Another night had shut down over the great Yukon valley, a night of wind and storm. It had been snowing since morning on this, the most memorable day in the history of Klassan.
Caribou Sol stood in front of his cabin, looking out into the darkness. He did not mind the driving wind, laden with snow, which beat against him; in fact, he never noticed it. His face was marked with anguish as he closed the door and moved slowly along the trail leading to the Radhurst cabin. Up the hill he crept like a worn-out, weary man. He breasted the tempest with his head bent forward, while his long white beard was tossed across his breast like seaweed flung upon some surf-beaten rock. Constance was sitting by the table with a look of expectancy upon her face when Sol knocked at the door. Much had she changed since the previous evening. Her old lightness of spirit was gone, and a sadness weighed upon her soul. Tears glistened in her eyes, and the rosy colour had fled her cheeks, leaving them very white.
Joe Simkins had brought the news early that morning, and all day long the suspense had been terrible. Not for an instant did she or her father believe that Keith was guilty. There was something wrong, they felt sure of that. Constance longed to go to him, that he might know that they had not deserted him at any rate, and at times she was tempted to go to the trial, face the men, and give him a word of encouragement.
She fancied him defending himself against the base charge with all the determination of his manly nature. That he would fight hard, she had no doubt, but she shuddered when she thought how little one man could do against so many. She was surprised, too, to find what an interest she took in his welfare, and how his trouble pierced her heart like a sharp sword.
As the evening wore on, and the storm howled and raged outside, and no one came near the cabin, the suspense became almost unbearable. Had the worst happened, so that even Joe did not dare to come and break the news? She had often heard how gold thieves were treated by enraged miners, and she shivered as the idea came to her this night. Mechanically, she picked up a book, a small copy of Keble's "Christian Year," which Keith had left there. Opening it at random, her eyes rested upon a verse for the twenty-third Sunday after Trinity, which attracted her attention. Slowly she read:
"But first by many a stern and fiery blastThe world's rude furnace must our blood refine,And many a blow of keenest woe be passed,Till every pulse beat true to airs divine."
The book dropped upon her lap, and for some time she remained in silent thought. "Perhaps that is meant for me," she meditated. "I have been careless and indifferent to the higher things of life, living only for to-day. Is the Great Master allowing these things to happen, the loss of mother, brother, home, and now——"
She was startled by a knock upon the door, and she trembled as she laid the book upon the table and crossed the room.
Caribou Sol grasped her hand in his own strong one, and looked searchingly into her eyes.
"Bad storm," he panted, "an' a tough climb up yon hill. I ain't as young as I uster be."
Then Constance noticed how haggard was his face, while his hair and beard seemed whiter than when first she saw him. A feeling of dread entered her heart.
"Tell me, oh, tell me!" she cried, "what has happened!"
"Ye've heard somethin', then, miss?" questioned the old man.
"Yes, Joe Simkins was here this morning and told us what took place last night. But we have heard nothing about the trial."
Sol sat down upon a bench near where Mr. Radhurst was lying, and placed his head in his hands.
"My God!" he groaned, "it was awful!"
"What's awful?" demanded Constance. "Tell us quick!"
"They've fired 'im!"
"What?"
"Fired the parson! Druve 'im from Klassan!"
"The brutes! The wretches!" and Constance stamped her small foot upon the floor, while her hands clinched and her eyes glowed. "Are they men or only beasts? Did no one stand up for him?"
"Only me an' Joe," replied the miner, looking with admiration upon the spirited woman before him. "We done what we could. But they're divils, miss, is them miners, when they're roused."
"Did he fight hard?"
"Fight? You should have seed 'im. I never seen anything like it. He was a match fer 'em all, but it was no use. They got turned agin 'im, an' 'ud listen to nothin'."
"What did he have to say about the gold being found in his cabin?" asked Mr. Radhurst.
"He couldn't explain, sir. Nor could you nor me, if we'd had sich a cowardly trick played upon us. He jist stated the matter in words that rung with truth, any ninny could see that. But every wan on that committee got so excited that they jist threw questions at 'im."
"'Whar is the key,' says Pritchen.
"'Why did ye git so scart when we axed ye to open the chist?' speaks up Perdue. An' afore he could answer, some one else slung another at 'im. It wasn't a trial, miss, it was jist a bunch of sarpents hissin' all the time."
"And did Mr. Steadman seem frightened when they wanted to open the chest?" queried Constance, in surprise.
"I heerd so."
"But why?"
"On account of the picter."
"The picture?"
"Yes. Tim Slater, he was thar, ye know, says 'twas an uncommon fine 'un, lyin' right atop the chist."
"But why should the picture frighten him?"
"He wasn't altogether frightened, miss. Ye can't frighten 'im. He only got a little white around the gills, so Tim says. Ye see, 'twas a woman's picter, all fixed up on that kind of paper them artist chaps use, an' done with a pencil. 'Twas mighty fine, so Tim says, an' I guess he knows."
