IN THE SHADOW OF A RAINBOW
wolves on lower Takla Lake. He belonged to the Car
band. (Because of French language influence, Cana
Indians generally say “band” instead of “tribe.”)
rier
dian
“I came before the Moon-of-Walking-Thunder,” Greg
said. To an Indian that meant early July, because the full
moon occurred on the twenty-fourth in 1964. I'm
Chimmesyan—part Haida, part Tsimshian.”
“You must be gulch-happy. What about
Náhani? Have
you seen her?” As Eugene Charley pronounced the name,
he raised his upper lip like a nickering mule. He lowered
the lever of his Winchester to check the chamber. The sun
shot a brassy glint off a breeched cartridge rim.
Greg urged the man to sit down on the log and remove
his heavy pack, the weight of which he bore by the tump-
line strap across his deeply grooved forehead. He grinned
when Greg offered him a cup of coffee and a pipe stoked
with India House tobacco.
“Who is Náhani?” Greg asked.
Charley spat into the fire. “You say Náhani,” he said.
Accent of the Ná”
“I don't give a rusty damn how you say it. Who the
devil
is Náhani?”
“The great silver she-wolf. Queen bitch of the
deadliest
wolf pack in all Canada. Is this Nakinilerak or Friday?”
“Nakinilerak.”
“They den somewhere near here. I've studied them for
a
year or more, ever since a sweet price was put on Náhani's
head Those wolves are hunting somewh
IN THE SHADOW OF A RAINBOW
wolves on lower Takla Lake. He belonged to the Carrier
band. (Because of French language influence, Canadian
Indians generally say “band” instead of “tribe.”)
“I came before the Moon-of-Walking-Thunder,” Greg
said. To an Indian that meant early July, because the full
moon occurred on the twenty-fourth in 1964. “I'm
Chimmesyan—part Haida, part Tsimshian.”
“You must be gulch-happy. What about Náhani? Have
you seen her?” As Eugene Charley pronounced the name,
he raised his upper lip like a nickering mule. He lowered
the lever of his Winchester to check the chamber. The sun
shot a brassy glint off a breeched cartridge rim.
Greg urged the man to sit down on the log and remove
his heavy pack, the weight of which he bore by the tump-
line strap across his deeply grooved forehead. He grinned
when Greg offered him a cup of coffee and a pipe stoked
with India House tobacco.
“Who is
Náhani?” Greg asked.
Charley spat into the fire. “You say Náhani,” he said.
“Accent on the Ná.”
“I don't give a rusty damn how you say it. Who the devil
is Náhani?”
“The great silver she-wolf. Queen bitch of the deadliest
wolf pack in all Canada. Is this Nakinilerak or Friday?”
“Nakinilerak.”
“They den somewhere near here. I've studied them for a
year or more, ever since a sweet price was put on Náhani's
head. Those wolves are hunting somewhere south of here.
I wish to hell I knew where. When they come back, they'll
gnaw your Chimmesyan bones. Nakinilerak is where they
winter.” With a speculative squint he probed Greg’s ex-
pression for a reaction.
Náhani of Nakinilerak
“Why should anybody be afraid of wolves?”
“Are you armed?”
Perhaps Eugene Charley suspected a rich “poke” of
gold. While he smoked, his glance kept shuttling between
Greg’s gold pan and trench shovel.
“I’m prepared to defend myself,” Greg said without
admitting that he carried no firearms. He considered
everyone trustworthy until proven otherwise; but this
Eugene Charley somehow seemed to speak from two
faces. “Tell me more about your Náhani, whose name you
pronounce with such reverence.”
“Náhani means ‘one who shines.’ Carriers call her Silver
Skin. Color, you know. She’s too gutty for a timber wolf
—and too damned big. Eight, maybe ten years old. She
leads twenty, maybe thirty killers. Who knows? Nobody
ever gets a shot at that pack. She can smell a gun a mile
away. Livestock killed, traps emptied, and now lately
people have disappeared. When they raise the bounty
enough, I’ll bring her down. You’ll see.”
Greg concealed his relief when Eugene Charley de-
clined an invitation to rest the day and night. He was
headed for Pendleton Bay on Babine Lake. Carriers had to
hurry, otherwise the lumber mill would hire Tsimshians to
peavey summer-felled logs into the dog-chain lifts. Instead
of following the trade trail between Takla and Babine lakes,
Charley was short-cutting the route through the brush in
order to save time and miles “and maybe bring in a skin.”
“I’ll guarantee you a horrible death if you stay here,” he
said as the two men shook hands. “Náhani’s phantom
renégats will eat you alive!”
“Weasel words!” Greg said aloud. To himself he
thought: small-bore talk from a Carrier with a forked
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