the sun-dog trail-第1章

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THE　SUN…DOG　TRAIL







SITKA　CHARLEY　smoked　his　pipe　and　gazed　thoughtfully　at　the　POLICE　

GAZETTE　illustration　on　the　wall。　　For　half　an　hour　he　had　been　

steadily　regarding　it；　and　for　half　an　hour　I　had　been　slyly　

watching　him。　　Something　was　going　on　in　that　mind　of　his；　and；　

whatever　it　was；　I　knew　it　was　well　worth　knowing。　　He　had　lived　

life；　and　seen　things；　and　performed　that　prodigy　of　prodigies；　

namely；　the　turning　of　his　back　upon　his　own　people；　and；　in　so　far　

as　it　was　possible　for　an　Indian；　becoming　a　white　man　even　in　his　

mental　processes。　　As　he　phrased　it　himself；　he　had　come　into　the　

warm；　sat　among　us；　by　our　fires；　and　become　one　of　us。　　He　had　

never　learned　to　read　nor　write；　but　his　vocabulary　was　remarkable；　

and　more　remarkable　still　was　the　completeness　with　which　he　had　

assumed　the　white　man's　point　of　view；　the　white　man's　attitude　

toward　things。



We　had　struck　this　deserted　cabin　after　a　hard　day　on　trail。　　The　

dogs　had　been　fed；　the　supper　dishes　washed；　the　beds　made；　and　we　

were　now　enjoying　that　most　delicious　hour　that　comes　each　day；　and　

but　once　each　day；　on　the　Alaskan　trail；　the　hour　when　nothing　

intervenes　between　the　tired　body　and　bed　save　the　smoking　of　the　

evening　pipe。　　Some　former　denizen　of　the　cabin　had　decorated　its　

walls　with　illustrations　torn　from　magazines　and　newspapers；　and　it　

was　these　illustrations　that　had　held　Sitka　Charley's　attention　

from　the　moment　of　our　arrival　two　hours　before。　　He　had　studied　

them　intently；　ranging　from　one　to　another　and　back　again；　and　I　

could　see　that　there　was　uncertainty　in　his　mind；　and　bepuzzlement。



〃Well？〃　I　finally　broke　the　silence。



He　took　the　pipe　from　his　mouth　and　said　simply；　〃I　do　not　

understand。〃



He　smoked　on　again；　and　again　removed　the　pipe；　using　it　to　point　

at　the　POLICE　GAZETTE　illustration。



〃That　picture　…　what　does　it　mean？　　I　do　not　understand。〃



I　looked　at　the　picture。　　A　man；　with　a　preposterously　wicked　face；　

his　right　hand　pressed　dramatically　to　his　heart；　was　falling　

backward　to　the　floor。　　Confronting　him；　with　a　face　that　was　a　

composite　of　destroying　angel　and　Adonis；　was　a　man　holding　a　

smoking　revolver。



〃One　man　is　killing　the　other　man；〃　I　said；　aware　of　a　distinct　

bepuzzlement　of　my　own　and　of　failure　to　explain。



〃Why？〃　asked　Sitka　Charley。



〃I　do　not　know；〃　I　confessed。



〃That　picture　is　all　end；〃　he　said。　　〃It　has　no　beginning。〃



〃It　is　life；〃　I　said。



〃Life　has　beginning；〃　he　objected。



I　was　silenced　for　the　moment；　while　his　eyes　wandered　on　to　an　

adjoining　decoration；　a　photographic　reproduction　of　somebody's　

〃Leda　and　the　Swan。〃



〃That　picture；〃　he　said；　〃has　no　beginning。　　It　has　no　end。　　I　do　

not　understand　pictures。〃



〃Look　at　that　picture；〃　I　commanded；　pointing　to　a　third　

decoration。　　〃It　means　something。　　Tell　me　what　it　means　to　you。〃



He　studied　it　for　several　minutes。



〃The　little　girl　is　sick；〃　he　said　finally。　　〃That　is　the　doctor　

looking　at　her。　　They　have　been　up　all　night　…　see；　the　oil　is　low　

in　the　lamp；　the　first　morning　light　is　coming　in　at　the　window。　　

It　is　a　great　sickness；　maybe　she　will　die；　that　is　why　the　doctor　

looks　so　hard。　　That　is　the　mother。　　It　is　a　great　sickness；　

because　the　mother's　head　is　on　the　table　and　she　is　crying。〃



〃How　do　you　know　she　is　crying？〃　I　interrupted。　　〃You　cannot　see　

her　face。　　Perhaps　she　is　asleep。〃



Sitka　Charley　looked　at　me　in　swift　surprise；　then　back　at　the　

picture。　　It　was　evident　that　he　had　not　reasoned　the　impression。



〃Perhaps　she　is　asleep；〃　he　repeated。　　He　studied　it　closely。　　〃No；　

she　is　not　asleep。　　The　shoulders　show　that　she　is　not　asleep。　　I　

have　seen　the　shoulders　of　a　woman　who　cried。　　The　mother　is　

crying。　　It　is　a　very　great　sickness。〃



〃And　now　you　understand　the　picture；〃　I　cried。