Constance made no reply to these words. "A picture!" she mused, "and a woman's!" Anxious though she was to hear more about the trial, her thoughts wandered. She longed with womanly curiosity to know about that picture. Was it a young face, pretty, and whether the missionary had explained whose it was? Something, however, restrained her. She did not dare to ask, lest she should betray the note of eagerness in her voice, and she was sure her face would flush even if she mentioned it.
"But it wasn't the only charge they brung agin the parson," continued Sol. "They raked up all sorts of stuff. It was certainly wonnerful."
"What else did they say?" questioned Mr. Radhurst.
"They said, or at least Pritchen did, that he killed an Injun woman some years back."
"What!"
"Yes, that's what he said. But, my, you should have seed the parson then. He was jist like a tager, an' I never heerd a man say sich cuttin' things in all my life. He jist went fer Pritchen an' opened up a page in his history which 'ud make ye creep. He told sartin an' clear that the villain himself was the one who killed the woman. An', says he:
"'Thar's a gal in this town who was thar as a wee child. She seed it all. She seen her mother killed afore her very eyes. Bring her here,' says he, 'an' she'll tell yez what a liar this man is.'"
"And what did they do?" asked Constance almost breathlessly.
"Jist laughed at 'im."
"The brutes!"
"'Bring her!' he cries; 'she's in Klassan. If yez are men, ye'll do what's fair. Her name is Yukon Jennie, an' she'll tell yez all."
"This appeal kinder touched some of 'em, an' they axed fer the gal, though I saw that Pritchen was mighty oneasy. So we waited till the gal was fetched."
"Did she come?" and Constance leaned eagerly forward, as the old man paused.
"No, miss. They couldn't find hair nor hide of her. She'd skipped out."
"Oh!"
"Yes, cut an' run. Ye should have seed the look on the parson's face when he heerd that; it was terrible. An' ye could have heered the men hoot an' laugh clean up here, if ye'd been listenin'."
"But where did she go?" asked Mr. Radhurst. "The girl was here until quite late yesterday afternoon."
"That's what the men couldn't find out. The old chief was mighty surly, too, an' wouldn't tell nothin'. But thar was one thing I did notice," he continued. "While the rest was hootin' an' shoutin', a scart look come over Pritchen's face when he heered that the girl had skipped, an' that the chief was cranky. He seemed feered of somethin', an' I can't make out jist what it is."
"Were those the only charges, Mr. Burke?" questioned Constance, anxious to hear more.
"No, thar's another I'm comin' to now, an' a mighty nasty one, at that."
Constance's face became still paler, and her lips quivered as she heard these ominous words. Was there no end to these terrible things?
"They say that the other poke found in the chist has a mighty suspicious look about it."
"In what way?"
"Waal, ye see, thar was two letters on the poke, which seemed to pint to somethin' bad. Pritchen was out huntin' mountain sheep a short time ago, so he says, in the Ibex Valley. While thar he stayed in an old log shanty, an' the place was all upsot lookin', so he says, as if a terrible fight had taken place. Then he finds a book layin' on the floor with the parson's name inside."
"What book was it?" asked Constance eagerly.
"I'm not sure that I kin remember the full name," and the old man scratched his head in a puzzled manner. "But it's a book of poetry written by a chap by the name of Brown or Black, I jist can't tell which. I never heered of 'im afore, 'ave you?"
But Constance did not reply. She was thinking of what Keith had told her about his copy of Browning. He had lost it somewhere on the trail, but he had told her nothing about the cabin. What did it all mean?
"But that wasn't all, miss. Thinkin' somethin' was wrong, Pritchen hunted around fer a time, an' found whar a man had been buried, but the wolves hadn't left much, only torn clothes. The chap had been put into the snow, while a cross an' two letters had been cut in the rock above. The suspicious thing is, that them letters an' the ones on the poke found in the chist are jist the same."
"Very strange," remarked Mr. Radhurst. "Do you remember the letters?"
"Yes, there were jist two, 'K. R.'"
At these words, Constance started and rose to her feet. Trembling violently, she approached the miner. Once she put out her hand as if for support.
"Tell me," she said in a hoarse whisper, "if you know anything more?"
Sol looked at her in amazement.
"I didn't know ye'd feel so bad, or I'd not told ye," he replied, mistaking the cause of her agitation. "But thar isn't much more to be said. The parson told in plain words how he'd found a sick man in the Ibex cabin, an' cared fer 'im as well as he could. When he died he buried 'im in the snow, an' put them marks on the rock, but about the poke, he had never seed it afore."
"Did he tell the man's name?" asked Constance.
"No."
"No! And why not?"
"He wouldn't tell, an' that was the hardest thing agin him. Then some one axed 'im why he didn't report the matter when he reached Klassan, an' at that the parson lit out:
"'Tell,' says he. 'What chance had I to tell with all yez agin me, ruinin' my Injun flock, an' playin' that mean trick upon me in sendin' me to Siwash Crik? De yez think I'd care to tell ye?'"
"What trick?" asked Mr. Radhurst.
"What! ye never heered?"
"No, not a word."
