Argosy All-Story Weekly, April 19, 1924 — page 150: what you’re looking at

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

620 keel and shattered rib ends of a ship’s work boat. On either side of the keel, and lashed in place with many turns of a heavy trawl line, were a drift log and a splintered bit of timber. Leaving the white man where he lay,. _ as if the raft were the more important of the two discoveries, Ya-ada walked to the latter. She leaned, extricated from the tangle of trawl line a flensing knife, with a two foot blade, and a curved three foot handle, such knives as whalers employ in making the deep, checkerboard cuttings be- fore the blubber is stripped from the carcass. Ya-ada turned slowly, stabbed a con- temptuous thumb toward the body on the beach. ‘‘ A whaler,” she exclaimed, venom and hate in her voice. ‘‘ Boston whalers that shoot the great e-ko-lice—blue whale —with a harpoon gun are cowards. He ought to die.” ‘“No, no, Ya-ada,” protested the white girl, giving the red calico sleeve of the In- dian an impatient tug. ‘“ He may not die. If we give him care, food, warmth of bed—” Again Olo knelt beside the man. She leaned over him, spread her little hands as if she would protect him with their feeble might. She smoothed back the salt, damp- ened hair from his forehead and tried to dispose the huge body into a more comfor- table position. With an uncanny intuition, Ya-ada ob- served the girl’s solicitude. Jealousy, hate flared from the deep, black eyes of the Indian. The thing that Ya-ada had dreaded, had prayed her savage gods might never happen, had come to pass, the coming of a white man that could stir the heart of Olo whom Ya-ada wanted for her selfish own. Fiercely, Ya-ada seized Olo’s arm, tried to drag her away. “ Let him die alone,” she said heartlessly. Then the girl burst upon the Indian like a fury. ‘“ He shall not die! Do you hear? He shall not! Here, you cultus—wicked one—help me and we'll get him to the cabin.” | For an instant, Ya-ada hesitated. A look of cunning malevolence crossed the seamed and wrinkled features. Then she leaned over and took ungentle grasp of the stricken body. Between them they carried, and ARGOSY-ALLSTORY WEEKLY. dragged the whaler to the cabin, where they laid him upon the bed. Olo pulled off the heavy sea boots and tucked the blankets in about him. Ya-ada, giving the hoarsely breathing man a destroying look, walked from the cabin. Olo brewed a pot of tea, heated a gruel-like concoction made from the edible seaweed that the Indians call slukktsh, and forced some of both between the man’s stiffened lips. Then, for a long, anxious time, Olo stood beside the bed looking down tenderly upon her giant, but helpless charge. Presently he opened his eyes. Curiously he surveyed the strange roof above him. ‘Then he weak- ly picked up the border of an unfamiliar blanket and stared at it stupidly. Finally he turned his head, and his gaze fell upon Olo. “ Ahoy, little matey!” he said, his voice- booming and hearty despite its weakness, ¢ Ahoy! 9 He batted his eyes a time or two, gave his head a faint shake as if to arouse numbed and stupid wits to action. Then he began to grin up amiably at the girl. “Oh, yeah, now I just remember broach- ing to, clawin’ sand to get up out of the breakers that was trying to suck me back. And you found me. And you give me a friendly, helping tow up to this here snug harbor.. I swear! You, littler than a grommet wad of a whale gun, you giving me a tow. Just like one of them trig, thumb sized tugs towing a thirty thousand ton liner. Come snugger alongside, little matey, won’t you? My fogger haint working good as yet.” Olo stepped forward, knelt, picked up the vast hand that lay sprawled across the blankets. The whaler fitted his head down into the pillow and turned his face toward her. Olo’s brown eyes looked fairly into the man’s blue-gray ones. A long time, as if hypnotized, they stared unwinkingly at each other. “Tittle matey,” he said finally, and a bit huskily, “ you give me convoy into this harbor, didn’t you, that don’t know me from the bilge keel of a mud scow? [ swear. Do you know, matey, if it wasn’t for berth- ing selfish as a fo’c’sl cat, this span little cabin, pitchers on the wall, carpet on the oO CoOmicbooks (S@)