the last she says, 'Keep my feather bed, Tommy, keep it always.' And I
agreed. Then she opened her eyes, full with the pain. 'I've been a good
woman to you, Tommy, and because of that I want you to promise--to
promise'--the words seemed to stick in her throat--'that when you marry,
the woman be white. No more Siwash, Tommy. I know. Plenty white women
down to Juneau now. I know. Your people call you "squaw-man," your
women turn their heads to the one side on the street, and you do not go
to their cabins like other men. Why? Your wife Siwash. Is it not so?
And this is not good. Wherefore I die. Promise me. Kiss me in token of
your promise.'

"I kissed her, and she dozed off, whispering, 'It is good.' At the end,
that near gone my ear was at her lips, she roused for the last time.
'Remember, Tommy; remember my feather bed.' Then she died, in
childbirth, up there on the Chilcat Station."

The tent heeled over and half flattened before the gale. Dick refilled
his pipe, while Tommy drew the tea and set it aside against Molly's
return.

And she of the flashing eyes and Yankee blood? Blinded, falling,
crawling on hand and knee, the wind thrust back in her throat by the
wind, she was heading for the tent. On her shoulders a bulky pack caught
the full fury of the storm. She plucked feebly at the knotted flaps, but
it was Tommy and Dick who cast them loose. Then she set her soul for the
last effort, staggered in, and fell exhausted on the floor.

Tommy unbuckled the straps and took the pack from her. As he lifted it
there was a clanging of pots and pans. Dick, pouring out a mug of
whiskey, paused long enough to pass the wink across her body. Tommy