"No? Waal, now, that's queer. It's been the talk of the camp ever since. They made out that Jim Blasco, that divil out yon, was wounded, an' a doctor was wanted mighty bad. So they got the parson to go, an' sich a laughin' an' shoutin' they made over it all at his expense. I didn't think so much about it then, but now it jist fairly makes me bile."
"Why, Mr. Steadman never said a word to us about it when he came to Siwash Creek," said Constance in surprise.
"Ay, is that so, miss? Waal, it's jist like 'im. Some 'ud have blabbed the whole thing, an' made a big story outer it. But not 'im. He's too much of a man fer that. He doesn't tell everything he knows, an' I reckon he has some good reason fer not tellin' that chap's name that died out in the Ibex cabin."
Constance arose, and, going to her own little curtained apartment, brought forth a small picture.
"Mr. Burke," she said, "you have met quite a number of men in this district, did you ever see any one who looked like that?"
Sol took the picture in his hand and gazed upon it for a time. Then he held it up close to the light for a better inspection.
"Fine chap, that, miss. Is he a relation of yourn?"
"It's my brother, Kenneth, and his initials are just the same as the ones on the rock and the poke."
"Ye don't say so, waal! But, miss, fer God's sake, what's the matter?" and the old man dropped the picture and stared at the young woman.
And good reason was there for his surprise, for upon Constance's face was stamped a look of horror, and her eyes were fastened upon the small window near at hand.
"A face! A face! I saw it there!" she gasped, "looking into the room. Oh, it was awful!" and she dropped upon a bench out of sheer weakness.
An ugly look came into Sol's face, as he rose to his feet, while his hand instinctively sought his hip pocket, and rested upon the butt of a revolver concealed there.
"We're watched," he whispered. "Them divils are wild to-night. Some are havin' a drunken spree, an' it's hard to tell what they'll do afore mornin'. My old carcase ain't wuth much, but some of them'll be wuth less if they come meddlin' around here. I guess, though, we'd better draw that curtain, an' shet out all pryin' eyes. Thar, that's better. Now don't be frightened, miss. Nothin'll harm ye as long as this old gun holds true, an' she ain't failed me yit, though she's seen some hightly ugly times."
"Thank you," replied Mr. Radhurst, who had remained still through the excitement. "You are very good, but I don't think any harm will come to us. Perhaps some one was passing and happened to glance in at the window. Sit down, please, and tell us some more about the trial, for I am anxious to hear all."
"It may be as ye say, sir. I only hope so," and Sol resumed his seat.
"Thar ain't much more to tell about that fuss. I saw at once when the trial began that it was all up with the parson, an' that they intended to condemn him, but I didn't think it'd take so long. They jist played with 'im like a cat plays with a mouse. But at last it was ended, an' Pritchen, who was chairman, stood up, an', said he:
"'We give ye yer chice; hit the trail in two hours, or stay here an' take yer dose from us.'
"I kin see the parson standin' thar now with a wonnerful look on his face. He didn't seem to hear the chairman's word, fer he was gazin' through the dirty winder, out inter the storm, an' away to the Injun village beyond.
"'De ye hear me, damn ye!' cried Pritchen, bringin' his fist down upon the table with a bang. 'Why don't ye answer? We can't fool here all day.'
"Then the parson turned and looked square into his eyes. He was very calm, an' he spoke so quiet an' solemn like:
"'Man,' says he, 'd'ye mean it? Fer Nellie's sake, an' the kids, won't ye have marcy. Ye know I didn't do them deeds, an' ye know, Bill Pritchen,' says he, movin' up close to the chairman, 'that ye yerself are the one that left that young chap out thar to die. Ye was his pardner. Ye stole his gold, that's what ye did.'
"The parson could go no further, fer the men set up sich a shoutin' an' a laughin' that ye couldn't hear yerself speak.
"Then he gave them a look I'll never fergit, full of scorn and pity. I never thought a man could look that way. He straightened himself up, an' turned to the chairman.
"I'll go,' says he, 'I'll hit the trail. I'll leave ye. But remember, I'll come back when I git ready.'
"'Come back, if ye dare,' says Pritchen, an' the men hooted as the poor chap walked from the buildin' as proud as a lord.
"I follered 'im to his cabin, fer I was sore hit, an' stood with 'im as he was ready to leave. He had his rifle, snow-shoes, his medical case, an' a small pack of grub on his back. He wouldn't say much, not even whar he was goin'. He seemed like a man in a dream.
"'Sol,' says he, jist afore he started, 'I'm as innocent of them charges as the new-born babe.'
"'I know it,' says I, 'but what kin we do?'
"'Nothin',' says he. 'Nothin' now, but the Good Lord will bring to light the hidden things of darkness in His own way, never ye fear that, Sol.'
"Then he looked across to this cabin, an' remained very still fer a time.
"'Won't ye say good-bye?' says I.
"'I can't,' says he, with a groan. 'With this shadder over me, I can't face her; it's better not. But ye'll look after'm, Sol,' an' he lays his hand upon my shoulder.
