assured to the fortunate possessor of the talisman.  There was one particularly effective joint that had been treasured and carried by the warriors of a great Squamish family for a century.  These warriors had conquered every foe they encountered, until the talisman had become so renowned that the totem-pole of their entire “clan” was remodelled, and the new one crested by the figure of a single joint of a sea-serpent’s vertebra.

About this time stories of Napoleon’s first great achievements drifted across the seas; not across the land—­and just here may be a clue to buried Coast-Indian history, which those who are cleverer at research than I can puzzle over.  The chief was most emphatic about the source of Indian knowledge of Napoleon.

“I suppose you heard of him from Quebec, through, perhaps, some of the French priests,” I remarked.

“No, no,” he contradicted hurriedly.  “Not from East; we hear it from over the Pacific from the place they call Russia.”  But who conveyed the news or by what means it came he could not further enlighten me.  But a strange thing happened to the Squamish family about this time.  There was a large blood connection, but the only male member living was a very old warrior, the hero of many battles and the possessor of the talisman.  On his death-bed his women of three generations gathered about him; his wife, his sisters, his daughters, his granddaughters, but not one man, nor yet a boy of his own blood, stood by to speed his departing warrior spirit to the land of peace and plenty.

“The charm cannot rest in the hands of women,” he murmured almost with his last breath.  “Women may not war and fight other nations or other tribes; women are for the peaceful lodge and for the leading of little children.  They are for holding baby hands, teaching baby feet to walk.  No, the charm cannot rest with you, women.  I have no brother, no cousin, no son, no grandson, and the charm must not go to a lesser warrior than I. None of our tribe, nor of any tribe on the coast, ever conquered me.  The charm must go to one as unconquerable as I have been.  When I am dead send it across the great salt chuck, to the victorious ‘Frenchman’; they call him Napoleon Bonaparte.”  They were his last words.

The older women wished to bury the charm with him, but the younger women, inspired with the spirit of their generation, were determined to send it over-seas.  “In the grave it will be dead,” they argued.  “Let it still live on.  Let it help some other fighter to greatness and victory.”

As if to confirm their decision, the next day a small sealing-vessel anchored in the Inlet.  All the men aboard spoke Russian, save two thin, dark, agile sailors, who kept aloof from the crew and conversed in another language.  These two came ashore with part of the crew and talked in French with a wandering Hudson’s Bay trapper, who often lodged with the Squamish people.  Thus the women, who yet mourned over their dead warrior, knew these two strangers to be from the land where the great “Frenchman” was fighting against the world.