my own kill. I am glad to live when I make my own kill. When I creep
through the snow upon the great moose, I am glad. And when I draw the
bow, so, with my full strength, and drive the arrow fierce and swift
and to the heart, I am glad. And the meat of no man's kill tastes
as sweet as the meat of my kill. I am glad to live, glad in my own
cunning and strength, glad that I am a doer of things, a doer of
things for myself. Of what other reason to live than that? Why should
I live if I delight not in myself and the things I do? And it is
because I delight and am glad that I go forth to hunt and fish, and it
is because I go forth to hunt and fish that I grow cunning and strong.
The man who stays in the lodge by the fire grows not cunning and
strong. He is not made happy in the eating of my kill, nor is living
to him a delight. He does not live. And so I say it is well this
Stranger Man should go. His wisdom does not make us wise. If he be
cunning, there is no need that we be cunning. If need arise, we go
to him for his cunning. We eat the meat of his kill, and it tastes
unsweet. We merit by his strength, and in it there is no delight.
We do not live when he does our living for us. We grow fat and like
women, and we are afraid to work, and we forget how to do things for
ourselves. Let the man go, O Tantlatch, that we may be men! I am Keen,
a man, and I make my own kill!"

Tantlatch turned a gaze upon him in which seemed the vacancy of
eternity. Keen waited the decision expectantly; but the lips did not
move, and the old chief turned toward his daughter.

"That which be given cannot be taken away," she burst forth. "I was
but a girl when this Stranger Man, who is my man, came among us. And
I knew not men, or the ways of men, and my heart was in the play of
girls, when thou, Tantlatch, thou and none other, didst call me to