"'Till death,' says I.
"'God bless ye, man,' says he, an' with that he was gone—gone out inter the night through the wild howlin' tempest."
For some time the three sat in silence, each wrapped in earnest thought. As Constance listened to the snow-laden wind beating against the window, she pictured Keith battling his way through the dreary night, or else crouching by a lonely camp fire. Her ideas of Christianity were undergoing a marked change. Formerly she had associated religion with large churches, where well-dressed people attended, and the services were conducted by white-robed clergymen, assisted by high-class music and well-trained choirs. She knew that the clergy, for the most part, were a devoted, hard-working class, but the thought of connecting them with the heroic in life had never entered her head.
Once she had attended a Synod service, where the clergy marched in, two by two, singing "Onward, Christian Soldiers." Though she had been told that some of them were men broken down by strenuous toil in frontier work among the Indians and miners, she had experienced no thrill or quickening of the heart. Her heroes were of a different class: soldiers, who fought and died for their country, or sailors, who braved the perils of the great deep. Of these she loved to read, while a missionary book, or a magazine telling of the noble deeds done, and lives given for the cause of Christ, was something not to be considered.
But her eyes had been opened, and she saw a man, a student of no mean order, who had given up his life to uplift a band of uncouth Indians in a lonely region, away from all the refinements of civilization, who knew nothing of ease or of popular applause. And the most wonderful of all was that he did not consider it a sacrifice, but simply a joy to be able to serve. Then to see this man, in his noble efforts to assist and cheer the miners, opposed, scoffed at, and driven out, perhaps to die, by the very ones he had tried to help, was strange to contemplate. She had heard people laugh at missionaries and their efforts to benefit the natives. Now a longing entered her heart to go to those very people, and tell them what she had seen of the efforts of one man.
The report of a rifle startled her from her reverie. Then the sound of voices came faintly through the night.
Sol sprang to his feet, and rushed to the door.
"Stay here!" he cried. "I'll be back in a minute."
Presently he returned with a pained expression upon his face.
"I was afeared of it," he replied, in answer to Constance's inquiring look. "Them varmints are burnin' the mission house. Blow out the candle, an' come to the winder to see fer yerselves."
With the room in darkness, and the curtain drawn back, the three stood and watched the scene of destruction. The flames, fanned by the wind, were sending up huge forked tongues into the night, while anon a rifle shot or a shout would wing its way across the snow.
"God help us!" groaned Sol. "What will they do next? They don't realize what they're doin' to-night. They must be mad or they wouldn't burn the mission house, whar the Injuns keep their supplies. What will the natives do when they return? God help us then!"
"Amen," fervently responded Mr. Radhurst, as he returned wearily to his position on the couch.
The morning of the trial Yukon Jennie stood in the chief's lodge, girded for a long journey. She was clad in a soft buckskin suit, the skirt of which reached but a short distance below her knees. Her leggings were of a bright scarlet material, and her feet encased in a pair of moccasins of her own handiwork. On her head was a hood of gray, so capacious that only a small portion of her face was exposed to view. Around her waist was a leathern belt, pendant from which were a small hatchet, a sheath knife, and a drinking cup. Altogether, she presented a picturesque figure, standing there awaiting the old man's pleasure.
On her face was a look of determination, mingled with a high resolve, for was she not about to undertake a task of supreme importance, fraught with hardships and dangers, for the sake of her tribe? She was only a girl—a waif—and in the eyes of the great hunters counted for little. They fed, housed, and clothed her, but never considered her as of any real importance.
After leaving the mission house the night before, she had searched for Keith in order to deliver Constance's message. Failing in this, she had gone to the saloon, hoping to find him there. Hearing the talking within, she feared to enter, and waited for some time outside in the bleak darkness. At length wearying of this, she returned to the chief's lodge, and sat quietly in one corner, apparently lost in thought. After a while she again sallied forth, and had advanced but a short distance when the Vigilance Committee hurried from the mission house and started down the hill. Keeping at a safe distance, she followed them to the saloon, heard the rough, angry words, and saw violent hands laid upon Keith. She paused only for an instant, and then with the speed of a deer, sped back to the lodge and told the chief what she had witnessed. No comment was made as Jennie related her story, but all through the night the aged man sat and brooded in deep silence. Early in the morning he aroused the maiden, and in a few brief words ordered her to prepare for a long journey.
"You must go," he said in the native tongue, "swift as the wind, straight as the wild goose, and carry this to Amos."
As he spoke he took from his neck four strings of beads fastened securely together, and handed them to the maiden.
"Guard them well," he commanded, "and come back soon."
Jennie's eyes sparkled with delight as she seized the necklace in her hand. Never before had she seen the old man part with his treasure. It was the symbol of his office as chief of his tribe, and well did Jennie know the meaning when it was entrusted to any one else. She had heard of it being done once before. Long years ago, so it was said around the camp fire, had the chief sent the beads by a trusty courier over leagues and leagues of mountain, forest and plain to summon the natives to hurl back a marauding band of Indians.
