“To cook by your fire and to sleep under your roof for the night,” I had announced on entering old Ebbits’s cabin; and he had looked at me blear-eyed and vacuous, while Zilla had favored me with a sour face and a contemptuous grunt.  Zilla was his wife, and no more bitter-tongued, implacable old squaw dwelt on the Yukon.  Nor would I have stopped there had my dogs been less tired or had the rest of the village been inhabited.  But this cabin alone had I found occupied, and in this cabin, perforce, I took my shelter.

Old Ebbits now and again pulled his tangled wits together, and hints and sparkles of intelligence came and went in his eyes.  Several times during the preparation of my supper he even essayed hospitable inquiries about my health, the condition and number of my dogs, and the distance I had travelled that day.  And each time Zilla had looked sourer than ever and grunted more contemptuously.

Yet I confess that there was no particular call for cheerfulness on their part.  There they crouched by the fire, the pair of them, at the end of their days, old and withered and helpless, racked by rheumatism, bitten by hunger, and tantalized by the frying-odors of my abundance of meat.  They rocked back and forth in a slow and hopeless way, and regularly, once every five minutes, Ebbits emitted a low groan.  It was not so much a groan of pain, as of pain-weariness.  He was oppressed by the weight and the torment of this thing called life, and still more was he oppressed by the fear of death.  His was that eternal tragedy of the aged, with whom the joy of life has departed and the instinct for death has not come.

When my moose-meat spluttered rowdily in the frying-pan, I noticed old Ebbits’s nostrils twitch and distend as he caught the food-scent.  He ceased rocking for a space and forgot to groan, while a look of intelligence seemed to come into his face.

Zilla, on the other hand, rocked more rapidly, and for the first time, in sharp little yelps, voiced her pain.  It came to me that their behavior was like that of hungry dogs, and in the fitness of things I should not have been astonished had Zilla suddenly developed a tail and thumped it on the floor in right doggish fashion.  Ebbits drooled a little and stopped his rocking very frequently to lean forward and thrust his tremulous nose nearer to the source of gustatory excitement.

When I passed them each a plate of the fried meat, they ate greedily, making loud mouth-noises—champings of worn teeth and sucking intakes of the breath, accompanied by a continuous spluttering and mumbling.  After that, when I gave them each a mug of scalding tea, the noises ceased.  Easement and content came into their faces.  Zilla relaxed her sour mouth long enough to sigh her satisfaction.  Neither rocked any more, and they seemed to have fallen into placid meditation.  Then a dampness came into Ebbits’s eyes, and I knew that the sorrow of self-pity was his.  The search required to find their pipes told plainly that they had been without tobacco a long time, and the old man’s eagerness for the narcotic rendered him helpless, so that I was compelled to light his pipe for him.

“Why are you all alone in the village?” I asked.  “Is everybody dead?  Has there been a great sickness?  Are you alone left of the living?”

Old Ebbits shook his head, saying:  “Nay, there has been no great sickness.  The village has gone away to hunt meat.  We be too old, our legs are not strong, nor can our backs carry the burdens of camp and trail.  Wherefore we remain here and wonder when the young men will return with meat.”

“What if the young men do return with meat?” Zilla demanded harshly.

“They may return with much meat,” he quavered hopefully.

“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 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.

The 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:

“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 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 any two times it is never the same.  Moklan is my son, wherefore he is brave man—”

“Was not my father brave man?” Zilla demanded.

“Thy father was brave man,” Ebbits acknowledged, with the air of one who will keep peace in the house at any cost.  “Moklan is thy son and mine, wherefore he is brave.  Mayhap, because of thy very brave father, Moklan is too brave.  It is like when too much water is put in the pot it spills over.  So too much bravery is put into Moklan, and the bravery spills over.

“The young men are much afraid of the bad water at Cambell Fort.  But Moklan is not afraid.  He laughs strong, Ho! ho! and he goes forth into the bad water.  But where the currents come together the canoe is turned over.  A whirl takes Moklan by the legs, and he goes around and around, and down and down, and is seen no more.”

“Ai! ai!” wailed Zilla.  “Crafty and wise was he, and my first-born!”

“I am the father of Moklan,” Ebbits said, having patiently given the woman space for her noise.  “I get into canoe and journey down to Cambell Fort to collect the debt!”

“Debt!” interrupted.  “What debt?”

“The debt of Jones, who is chief trader,” came the answer.  “Such is the law of travel in a strange country.”

I shook my head in token of my ignorance, and Ebbits looked compassion at me, while Zilla snorted her customary contempt.

“Look you, O White Man,” he said.  “In thy camp is a dog that bites.  When the dog bites a man, you give that man a present because you are sorry and because it is thy dog.  You make payment.  Is it not so?  Also, if you have in thy country bad hunting, or bad water, you must make payment.  It is just.  It is the law.  Did not my father’s brother go over into the Tanana Country and get killed by a bear?  And did not the Tanana tribe pay my father many blankets and fine furs?  It was just.  It was bad hunting, and the Tanana people made payment for the bad hunting.

“So I, Ebbits, journeyed down to Cambell Fort to collect the debt.  Jones, who is chief trader, looked at me, and he............