NAZA! NAZA! NAZA! It was a waiting day at Fort Chippewayan.

The lonesome, far-northern Hudson's Bay Trading Post seldom saw such life.

Tepees dotted the banks of the Slave River and lines of blanketed Indians paraded its shores.
Near the boat landing a group of chiefs, grotesque in semi-barbaric, semicivilized splendor, but black-browed, austere-eyed, stood in savage dignity with folded arms and high-held heads.

Lounging on the grassy bank were white men, traders, trappers and officials of the post.
All eyes were on the distant curve of the river where, as it lost itself in a fine-fringed bend of dark green, white-glinting waves danced and fluttered.

A June sky lay blue in the majestic stream; ragged, spear-topped, dense green trees massed down to the water; beyond rose bold, bald-knobbed hills, in remote purple relief.
A long Indian arm stretched south.