With the beads about her neck, and a small blanket and some food on her back, Jennie bade the chief good-bye, and sped away from the lodge out upon the long trail. All day long she fought her way through the blinding storm with the unerring instinct of a wild animal. The region was familiar to her, though every trace of a path had been obliterated. No living thing met her gaze, as hour after hour she plodded on. When night shut down she sought shelter in a thicket of fir trees, lighted a fire, ate her scanty meal, and, wrapping her small blanket around her body, was soon fast asleep.
Towards morning the wind dropped to rest, the snow ceased falling, and the bright moon smiled forth from banks of drifting clouds. A shy rabbit, hopping around in search of a meal from some tender cotton-wood bark, started back at the sight of the curious bundle lying in the snow; while some distance off a black fox sniffed the air and turned warily away.
Early in the morning Jennie was up and on again. On the fourth day, footsore and weary, she dragged her tired body towards the nearest camp. The sun had gone down and darkness had spread over the land. There were only a few Indians here, the rest having gone farther afield. It was the hour of prayer, and, according to their usual custom, they were all gathered into the largest camp.
It was a quaint structure, this rude abode, which served as the little sanctuary in the wild. It had the appearance of a log house cut in two, and pulled apart, leaving a clear passage of about four feet right through the building. In this space a glowing fire of large logs was sending out its generous heat, while the smoke ascended through the opening above. On either side of the fire the Indians were gathered, reclining on blankets, wolf and bear skins, placed over a liberal supply of fir boughs.
Amos, the catechist, was reading the lesson for the day when Jennie glided into the lodge. His noble face was full of earnestness as he rolled forth the long words in the rythmical Takudh language, pausing occasionally to explain some passage to the intent listeners.
Though all present had noticed Jennie's entrance, no sign of recognition was made as she quietly settled down in their midst, and listened to the reader. With impassive faces, and a stoicism worthy of the ancient Grecians, they bowed their heads while Amos repeated several of the prayers of the Church, and then led in the singing of "Nearer, My God, to Thee," one of their favourite hymns. Intensely fond of music, their voices rang out sweet and clear upon the night air. Old and young joined in the hymn, a translation made years before by that prince of pioneer missionaries, the venerable Archdeacon McDonald, who did such a great work at Fort Yukon in the early sixties.
"Ndo nyet nyakkwun TtiaNdo nyet nyakkwun,Kwizyik nititae,Guselshit chi.Tthui sih chilig telyaNdo nyet nyakkwun Ttia,Ndo nyet nyakkwun."[1]
Not until the hymn had been sung, and the beautiful "Grace of Our Lord Jesus Christ" said, did the Indians turn their attention to Jennie. Then all reserve was thrown off, and they surrounded her, plying question after question as to the cause of her visit. To none of these, however, did the maiden reply, but unfastening the buckskin jacket, she drew forth the necklace, and, without a word, handed it to Amos.
At once all talking ceased, and a deep silence pervaded the place, broken only by the crackling of the fire or the snarl of a dog outside. Every eye was fixed upon the badge, the symbol of so much power, as the catechist held it in his hand and examined it carefully.
Curious though they were to know the meaning of it all, they no longer questioned the messenger. That it was of supreme importance, they were well aware, but it was a custom of long standing that when the chief sent his badge of office, summoning his people together, the courier must be as silent as the grave. Only from the head of the tribe must the information be imparted, and then in solemn council.
For some time Amos sat in deep thought, still holding the necklace in his hand. At length he arose, and addressing a few words to the hunters who were present, passed with them out of the lodge. Going to the catechist's temporary shack, the men conversed long and earnestly together, and finally decided upon a definite line of action.
Early next morning, long before the sun had reddened the eastern horizon, four stalwart natives, including Amos, left the camp and set out upon different trails. Days passed by, and then bands of Indians began to straggle in. The nearest came first, erected their brush houses, and awaited the rest. At last the most remote arrived, and with them came Amos. Well had the couriers performed their task of gathering the hundreds of natives together for their march to Klassan.
It was a quaint, motley crowd, which one day broke up camp and filed out upon the narrow, winding trail. Sturdy hunters were there; buxom women, with bright-eyed pappooses strapped upon their broad backs; little children, youths and maidens, all with their burdens, according to their strength. Even the dogs, and they were almost numberless, carried their packs—from ten to thirty pounds. Little wonder that Amos looked upon the procession with a feeling of pride as it wound its way along sweeping valleys, through deep gorges and thick forests. Were they not his own people, and he their chosen leader? Since the day of the wild storm, when Jennie had set forth from Klassan on her important errand, the weather had undergone a marked change. A soft wind blew in from the south, laden with messages of Spring. The sun no longer skimmed the horizon for an hour or two and then disappeared. It now rode high, and poured its hot beams upon the great snowy waste. The trees, touched by wind and sun, dropped their white mantle and aroused from their long slumber. The brooks and rivulets, locked for months in an icy embrace, babbled once again, as they poured their icy waters down to the lordly Yukon. The River Kaslo began to struggle in the throes of a mighty upheaval. As a rule, the ice wore gradually away, and passed off too much decayed to cause any serious damage. But now it was different. The torrents of water hurled down from countless tributaries, large and small, lifted the solid mass and broke it into a million fragments. These, carried forward by the sheer force of the current, crashed and roared, tearing away thousands of tons of earth from the banks, and scraping the scarred rocks as clean as a bone. Some were piled up in the wildest confusion on point or headland, others rushing down became jammed in the Black Canyon, the most dreaded spot in the river. Day by day the mass rose higher, straining and groaning to free itself from its narrow prison and the weight of ice and water behind. But still it held firm in the terrible, vise-like grip of those flinty walls, and might hold for days, flooding the valleys for miles back, and threatening all before it with certain destruction. Never in the memory of the oldest native had Spring leaped forward so early with unsheathed sword to deal such a sudden blow to its stern adversary, Winter.
