White Silence by Ginjer Buchanan Page B

toward the fire and disappeared inside.
    Siwash. What had that blackguard Smith said? The Siwash were one of many tribes who lived up here. These Northland Indians were not familiar to Duncan. But as he looked around the camp, he could make some judgments.
    They were hunters, no doubt. The hides of the tent, the fur robes scattered around, the weapons he had seen when he’d helped lay the injured man down—all of that indicated men who knew how to live off the land.
    But these two also knew more than a little of civilization. Some of their clothes—the bright red felt hat for instance—came from white men’s stores. He’d taken note of the fact that their weapons included at least one very new-looking rifle. And though the two sleds that lay at the edge of the camp were fashioned by hand, the tools piled neatly around them were equal in workmanship to the very expensive gear he and Fitz had bought in Seattle.
    Suddenly, Duncan felt hot breath on his neck. He turned his head slowly. A big black-and-gray dog stood inches away, eyeing him warily.
    If the beast wasn’t tied up like the rest, he had to have a special status, Duncan thought. He sat motionless and let the animal smell him thoroughly. Finally, the dog gave a satisfied sniff and lay down a few feet away.
    “Dog approve.” Siwash Sam said. He stood just in front of the tent. “Good.”
    “And if the dog didn’t approve?” Duncan asked. He began to rise, but the Indian waved him down.
    “Very bad.” He shook his head. “Much blood. I have enough of that for this day.” He sat down across from Duncan.
    “Your brother?” Duncan asked.
    “He be fine. Only nose broken. Not first time.”
    “I am Duncan MacLeod,” he said. “My friends and I—our money was stolen. Your brother stopped the thief.”
    The Indian nodded wordlessly.
    “Is he awake? I would like to thank him. I’ve been looking for him.”
    “We know you looking,” Siwash Sam said. “My brother go to find you this morning. I tell him not to. I tell him Soapy’s men find him first.”
    Duncan winced. “I—I am sorry that I caused pain to the brother of Siwash Sam. But Smith—I thought he was a respectable businessman.”
    Sam shrugged. “You are cheechako. That what you supposed to think.” He spit to one side. “You want to know what Soapy is? I tell you.”
    So he did. And when he was done, anger swept through Duncan. It had been a long, long while since he had felt like taking his sword to a mortal. But this Jefferson Randolph Smith who preyed on the men—and women—who poured into Skagway, men and women made foolish by their fever for gold, made his warrior blood run hot.
    Siwash Sam sat staring at him, his black eyes level.
    “Scotsman, do not take on Soapy. This his place. You will lose.”
    Duncan frowned. “I should go on then? Forget what was done to your brother? To all of the others that you’ve told me of?”
    “He is
my
brother,” the Indian said gently. “And we will go on. Before this day is done. We not wait to find men to guide across White Pass. It not safe here for us.”
    “The Pass,” Duncan said, as he scrambled to his feet. “Fitz was going back to Reliable Packers this morning!”
    “Then you must return to the town. I will tell my brother of your thanks when he wakens.”
    Duncan turned, hesitated and turned back. Siwash Sam sat watching him intently.
    Squatting down, he spoke hurriedly.
    “If my friends and I are to take our leave quickly from this unsafe place, we will need guides we can trust, who do not come from the ranks of those who work for Soapy Smith.”
    The Indian gave a slight nod.
    “Siwash Sam and his brother are guides. We would hire them to lead us away from here. If they could stay a day or two more, until we have our gear together.”
    Duncan waited a breathless moment. Then the Indian nodded once again, more emphatically.
    “You come back. We talk more of this. We will be here.” He took Duncan’s extended hand and