He　shook　his　head；　and　asked；　〃The　little　girl　…　does　it　die？〃



It　was　my　turn　for　silence。



〃Does　it　die？〃　he　reiterated。　　〃You　are　a　painter…man。　　Maybe　you　

know。〃



〃No；　I　do　not　know；〃　I　confessed。



〃It　is　not　life；〃　he　delivered　himself　dogmatically。　　〃In　life　

little　girl　die　or　get　well。　　Something　happen　in　life。　　In　picture　

nothing　happen。　　No；　I　do　not　understand　pictures。〃



His　disappointment　was　patent。　　It　was　his　desire　to　understand　all　

things　that　white　men　understand；　and　here；　in　this　matter；　he　

failed。　　I　felt；　also；　that　there　was　challenge　in　his　attitude。　　

He　was　bent　upon　compelling　me　to　show　him　the　wisdom　of　pictures。　　

Besides；　he　had　remarkable　powers　of　visualization。　　I　had　long　

since　learned　this。　　He　visualized　everything。　　He　saw　life　in　

pictures；　felt　life　in　pictures；　generalized　life　in　pictures；　and　

yet　he　did　not　understand　pictures　when　seen　through　other　men's　

eyes　and　expressed　by　those　men　with　color　and　line　upon　canvas。



〃Pictures　are　bits　of　life；〃　I　said。　　〃We　paint　life　as　we　see　it。　　

For　instance；　Charley；　you　are　coming　along　the　trail。　　It　is　

night。　　You　see　a　cabin。　　The　window　is　lighted。　　You　look　through　

the　window　for　one　second；　or　for　two　seconds；　you　see　something；　

and　you　go　on　your　way。　　You　saw　maybe　a　man　writing　a　letter。　　You　

saw　something　without　beginning　or　end。　　Nothing　happened。　　Yet　it　

was　a　bit　of　life　you　saw。　　You　remember　it　afterward。　　It　is　like　

a　picture　in　your　memory。　　The　window　is　the　frame　of　the　picture。〃



I　could　see　that　he　was　interested；　and　I　knew　that　as　I　spoke　he　

had　looked　through　the　window　and　seen　the　man　writing　the　letter。



〃There　is　a　picture　you　have　painted　that　I　understand；〃　he　said。　　

〃It　is　a　true　picture。　　It　has　much　meaning。　　It　is　in　your　cabin　

at　Dawson。　　It　is　a　faro　table。　　There　are　men　playing。　　It　is　a　

large　game。　　The　limit　is　off。〃



〃How　do　you　know　the　limit　is　off？〃　I　broke　in　excitedly；　for　here　

was　where　my　work　could　be　tried　out　on　an　unbiassed　judge　who　knew　

life　only；　and　not　art；　and　who　was　a　sheer　master　of　reality。　　

Also；　I　was　very　proud　of　that　particular　piece　of　work。　　I　had　

named　it　〃The　Last　Turn；〃　and　I　believed　it　to　be　one　of　the　best　

things　I　had　ever　done。



〃There　are　no　chips　on　the　table〃；　Sitka　Charley　explained。　　〃The　

men　are　playing　with　markers。　　That　means　the　roof　is　the　limit。　　

One　man　play　yellow　markers　…　maybe　one　yellow　marker　worth　one　

thousand　dollars；　maybe　two　thousand　dollars。　　One　man　play　red　

markers。　　Maybe　they　are　worth　five　hundred　dollars；　maybe　one　

thousand　dollars。　　It　is　a　very　big　game。　　Everybody　play　very　

high；　up　to　the　roof。　　How　do　I　know？　　You　make　the　dealer　with　

blood　little　bit　warm　in　face。〃　　（I　was　delighted。）　　〃The　lookout；　

you　make　him　lean　forward　in　his　chair。　　Why　he　lean　forward？　　Why　

his　face　very　much　quiet？　　Why　his　eyes　very　much　bright？　　Why　

dealer　warm　with　blood　a　little　bit　in　the　face？　　Why　all　men　very　

quiet？　…　the　man　with　yellow　markers？　the　man　with　white　markers？　

the　man　with　red　markers？　　Why　nobody　talk？　　Because　very　much　

money。　　Because　last　turn。〃



〃How　do　you　know　it　is　the　last　turn？〃　I　asked。



〃The　king　is　coppered；　the　seven　is　played　open；〃　he　answered。　　

〃Nobody　bet　on　other　cards。　　Other　cards　all　gone。　　Everybody　one　

mind。　　Everybody　play　king　to　lose；　seven　to　win。　　Maybe　bank　lose　

twenty　thousand　dollars；　maybe　bank　win。　　Yes；　that　picture　I　

understand。〃



〃Yet　you　do　not　know　the　end！〃　I　cried　triumphantly。　　〃It　is　the　

last　turn；　but　the　cards　are　not　yet　turned。　　In　the　picture　they　

will　never　be　turned。　　Nobody　will　ever　know　who　wins　nor　who　

loses。〃



〃And　the　men　will　sit　there　and　never　talk；〃　he　said；　wonder　and　

awe　growing　in　his　face。　　〃And　the　lookout　will　lean　forward；　and　

the　blood　will　be　warm　in　the　face　of　the　dealer。　　It　is　a　strange　

thing。　　Always　will　they　sit　there；　always；　and　the　cards　will　

never　be　turned。〃



〃