The Indians marching to Klassan felt the change most keenly as they plodded wearily onward, wading in water to their knees, or sinking at every step into the soft snow. It was a weary and dispirited band which one night drew near the village. Silently they came—this army of the mountains—like grim spectres out of the darkness. The foremost reached the mission house, and paused in amazement at beholding nothing there except a heap of ruins. Others came up and crowded around in silent wonder. Was this all that remained of their supplies, the mission house filled with goodly treasures, the pride of the band? Then the truth flashed upon them—the white men had done it, had inflicted this base insult! From hundreds of lips at once arose a wild cry of sorrow and rage, which winging through the darkness, startled the miners from their sleep, and paled the cheeks of those gambling late in Perdue's store.
[1] Literal translation:"Close to Thee, my Father,Close to Thee.Even the crossRaiseth me ifStill my song shall beClose to Thee, my Father,Close to Thee."
The night when the mission house was burned Caribou Sol slept on the floor in the Radhurst cabin. It was not an easy bed, but he did not mind.
"All the better fer bein' hard," he laughed, when Constance apologized for their poor accommodation. "I won't sleep too sound, an' I'll be able to keep an ear peeled fer them varmints."
Constance felt safer with the old man in the cabin, but still she could not sleep. What she had heard of the trail and the mystery regarding those letters kept her much perplexed. She thought, too, of Keith, out in the wild on that dreary night, and offered up a fervent prayer on his behalf. It was the first time that she had mentioned his name in her petitions, and a sweet, pleasant feeling stole into her heart.
At length the long dreary night wore away, and morning broke, flooding the whole land with joy and brightness after the furious storm. But among the miners the day brought nothing but gloom, the memory of the wild revel and deed of destruction being too plainly evident. They realized when it was too late how far they had been led by Pritchen, and they naturally felt very sore. Many were the furtive glances cast towards the smouldering ruins of the mission house, while visions of revenging natives filled their minds. For days Perdue's store was packed with anxious men, discussing the affair in no uncertain language.
Caribou Sol carried the news to the Radhurst cabin.
"They're 'bout wild down yon," he said. "Fairly tumblin' over one another with excitement."
"Why, what's the matter?" questioned Constance.
"Afeered of Injuns, that's what's the matter. An' they've good reason to fear, too. If somethin' isn't done afore them natives come back, there'll be lively times around these diggin's."
"Can't the matter be settled with the old chief?" queried Mr. Radhurst. "Why not compensate him for the damage which has been done, and let him pacify his people?"
"They tried it, sir, but it wouldn't work. They sent several men up to the old chap to have a big pow-wow. They carried presents, too, but he wouldn't talk. He jist sat thar an' listened to 'em, though I don't believe he understood much. When they offered 'im the presents, he shook his head an' pinted to the door, an' said somethin' in the Injun tongue which nearly scart 'em out of their wits."
"But surely the Indians are Christian enough not to take any wild revenge," said Constance. "Even though they will no doubt be angry when they find what has been done, don't you think that the teaching they have received for the past ten years will have some restraining influence?"
"I suggested that, Miss, down to the store, but I got only sneers fer my trouble. 'Religion,' says they with oaths, 'it's only skin deep. When they've clothes to wear, plenty to eat, an' things go their way, they're fine Christians then. But jist wait till ye see 'em look upon yon ruins, an' ye'll see how fer their religion goes. Our guns'll have more influence then, than all their Bible pap.'
"'Ye may be right,' says I; 'but we'll see.'"
"Oh, if only Mr. Steadman could be here when they return!" exclaimed Constance. "I know he could handle them better than any one else."
"Ay, ay, miss, there's no doubt about that. But, poor chap, I'm thinkin' he'll have enough to attend to out on the hills by this time."
"Is there much talk about him at the store?" asked Mr. Radhurst.
"No, sir. He's seldom mentioned. Once Pritchen made a remark about the trial, but, gittin' no encouragement, he shet up. The men are feelin' purty sore over the whole bizness. I begin to gather they think there's somethin' crooked about the affair, though they say nothin' open. Pritchen seems to be the most unsettled one of the bunch. Not only is he dead scart of the Injuns, but he sees that the miners are turnin' agin 'im fer gittin' 'em into sich a scrape. The strange thing is that he's been mighty friendly with me of late, an' axed me a number of questions about you folk."
