THE PIPES OF VICTORY 99

the birds, like that of the wind murmuring in the
forest, moaning around the lodges, howling among
the totem poles in a storm; music such as Kinna made
while I sat there carving, listening to him in those
stolen hours when we were both young and happy, long,
long ago.”

“T will search for the reeds,” Kagan declared
breathlessly. “I will search until I find them. No
longer do I care to play upon the drums and rattles
and horns of the shamans. Never shall I be happy
until I have played upon these wonderful reeds.”

“You will find them,” Quahl assured him, nodding
solemnly. “If that dream means to you what my
dreams meant to me, you will find the reeds as surely
as I found the Ancient Ones.”

But the summer passed and the rains of autumn be- i

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SEE

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gan, and still Kagan had not found the cedar box con-
taining the magic reeds, though he searched the forest
carefully in every direction. Then came the deep
snows which did not last long but brought the search
to an end as long as they lay upon the forest floor.
Spring followed and the tribe left for the Nass River
food depot, to sell their big canoes and buy fresh
olachen grease from the Niskas, leaving behind Kagan
and others who were ill or infirm.

Kagan’s heart was happy as he watched the canoes
speeding eastward, for he knew that long days of
idleness lay ahead, long days and hours in the forest,
when he could hunt for those reeds of Kinna’s. Day

toners