CHAPTER VIII 



NAZA ! NAZA ! NAZA ! 



IT was a waiting day at Fort Chippewayan. The 

 lonesome, far-northern Hudson s Bay Trading 

 Post seldom saw such life. Tepees dotted the 

 banks of the Slave River and lines of blanketed 

 Indians paraded its shores. Near the boat landing 

 a group of chiefs, grotesque in semi-barbaric, semi- 

 civilized splendor, but black-browed, austere-eyed, 

 stood in savage dignity with folded arms and high- 

 held heads. Lounging on the grassy bank were white 

 men, traders, trappers and officials of the post. 



All eyes were on the distant curve of the river 

 where, as it lost itself in a fine-fringed bend of dark 

 green, white-glinting waves danced and fluttered. A 

 June sky lay blue in the majestic stream; ragged, 

 spear-topped, dense green trees massed down to the 

 water; beyond rose bold, bald-knobbed hills, in 

 remote purple relief. 



A long Indian arm stretched south. The waiting 

 eyes discerned a black speck on the green, and 

 watched it grow. A flatboat, with a man standing 

 to the oars, bore down swiftly. 



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