"About us?" cried Constance in surprise. "Why, what did he want to know?"
"Oh, nothin' much in perticular, only what yez were here fer, how long yez were goin' to stay, an' questions like that. I didn't give 'im much satisfaction, 'cept that yez were lookin' fer a relative, a young chap that come up here some time ago."
"And what did he say?"
"Seemed kinder surprised an' mighty interested when I told 'im yez were on the right track good an' hot; had discovered the lad's fiddle an' found out that the old chief has a picter of 'im."
"'Do they know whar the Injun got the picter?' says he, sudden like.
"'Not yit,' says I, 'but I'm thinkin' they'll find out.'
"'How?' says he.
"'I don't know,' says I, 'but sich things ginnerly come out in time.' At that he laughed as if it was a huge joke. He's a deep one that, fer sure, an' sometimes I think he knows more about the whole bizness than he lets on. Thar's somethin' fishy, too, about his havin' that book, an' knowin' about them letters on that rock. It's mighty curious, an' I can't savvy it at all."
During the days that followed, Constance's mind was seriously perplexed. She longed to go to the old chief, and question him about the picture, but dreaded the undertaking, knowing nothing of the native language. If only Old Pete would come, he would go, for she had great confidence in the worthy prospector. She wondered why the delay, for he had expected to return in a short time with a supply of moose-meat. Then, the miners' fear concerning the arrival of the natives oppressed her heavily. For herself, she did not care so much, but when she looked upon her feeble father, and noticed his worn, brave face, her eyes would become moist. Often she would lie awake at night in her little room, thinking of it all. "What if the Indians should return to-night?" she said to herself, over and over and over again. "Would they know the difference between the innocent and the guilty, or would they serve all alike?"
At length the suspense became unbearable. Something must be done, or else she felt she would go crazy.
One bright afternoon, when her father was sleeping comfortably, she slipped out of the house and hurried down the narrow path to the Indian trail. Up this latter she quickly moved, fearful lest the miners should see her. Reaching the top, she looked back, and breathed a sight of relief, for not a person was in sight. Had she known, however, that from a small cabin window, keen, cruel eyes were watching her every movement, and a cunning mind was revolving the purpose of her visit, she would have hesitated before advancing further.
Constance's heart beat fast as she knocked upon the door of the chief's lodge. A voice sounded within, but what it meant she could not tell. Nevertheless, she opened the door and entered. At first she could see very little, but her eyes becoming accustomed to the change, she at length observed the chief sitting upon the floor, while his wife sat a little distance away, busily engaged upon some beaded work.
A look of surprise passed over the chief's face when he saw the fair visitor standing before him. Then his old wrinkled visage broke into a smile, and he reached out a thin, scrawny hand in welcome.
Constance shrank inwardly from touching the extended member, but she knew it would not do to show any sign of fear or disgust.
"Good," said the chief, when she had complied with his wish, motioning her to a stool near by.
As Constance obeyed, she noticed that a lighted candle stood by the old man's side. Before him were two small pictures, which aroused her curiosity, for in the dimness of the cabin she could not tell what they were.
The chief loved pictures dearly, and because he was too old to read they were doubly precious. He treasured each one which the missionary had given him with the greatest care, and was never weary with asking questions about their meaning, till the complete stories were indelibly impressed upon his mind. What a comfort they had been to him through the long evenings, as he sat in the darkness of his cabin.
Since Jennie had left him, and the mission house had been burned, the chief had been fighting a hard battle with himself, and the crisis had just been reached when Constance arrived. He realized that when his people returned from the mountains and learned what had been done there would be much excitement and anger. Carried away by the impulse of the moment, they would be tempted to drive the whites out of Klassan in no gentle manner, unless restrained in time. They would look to him, their leader, and what was he to say? He himself was undecided. At times his old savage nature almost overwhelmed him when he brooded upon the injustice which had been done. At such moments, if the natives had returned, it would have gone hard with the miners. He thought of what the missionary had told him about Moses fighting great battles and defeating his enemies. Then he would bring out the picture of the patriarch, with his hands upheld by Aaron and Hur, while the battle raged below. Would it not be right, he thought, to do the same now, and thus save his people?
But gradually the feeling of anger would pass away, and he would bring forth his other favourite picture of Christ hanging on the cross, and gaze for a long time upon it. This man was greater than Moses, so he had been told, in fact, the greatest who had ever lived, the Son of God. He forgave those who injured Him, and prayed for them with almost His last breath. For days, the power of the Man of Sorrows had been making itself felt in the old chief's heart, and then the picture of Moses was laid aside. But in an evil moment Pritchen had arrived, demanded the photograph of Kenneth Radhurst, and roused the chief's anger. In Indian and broken English he had vented upon the white man the fury of his wrath, and refused to grant his request.
