“As I say, the meat in the forest became less and less. It be true, the white man’s gun is
most excellent and kills a long way off; but of what worth the gun, when there is no meat
to kill? When I was a boy on the Whitefish there was moose on every hill, and each year
came the caribou uncountable. But now the hunter may take the trail ten days and not one
moose gladden his eyes, while the caribou uncountable come no more at all. Small worth
the gun, I say, killing a long way off, when there be nothing to kill.
“And I, Imber, pondered upon these things, watching the while the Whitefish, and the
Pellys, and all the tribes of the land, perishing as perished the meat of the forest. Long I
pondered. I talked with the shamans and the old men who were wise. I went apart that the
sounds of the village might not disturb me, and I ate no meat so that my belly should not
press upon me and make me slow of eye and ear. I sat long and sleepless in the forest,
wide-eyed for the sign, my ears patient and keen for the word that was to come. And I
wandered alone in the blackness of night to the river bank, where was wind-moaning and
sobbing of water, and where I sought wisdom from the ghosts of old shamans in the trees
and dead and gone.
“And in the end, as in a vision, came to me the short-haired and detestable dogs, and the
way seemed plain. By the wisdom of Otsbaok, my father and a strong man, had the blood
of our own wolf-dogs been kept clean, wherefore had they remained warm of hide and
strong in the harness. So I returned to my village and made oration to the men. `This be a
tribe, these white men,’ I said. `A very large tribe, and doubtless there is no longer meat
in their land, and they are come among us to make a new land for themselves. But they
weaken us, and we die. They are a very hungry folk. Already has our meat gone from us,
and it were well, if we would live, that we deal by them as we have dealt by their dogs.’
“And further oration I made, counselling fight. And the men of the Whitefish listened,
and some said one thing, and some another, and some spoke of other and worthless
things, and no man made brave talk of deeds and war. But while the young men were
weak as water and afraid, watched that the old men sat silent, and that in their eyes fires
came and went. And later, when the village slept and no one knew, I drew the old men
away into the forest and made more talk. And now we were agreed, and we remembered
the good young days, and the free land, and the times of plenty, and the gladness and
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sunshine; and we called ourselves brothers, and swore great secrecy, and a mighty oath to
cleanse the land of the evil breed that had come upon it. It be plain we were fools, but
how were we to know, we old men of the Whitefish?
“And to hearten the others, I did the first deed. I kept guard upon the Yukon till the first
canoe came down. In it were two white men, and when I stood upright upon the bank and
raised my hand they changed their course and drove in to me. And as the man in the bow
lifted his head, so, that he might know wherefore I wanted him, my arrow sang through
the air straight to his throat, and he knew. The second man, who held paddle in the stern,
had his rifle half to his shoulder when the first of my three spear-casts smote him.
“`These be the first,’ I said, when the old men had gathered to me. `Later we will bind
together all the old men of all the tribes, and after that the young men who remain strong,
and the work will become easy.’
“And then the two dead white men we cast into the river. And of the canoe, which was a
very good canoe, we made a fire, and a fire, also, of the things within the canoe. But first
we looked at the things, and they were pouches of leather which we cut open with our
knives. And inside these pouches were many papers, like that from which thou has read,
O Howkan, with markings on them which we marvelled at and could not understand.
Now, I am become wise, and I know them for the speech of men as thou hast told me.”
A whisper and buzz went around the courtroom when Howkan finished interpreting the
affair of the canoe, and one man’s voice spoke up: “That was the lost ’91 mail, Peter
James and Delaney bringing it in and last spoken at Le Barge by Matthews going out.”
The clerk scratched steadily away, and another paragraph was added to the history of the
North.
“There be little more,” Imber went on slowly. “It be there on the paper, the things we did.
We were old men, and we did not understand. Even I, Imber, do not now understand.
Secretly we slew, and continued to slay, for with our years we were crafty and we had
learned the swiftness of going without haste. When white men came among us with black
looks and rough words, and took away six of the young men with irons binding them
helpless, we knew we must slay wider and farther. And one by one we old men departed
up river and down to the unknown lands. It was a brave thing. Old we were, and unafraid,
but the fear of far places is a terrible fear to men who are old.
“So we slew, without haste and craftily. On the Chilcoot and in the Delta we slew, from
the passes to the sea, wherever the white men camped or broke their trails. It be true, they
died, but it was without worth. Ever did they come over the mountains, ever did they
grow and grow, while we, being old, became less and less. I remember, by the Caribou
Crossing, the camp of a white man. He was a very little white man, and three of the old
men came upon him in his sleep. And the next day I came upon the four of them. The
white man alone still breathed, and there was breath in him to curse me once and well
before he died.
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“And so it went, now one old man, and now another. Sometimes the word reached us
long after of how they died, and sometimes it did not reach us. And the old men of the
other tribes were weak and afraid, and would not join with us. As I say, one by one, till I
alone was left. I am Imber, of the Whitefish people. My father was Otsbaok, a strong
man. There are no Whitefish now. Of the old men I am the last. The young men and
young women are gone away, some to live with the Pellys, some with the Salmons, and
more with the white men. am very old, and very tired, and it being vain fighting the Law,
as thou sayest, Howkan, I am come seeking the Law.”
“O Imber, thou art indeed a fool,” said Howkan. But Imber was dreaming. The squarebrowed
judge likewise dreamed, and all his race rose up before him in a mighty
phantasmagoria — his steel-shod, mail-clad race, the lawgiver and world-maker among
the families of men. He saw it dawn red-flickering across the dark forests and sullen seas;
he saw it blaze, bloody and red, to full and triumphant noon; and down the shaded slope
he saw the blood-red sands dropping into night. And through it all he observed the Law,
pitiless and potent, ever unswerving and ever ordaining, greater than the motes of men
who fulfilled it or were crushed by it, even as it was greater than he, his heart speaking
for softness.