Argosy All-Story Weekly, May 3, 1924 — page 43: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

TOTEM about the waist of the body and towed it ashore. The icy cold water had retarded decom- position; the features were recognizable. Markey had gone the way of Jennings. The business of official examination and burial over, MacGregor wrote a brief report of the matter, locked the cabin, boarded the Taku and ran down the bay at top speed. There was but one man in Alaska that he knew of who could aid him and to that man he was going. CHAPTER V. TOTEM LORE. QUATTING on seme passenger dock while the tourists bought moccasins from his squaw, made low comments and tried to talk what amounted to “ Pid- geon Indian,” was Chief Samson’s idea of a good time. The chief had a regular tribal name, but becoming interested in religion early in life, if somewhat temporarily, he rather liked Samson and had thereupon taken the name for his own. “Yeah,” he would remark to his intim- ates among the resident whites, “I get a great kick out of the line of chatter the tourists pass out. They pull wise cracks, play us for boobs and even make insulting remarks, thinking it goes over our heads, but the old Klooch and I are wise. What’d they say if they knew I could buy and sell most of the tourists that come to Alaska?” Yes, what would they say? The chief had a pair of halibut schooners working for him and they were engined so they could cut and run to Seattle to take advantage of the market if necessary. He owned a good house, an automobile and two of his daughters were attending the University of Washington. He had a son who drew an accountant’s salary and a good one. Chief Samson was no fool, even if he did squat beside his wife while she bartered moccasins for money she did not need. “Hello, MacGregor, wat’s on your mind?” exclaimed the chief as the marshal entered his home. “ Have a cigar?” ‘“‘ Thanks, Samson. I want some informa- tion on totems!” SA SIGNS. 833 “You are as bad as tourists. Well, the totem business is like the king business these days, it’s pretty much on the bum. Our totem poles are still here and they served my fathers in good stead, but I pre- fer the Lord to the raven, the frog and the salmon.” ‘Exactly, but what is the meaning of a dead robin and a dead weasel?” ‘““Oh heck!” laughed the chief, “ have you bumped into that old thing? I can tell you the story, but frankly it isn’t even listed among our traditions. I think it is merely the wild tale of some native liar. If based on fact there are angles that wouldn’t have been very pleasant. Here is the myth: ‘* There is a hidden cove down the coast away—the cove really exists, but few people have ever found it—this was the domain of a tough god that cracked the whip over people’s heads and raised the deuce gener- ally. He lived in an ice palace at the foot of a hanging glacier and demanded tribute from the few miserable souls who believed his bunk. He gave his orders and when they weren’t obeyed or when* he was out for revenge, he sent a slight hint of his wrath in the form of a dead robin. This meant lay off or kick in, as the case might be. If the subject did not come to time or if his death was necessary, the subject was neatly bumped off and a sign indicating why placed near. This sign was a dead weasel. You can imagine the effect of finding a male relative dead and a weasel somewhere about. That told the whele story. Chances are the next time the god spoke to that family, they hopped to it. Are you interested?” “‘ Intensely so!” exclaimed MacGregor. “The god was a gay old bird evidently, for he picked the cream of the native beau- ties for his own. They became the god’s bride for one month and were then sacrificed in the temple of ice. If a man got in wrong the quickest way to square things was to scare up a fair maid and rush to the god. That wiped the slate clean. As a result of these kidnapings, outraged lovers and brothers frequently took a hand and at times the supply of robins and wea- sels must have run low indeed. Heavens, MacGregor, you’re not sick, are you?” COMIC OO! S CO) nn