Roy Norton

“ The shaman was in his most jovial, kindly mood as he squatted over the stove watchful of kettle, frying pan and coffeepot.
“Sometimes,” he said reminiscently, as he poked the fire, “think like take long game trail again. When li'l boy go many trails, many sleeps. But now—mebbe too fat, ummh?” he laughed and looked up at us with his sharp black eyes full of amusement. “Pant all same old fat dog! No can run fast. Much better like ride.” He regarded me appraisingly and flattered me with, “You heap strong. Run good. No get too tired. Old man, too. ”

“ But——” he began, and then stopped and fell to staring at the candle burning in its cleft stick, at the ridge pole of the tent, at the vent hole of the stove that blazed like a huge round eye full upon his massive, rugged face.
I fell to persuasion, and Jack did his best to assist my argument.
“We like your company, old sport,” he said, and the shaman smiled at him as if appreciating his friendliness.
“No,” he said at last. “No can always do what mebbe like to do. Lady Malitka speak, and—must do what lady say do. She say can come one sleep. No can come two or many more sleeps.” ”

“ He held his stubby powerful fingers out in a bunch, and when I agreed that this was the meaning of the word that to him was foreign, he complacently gestured with both hands and said, “Me speak very good English, ummh? Big word—that—together. So, mebbe can take trail one day more—together!” ”