Free The Great Alone by Janet Dailey

long, stormy months of cold and rain. Weaver Woman was pleased that her son knew this.
     
    When the native boat was sighted entering the natural harbor of the bay, all the promyshleniki were alerted, and muskets distributed among them. A half dozen men accompanied Chuprov to the water’s edge to confront the boat’s occupants while the rest remained behind guarding the beached shitik. Three days had passed since they had released the old woman. Even though they had the native youth as hostage, their previous encounters with the island natives made them all wary ; and Luka was doubly vigilant and distrustful, a tiny muscle jerking convulsively in his cheek where the scar ran.
    “Are they carrying weapons?” The spyglass enabled Chuprov to see what Luka’s naked eye could not distinguish at this distance.
    “No. They have women and children with them.” Chuprov lowered the spyglass with a satisfied look. “They would never expose them to danger. I think we can relax.”
    Luka reached the same conclusion, and shifted his position on the sand, his taut muscles loosening. When the large skin-boat came close to shore, Chuprov detailed two men to help the natives land.
    “Their boat looks similar to the baidars the natives build in Siberia,” Chuprov remarked. “A baidar such as that could be very useful to us since we lost our dinghy in the storm. I wonder what they would take in trade for it.”
    The need for a boat had been on Luka’s mind. The sea otter lived in the offshore waters, rarely venturing out of its natural element onto land. To successfully hunt them, a boat was necessary. The only source of wood on the island was the driftwood the sea occasionally washed ashore. The baidar offered a solution to the problem. Luka studied the natives climbing out of the skin-boat. Of the adult males on board, only seven were of fighting age; the others were too young or too old to pose much of a threat. If the natives proved resistant to trading, they could be easily overpowered and the boat seized. Luka considered their need sufficient justification for the action. If the boat was not theirs today, it would be tomorrow.
    He spotted the gray-haired woman among the band of colorfully dressed natives getting out of the baidar. “The old woman is with them.”
    “Good,” Chuprov murmured, and quickly spotted her among the other members of her village assembling on the beach. When he heard the first thump of a tambourine-shaped bladder drum, he raised his eyebrows in an expression of forced patience. “I have the feeling we are going to be treated to another demonstration of native dancing.”
    As the primitive performance began, the promyshleniki guarding the shitik drifted forward to watch, drawn by the presence of the children. These sometimes barbaric, sometimes cruel Russian hunters had an inherent affection for children. Even Luka, whose prejudice ran deep, found the antics of these black-haired, black-eyed children appealing as they tried to copy the dance of their elders.
    When the last echo of the drums and singing was swallowed by the green cliffs, the old woman brought the leader of her village over to greet Chuprov. The man was tall, typically broad of feature, with leather-smooth skin. The scattered strands of gray in his hair were the only indications of his age.
    Chuprov ordered presents of handkerchiefs, needles, and thimbles to be distributed to the natives. After the commotion died down, he signaled Luka to translate his words to the native leader through sign. “Tell him that we come from a land far across the waters, many days to the west. Our ruler is a great and powerful woman who is very wise and very generous to those who would be her friends.”
    The native’s reaction at learning the Russians followed a female leader satisfied Luka that his sign language was being understood. “I think he finds it strange that men would let a woman lead them,” he said to Chuprov.
    “Stress again how powerful