“Even so, with much meat,” she continued, more harshly than before.
“But of what worth to you and me? A few bones to gnaw in our
toothless old age. But the back-fat, the kidneys, and the tongues
– these shall go into other mouths than thine and mine, old man.”
Ebbits nodded his head and wept silently.
“There be no one to hunt meat for us,” she cried, turning fiercely
upon me.
There was accusation in her manner, and I shrugged my shoulders in
token that I was not guilty of the unknown crime imputed to me.
“Know, O White Man, that it is because of thy kind, because of all
white men, that my man and I have no meat in our old age and sit
without tobacco in the cold.”
“Nay,” Ebbits said gravely, with a stricter sense of justice.
“Wrong has been done us, it be true; but the white men did not mean
the wrong.”
“Where be Moklan?” she demanded. “Where be thy strong son, Moklan,
and the fish he was ever willing to bring that you might eat?”
The old man shook his head.
“And where be Bidarshik, thy strong son? Ever was he a mighty
LOVE OF LIFE AND OTHER STORIES
32
hunter, and ever did he bring thee the good back-fat and the sweet
dried tongues of the moose and the caribou. I see no back-fat and
no sweet dried tongues. Your stomach is full with emptiness
through the days, and it is for a man of a very miserable and lying
people to give you to eat.”
“Nay,” old Ebbits interposed in kindliness, “the white man’s is not
a lying people. The white man speaks true. Always does the white
man speak true.” He paused, casting about him for words wherewith
to temper the severity of what he was about to say. “But the white
man speaks true in different ways. To-day he speaks true one way,
to-morrow he speaks true another way, and there is no understanding
him nor his way.”
“To-day speak true one way, to-morrow speak true another way, which
is to lie,” was Zilla’s dictum.
“There is no understanding the white man,” Ebbits went on doggedly.
T
he meat, and the tea, and the tobacco seemed to have brought him
back to life, and he gripped tighter hold of the idea behind his
age-bleared eyes. He straightened up somewhat. His voice lost its
querulous and whimpering note, and became strong and positive. He
turned upon me with dignity, and addressed me as equal addresses
equal.
“The white man’s eyes are not shut,” he began. “The white man sees
all things, and thinks greatly, and is very wise. But the white
man of one day is not the white man of next day, and there is no
understanding him. He does not do things always in the same way.
And what way his next way is to be, one cannot know. Always does
the Indian do the one thing in the one way. Always does the moose
come down from the high mountains when the winter is here. Always
does the salmon come in the spring when the ice has gone out of the
river. Always does everything do all things in the same way, and
the Indian knows and understands. But the white man does not do
all things in the same way, and the Indian does not know nor
understand.
“Tobacco be very good. It be food to the hungry man. It makes the
strong man stronger, and the angry man to forget that he is angry.
Also is tobacco of value. It is of very great value. The Indian
gives one large salmon for one leaf of tobacco, and he chews the
tobacco for a long time. It is the juice of the tobacco that is
good. When it runs down his throat it makes him feel good inside.
But the white man! When his mouth is full with the juice, what
does he do? That juice, that juice of great value, he spits it out
in the snow and it is lost. Does the white man like tobacco? I do
not know. But if he likes tobacco, why does he spit out its value
and lose it in the snow? It is a great foolishness and without
understanding.”
He ceased, puffed at the pipe, found that it was out, and passed it
over to Zilla, who took the sneer at the white man off her lips in
order to pucker them about the pipe-stem. Ebbits seemed sinking
back into his senility with the tale untold, and I demanded:
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33
“What of thy sons, Moklan and Bidarshik? And why is it that you
and your old woman are without meat at the end of your years?”
He roused himself as from sleep, and straightened up with an
effort.
“It is not good to steal,” he said. “When the dog takes your meat
you beat the dog with a club. Such is the law. It is the law the
man gave to the dog, and the dog must live to the law, else will it
suffer the pain of the club. When man takes your meat, or your
canoe, or your wife, you kill that man. That is the law, and it is
a good law. It is not good to steal, wherefore it is the law that
the man who steals must die. Whoso breaks the law must suffer
hurt. It is a great hurt to die.”
“But if you kill the man, why do you not kill the dog?” I asked.
Old Ebbits looked at me in childlike wonder, while Zilla sneered
openly at the absurdity of my question.
“It is the way of the white man,” Ebbits mumbled with an air of
resignation.
“It is the foolishness of the white man,” snapped Zilla.
“Then let old Ebbits teach the white man wisdom,” I said softly.
“The dog is not killed, because it must pull the sled of the man.
No man pulls another man’s sled, wherefore the man is killed.”
“Oh,” I murmured.
“That is the law,” old Ebbits went on. “Now listen, O White Man,
and I will tell you of a great foolishness. There is an Indian.
His name is Mobits. From white man he steals two pounds of flour.
What does the white man do? Does he beat Mobits? No. Does he
kill Mobits? No. What does he do to Mobits? I will tell you, O
White Man. He has a house. He puts Mobits in that house. The
roof is good. The walls are thick. He makes a fire that Mobits
may be warm. He gives Mobits plenty grub to eat. It is good grub.
Never in his all days does Mobits eat so good grub. There is
bacon, and bread, and beans without end. Mobits have very good
time.
“There is a big lock on door so that Mobits does not run away.
This also is a great foolishness. Mobits will not run away. All
the time is there plenty grub in that place, and warm blankets, and
a big fire. Very foolish to run away. Mobits is not foolish.
Three months Mobits stop in that place. He steal two pounds of
flour. For that, white man take plenty good care of him. Mobits
eat many pounds of flour, many pounds of sugar, of bacon, of beans
without end. Also, Mobits drink much tea. After three months
white man open door and tell Mobits he must go. Mobits does not
want to go. He is like dog that is fed long time in one place. He
want to stay in that place, and the white man must drive Mobits
away. So Mobits come back to this village, and he is very fat.
That is the white man’s way, and there is no understanding it. It
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34
is a foolishness, a great foolishness.”
“But thy sons?” I insisted. “Thy very strong sons and thine old-
age hunger?”
“There was Moklan,” Ebbits began.
“A strong man,” interrupted the mother. “He could dip paddle all
of a day and night and never stop for the need of rest. He was
wise in the way of the salmon and in the way of the water. He was
very wise.”
“There was Moklan,” Ebbits repeated, ignoring the interruption.
“In the spring, he went down the Yukon with the young men to trade
at Cambell Fort. There is a post there, filled with the goods of
the white man, and a trader whose name is Jones. Likewise is there
a white man’s medicine man, what you call missionary. Also is
there bad water at Cambell Fort, where the Yukon goes slim like a
maiden, and the water is fast, and the currents rush this way and
that and come together, and there are whirls and sucks, and always
are the currents changing and the face of the water changing, so at