He would have
marvelled that a whole people - women and children and aged - could
travel so swiftly, had he not known the terror that drove them on.
It was in the old days of the Russian occupancy of Alaska, when the
nineteenth century had run but half its course, that Negore fled
after his fleeing tribe and came upon it this summer night by the
head waters of the Pee-lat. Though near the midnight hour, it was
bright day as he passed through the weary camp. Many saw him, all
knew him, but few and cold were the greetings he received.
"Negore, the Coward," he heard Illiha, a young woman, laugh, and
Sun-ne, his sister's daughter, laughed with her.
Black anger ate at his heart; but he gave no sign, threading his
way among the camp-fires until he came to one where sat an old man.
A young woman was kneading with skilful fingers the tired muscles
of his legs. He raised a sightless face and listened intently as
Negore's foot crackled a dead twig.
"Who comes?" he queried in a thin, tremulous voice.
"Negore," said the young woman, scarcely looking up from her task.
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