laughter went up. Makamuk bowed his head in shame. The fur-thief had
fooled him. He had lost face before all his people. Still they
continued to roar out their laughter. Makamuk turned, and with bowed
head stalked away. He knew that thenceforth he would be no longer known
as Makamuk. He would be Lost Face; the record of his shame would be with
him until he died; and whenever the tribes gathered in the spring for the
salmon, or in the summer for the trading, the story would pass back and
forth across the camp-fires of how the fur-thief died peaceably, at a
single stroke, by the hand of Lost Face.

"Who was Lost Face?" he could hear, in anticipation, some insolent young
buck demand, "Oh, Lost Face," would be the answer, "he who once was
Makamuk in the days before he cut off the fur-thief's head."




TRUST


All lines had been cast off, and the _Seattle No_. 4 was pulling slowly
out from the shore. Her decks were piled high with freight and baggage,
and swarmed with a heterogeneous company of Indians, dogs, and
dog-mushers, prospectors, traders, and homeward-bound gold-seekers. A
goodly portion of Dawson was lined up on the bank, saying good-bye. As
the gang-plank came in and the steamer nosed into the stream, the clamour
of farewell became deafening. Also, in that eleventh moment, everybody
began to remember final farewell messages and to shout them back and
forth across the widening stretch of water. Louis Bondell, curling his
yellow moustache with one hand and languidly waving the other hand to his