Subienkow played his game as coolly as if he were bartering for a
foxskin.

"It is a very great medicine. It has saved my life many times. I want a
sled and dogs, and six of your hunters to travel with me down the river
and give me safety to one day's sleep from Michaelovski Redoubt."

"You must live here, and teach us all of your deviltries," was the reply.

Subienkow shrugged his shoulders and remained silent. He blew cigarette
smoke out on the icy air, and curiously regarded what remained of the big
Cossack.

"That scar!" Makamuk said suddenly, pointing to the Pole's neck, where a
livid mark advertised the slash of a knife in a Kamtchatkan brawl. "The
medicine is not good. The cutting edge was stronger than the medicine."

"It was a strong man that drove the stroke." (Subienkow considered.)
"Stronger than you, stronger than your strongest hunter, stronger than
he."

Again, with the toe of his moccasin, he touched the Cossack--a grisly
spectacle, no longer conscious--yet in whose dismembered body the pain-
racked life clung and was loth to go.

"Also, the medicine was weak. For at that place there were no berries of
a certain kind, of which I see you have plenty in this country. The
medicine here will be strong."