Sitka Charley smoked his pipe and gazed thoughtfully atthe POLICE GAZETTE illustration on the wall. For halfan hour he had been steadily regarding it， and for half anhour I had been slyly watching him. Something was goingon in that mind of his， and， whatever it was， I knew it waswell worth knowing. He had lived life， and seen things， andperformed that prodigy of prodigies， namely， the turningof his back upon his own people， and， in so far as it waspossible for an Indian， becoming a white man even in hismental processes. As he phrased it himself， he had comeinto the warm， sat among us， by our fires， and becomeone of us. He had never learned to read nor write， but hisvocabulary was remarkable， and more remarkable still wasthe completeness with which he had assumed the whiteman’s point of view， the white man’s attitude toward things.
We had struck this deserted cabin after a hard day ontrail. The dogs had been fed， the supper dishes washed， thebeds made， and we were now enjoying that most delicioushour that comes each day， and but once each day， on theAlaskan trail， the hour when nothing intervenes betweenthe tired body and bed save the smoking of the eveningpipe. Some former denizen of the cabin had decoratedits walls with illustrations torn from magazines andnewspapers， and it was these illustrations that had heldSitka Charley’s attention from the moment of our arrivaltwo hours before. He had studied them intently， rangingfrom one to another and back again， and I could see thatthere was uncertainty in his mind， and bepuzzlement.
“Well？” I finally broke the silence.
He took the pipe from his mouth and said simply， “I donot understand.”
He smoked on again， and again removed the pipe， usingit to point at the POLICE GAZETTE illustration.
“That picture—what does it mean？ I do not understand.”
I looked at the picture. A man， with a preposterouslywicked face， his right hand pressed dramatically to hisheart， was falling backward to the floor. Confronting him，with a face that was a composite of destroying angel andAdonis， was a man holding a smoking revolver.
“One man is killing the other man，” I said， aware of adistinct bepuzzlement of my own and of failure to explain.
“Why？” asked Sitka Charley.
“I do not know，” I confessed.
“That picture is all end，” he said. “It has no beginning.”
“It is life，” I said.
“Life has beginning，” he objected.
I was silenced for the moment， while his eyes wanderedon to an adjoining decoration， a photographic reproductionof somebody’s “Leda and the Swan.”
“That picture，” he said， “has no beginning. It has no end.
I do not understand pictures.”
“Look at that picture，” I commanded， pointing to athird decoration. “It means something. Tell me what itmeans to you.”
He studied it for several minutes.
“The little girl is sick，” he said finally. “That is the doctorlooking at her. They have been up all night—see， the oilis low in the lamp， the first morning light is coming in atthe window. It is a great sickness； maybe she will die， thatis why the doctor looks so hard. That is the mother. It isa great sickness， because the mother’s head is on the tableand she is crying.”
“How do you know she is crying？” I interrupted. “Youcannot see her face. Perhaps she is asleep.”
Sitka Charley looked at me in swift surprise， then backat the picture. It was evident that he had not reasoned theimpression.
“Perhaps she is asleep，” he repeated. He studied itclosely. “No， she is not asleep. The shoulders show that sheis not asleep. I have seen the shoulders of a woman whocried. The mother is crying. It is a very great sickness.”
“And now you understand the picture，” I cried.
He shook his head， and asked， “The little girl—does itdie？”
It was my turn for silence.
“Does it die？” he reiterated. “You are a painter-man.
Maybe you know.”
“No， I do not know，” I confessed.
“It is not life，” he delivered himself dogmatically. “Inlife little girl die or get well. Something happen in life. Inpicture nothing happen. No， I do not understand pictures.”
His disappointment was patent. It was his desire tounderstand all things that white men understand， andhere， in this matter， he failed. I felt， also， that there waschallenge in his attitude. He was bent upon compellingme to show him the wisdom of pictures. Besides， hehad remarkable powers of visualization. I had long sincelearned this. He visualized everything. He saw life inpictures， felt life in pictures， generalized life in pictures；and yet he did not understand pictures when seen throughother men’s eyes and expressed by those men with colorand line upon canvas.
“Pictures are bits of life，” I said. “We paint life as we seeit. For instance， Charley， you are coming along the trail. Itis night. You see a cabin. The window is lighted. You lookthrough the window for one second， or for two seconds，you see something， and you go on your way. You sawmaybe a man writing a letter. You saw something withoutbeginning or end. Nothing happened. Yet it was a bit oflife you saw. You remember it afterward. It is like a picturein your memory. The window is the frame of the picture.”
I could see that he was interested， and I knew that asI spoke he had looked through the window and seen theman writing the letter.
“There is a picture you have painted that I understand，”
he said. “It is a true picture. It has much meaning. It isin your cabin at Dawson. It is a faro table. There are menplaying. It is a large game. The limit is off.”
“How do you know the limit is off？” I broke in excitedly，for here was where my work could be tried out on anunbiassed judge who knew life only， and not art， and whowas a sheer master of reality. Also， I was very proud of thatparticular piece of work. I had named it “The Last Turn，”
and I believed it to be one of the best things I had everdone.
“There are no chips on the table”， Sitka Charley explained.