Pruitt has erected the tripod on the beach, attached camera box & now stands with black cloth over his head, so that he appears as a bulbous-headed monster with many legs. The Indians watch from their camp. They point, gawk, whisper. I am not much less mystified. Pruitt attempted to explain the chemistry, the glass plates, silver bromide gelatin, lens, focusing glass. For Sophie’s sake, I tried to learn as much as I could.
Pruitt has set his focus on the Eyak, who now stands, cocks his head at an angle, slowly approaches the camera. The old man dips his head, weaves side to side, almost like a fighter, or a wily animal with an injured leg. He is now just a few yards from Pruitt’s gaze. Closer. Closer. Pruitt has stuck out an arm, is waving at the old man.
?—?Back! You’re too close. Go back & stay still!
The old man presses his face right up to the camera, reaches up, pulls the black cloth over his head as well. It looks as if he will disappear into the maw of a great monster.
I doubt Pruitt will have much luck with this venture.
We heard an unusual tale this evening. As we prepared our meal on the beach, a young Indian woman walked from the willow brush carrying two dead hares, knelt at sea’s edge to skin them out with a sure quickness. She wears a beaded shift of animal hide & a fur mantle across her shoulders. She gave one rabbit to the Indian camp, her family I presume. Much to our surprise she then walked down the beach to our campfire. She slid the other rabbit into a pot of water we had boiling on the campfire. We heated only tins of beans in the flames for our meal so did not hesitate to accept her gift. We expressed our gratitude, but she did not seem to know our words.
?—?Doesn’t she have a man to hunt for her? Tillman asked.
He gave her a wink, but the girl gave no response.
Samuelson asked her a series of questions in her own tongue, which she answered in a near whisper. They spoke a long time. Never once did she bring up her eyes, as if she feared our gaze would turn her to stone. She then walked down the beach towards her own camp, but before she had gone a few steps, she spoke one last time to Samuelson. He nodded.
?—?Well? What did she say? Tillman asked.
?—?She had a husband once.
?—?Pretty young thing like that. Doubt any man would give that up. So, what happened to the fellow?
?—?She killed him, Samuelson said. —?Slit his throat as he slept.
It was a surprising answer, but no more so than the rest of the story the trapper told us.
The woman said that two winters ago a stranger came down out of the Wolverine Valley. No one had seen him before, but he was a good hunter & quick on his feet. When he asked her to go back to his home with him, she went along. The two of them traveled up the valley, beyond where she had ever been before, until they came to a creek that ran down out of the mountains. He took her to a den in the rocks. It was cold & damp & stunk of fish. For days on end he left her there with nothing but raw fish to eat. He warned her to never leave the den. She was lonely, so one day she tracked him through the snow. After a short time, his prints turned to otter tracks. She kept on them until she came to a bank den. That’s when she saw her husband in his true form?—?a river otter, being welcomed by his otter wife.
Tillman was disbelieving. I had heard similar stories among Indians, but not such a firsthand claim.
?—?They believe it is a thin line separates animal & man, Samuelson said. —?They hold that some can walk back & forth over that line, here a man, there a beast.
Tillman sat forward. He reminded me of a small boy listening to a tall tale, begging for what happens next.
?—?So what happened?
?—?She went back to their own den to wait for him. When he fell asleep beside her, she cut his throat. In the morning light, she skinned him out. That otter pelt on her shoulders, that there is the skin of her husband.
?—?Jesus, Tillman said.
?—?But you don’t believe a word of it, do you? Pruitt said.
Samuelson shrugged.
?—?What did she say at the last, when she was walking away? Tillman asked.
?—?She says the Wolverine River is no place for men like us.
The trapper leaned towards the campfire & tucked the spindly rabbit legs into the pot.
Washington, D.C.
September 17, 1884
To Lieutenant -Colonel Allen Forrester: