to die with teeth fast-locked.  But the Bear restrained his comrades, beating back the more impetuous with his terrible fist.  As the tumult began to die away, Mackenzie shot a glance in the direction of Zarinska.  It was a superb picture.  She was leaning forward on her snow-shoes, lips apart and nostrils quivering, like a tigress about to spring.  Her great black eyes were fixed upon her tribesmen, in fear and defiance.  So extreme the tension, she had forgotten to breathe.  With one hand pressed spasmodically against her breast and the other as tightly gripped about the dog-whip, she was as turned to stone.  Even as he looked, relief came to her.  Her muscles loosened; with a heavy sigh she settled back, giving him a look of more than love—­of worship.

Thling-Tinneh was trying to speak, but his people drowned his voice.  Then Mackenzie strode forward.  The Fox opened his mouth to a piercing yell, but so savagely did Mackenzie whirl upon him that he shrank back, his larynx all agurgle with suppressed sound.  His discomfiture was greeted with roars of laughter, and served to soothe his fellows to a listening mood.

’Brothers!  The White Man, whom ye have chosen to call the Wolf, came among you with fair words.  He was not like the Innuit; he spoke not lies.  He came as a friend, as one who would be a brother.  But your men have had their say, and the time for soft words is past.

’First, I will tell you that the Shaman has an evil tongue and is a false prophet, that the messages he spake are not those of the Fire-Bringer.  His ears are locked to the voice of the Raven, and out of his own head he weaves cunning fancies, and he has made fools of you.  He has no power.

’When the dogs were killed and eaten, and your stomachs were heavy with untanned hide and strips of moccasins; when the old men died, and the old women died, and the babes at the dry dugs of the mothers died; when the land was dark, and ye perished as do the salmon in the fall; aye, when the famine was upon you, did the Shaman bring reward to your hunters? did the Shaman put meat in your bellies?  Again I say, the Shaman is without power.  Thus I spit upon his face!’ Though taken aback by the sacrilege, there was no uproar.  Some of the women were even frightened, but among the men there was an uplifting, as though in preparation or anticipation of the miracle.  All eyes were turned upon the two central figures.  The priest realized the crucial moment, felt his power tottering, opened his mouth in denunciation, but fled backward before the truculent advance, upraised fist, and flashing eyes, of Mackenzie.  He sneered and resumed.