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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。〃




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