Tinook checked a wall map of the area. “Nope. Nothing like an eagle's beak.” He scratched his head. “Maybe you should talk to Clarence.”

“Clarence?”

“Yeah, my grandfather. He used to get around a lot and likes visitors.”

Austin's eyes glazed over. He was impatient to get in the air again. He was trying to think of a diplomatic way to put Tinook off without hurting his feelings, when he noticed a rifle hung on the wall behind the counter. He walked over for a closer look. It was a Carbine Ml, the workhorse rifle carried by American infantrymen in World War II. He had seen M1's before, but this was in exceptionally mint condition.

“Is that your rifle?” he asked Tinook.

“My grandfather gave it to me, but I use my own gun for hunting. That thing has got quite a story behind it. Sure you wouldn't want to talk to Clarence? Might be worth your while.”

Zavala saw Austin's newfound interest. “I wouldn't mind stretching my legs for a while longer. At least we don't have to worry about getting home before dark.”

Joe's point was well taken. Daylight was more than twenty two hours long, and even after the sun set, technically, night was only a short period of dusk.

Mike guided them along a muddy street past more shacks, gangs of round-faced children, sleeping huskies, and racks where crimson strips of salmon dried in the sun. He went up to the door of a shack smaller than the others and knocked. Someone inside told them to come in. They stepped into the one-room house. It smelled of wood smoke and something meaty cooking on a camp stove. The house was sparsely furnished with a bunk bed in one corner and a table covered with a red-and-white checkered oilcloth. A man who looked as old as a glacier sat at the table carefully painting a wooden polar bear figure about six inches high. Several others figures of wolves and eagles had been painted and lined up.

“Grandpa, these men would like to hear the story about your rifle.”

Dark Oriental eyes sparkled with intelligence and good humor from a face creased in a thousand wrinkles. Clarence wore dark-framed glasses, and his thick silvery hair was neatly parted on one side. His mouth widened in a grin that seemed to take over his whole jaw. Although he must have been in his eighties, he shook hands in a bone-crunching grip and looked as if he could still wrestle a sea lion to the floor. Yet the voice that should have been amplified by the powerful frame was as soft as wind-blown snow.

His grandson said, “I have to go back to the shop. I'll have the plane refueled by the time you get back.”

“I make these for the gift shops in Anchorage,” the old man said, putting the polar bear and paints aside. “Glad you dropped by. You're just in time for lunch.” He indicated a couple of rickety chairs, and, refusing the protests of his guests, he spooned the stew from the stove pot into some chipped willow-pattern china bowls. He took a big spoonful as if to show there was no harm in his cooking. “How is it?”