Since then the two pictures were studied together, the struggle becoming fiercer all the time. How little the miners at Klassan realized that in that despised cabin their lives were being weighed in the balance; that light was contending with darkness; the love of Christ with the hatred of hell, and that only little was needed to decide one way or the other. Such was the condition when Constance arrived upon the scene.
Knowing nothing of the conflict which was raging in the chief's heart, Constance sat upon the rough stool uncertain what to say. The flickering light of the candle fell upon her puzzled face, while her blue-veined hands lay clasped in her lap. It was a strange sight, worthy of the brush of a master, this fair woman, the stately flower of a dominant race, and the two old Indians, sere and withered, like clinging leaves in late November.
"Pretty picture," Constance at length remarked, breaking the silence, which was becoming painful.
"Good," answered the old man, lifting up his treasures with pride, and handing them to her. "Beeg chief," he continued, much pleased at the pale-face woman's interest. "You got all same peegee? You savvy 'um?"
Constance shook her head and smiled. "No, not like these. But I have one here," and she drew forth Kenneth's picture from beneath her jacket. "See."
The chief took it in his trembling hand, and held it up close to the candle. Then he turned it over, examined it carefully, while a surprised look passed over his face. Presently he reached to the left, and drew towards him a buckskin bag, and fumbling in this brought out the picture Pritchen had given him, the same one Jennie had copied. Finding it was safe, he appeared more satisfied, but still seemed much puzzled as he laid the two together and gazed earnestly upon them.
"All same peegee," he exclaimed at length. "You savvy 'um?"
"Yes," replied Constance, trembling with intense eagerness. "My brother."
"Ah," came the slow, unsatisfactory response.
"You know him?" she continued.
The old man shook his head. "Me no savvy."
"But where you get picture?" she persisted, pointing to the photograph.
Still he shook his head, and looked intently into Constance's face, as if to read the meaning of her words.
Suddenly a laugh filled the room, coarse and startling. It came from the old woman, who had been an amused and silent spectator of the whole scene. Then ensued an animated conversation between the aged pair, and, as Constance listened, without understanding a word, she noticed that the chief's face was clearing of its puzzled expression.
"Him no savvy," said the woman, turning to Constance. "Me savvy much. Me talk all same white man."
"Then you will tell me where that picture came from," replied Constance eagerly.
The woman chuckled and reached out a scrawny hand for the photograph.
"See um, peegee?" she demanded.
Constance nodded.
"Black bear geeve um dis."
"Black bear!" queried Constance in surprise, not knowing that this was the most offensive epithet in the Tukudh vocabulary.
Again the old woman chuckled and grinned, exhibiting her toothless gums. Then she arose, and drawing close to Constance, pointed in the direction of the miners' cabins, while a fierce look came into her wrinkled face.
"There, there!" she cried. "Him there. Bad man. Black bear, ugh!"
"Who is he? Tell me his name," replied Constance, shrinking back involuntarily from the excited creature before her.
"No, me no savvy."
"What, don't know his name?"
"Me no savvy."
"But how did the chief get this picture?"
The old woman looked at her silently for a while, as if collecting her thoughts. Then, in broken English, she told her tale of the mean trick which had been imposed upon them. So vivid was the description that Constance knew it could be Pritchen and no one else. It came to her with a shock, for she feared him more than all the others, and somehow she felt that he was responsible for all the trouble which had taken place. How could she go to him and ask him what he knew? Would he not only laugh at her?
At length, sick at heart, she arose to go. Before leaving, however, she shook hands with the chief, and turning to his wife, said:
"I want to thank the chief for giving medicine to heal my father."
"You fadder?" asked the woman in surprise.
"Yes, the missionary got it. My father was very sick, and it made him better. You tell chief that?"
"Me tell um by um by. Me glad." Suddenly she added: "You all same Clistin?"
"What?" and Constance looked her surprise.
"You all same Clistin? You pray?"
"Oh, yes, I pray, and try to be a Christian."
"You fadder all same Clistin?"
"Yes."
"Good. Me glad."
Then she added: "White man all Clistin?"
"No," answered Constance doubtfully.
"Some bad man Clistin, eh?"
This was certainly puzzling, and, receiving no reply, the native continued:
"Clistin burn mission house, eh?"
"No, no! A Christian would not do that. Only bad men. But look, all the men over there are not bad."
"Some good, eh?"
"Yes."
"Umph!" grunted the old woman, as she went back to her position on the floor, and continued her bead work.
As Constance left the lodge, she was surprised to find how dark it was. She had not noticed how the time had passed so intent had she been upon the object of her visit. She reproached herself for staying so late. What would her father say? And how uneasy he would be.
Quickly she hurried down the trail, fearful lest she should come in contact with any of the miners. Turning up the little path leading to her cabin, she gave a sigh of relief. No one would be there, as it was out of the regular thoroughfare. Just at this moment, when she felt quite secure, a figure loomed up suddenly before her and barred the way.
With a cry of mingled surprise and fear, Constance started back as she recognized Pritchen's burly form, and heard his sneering laugh.
"Frightened, are you?" he asked. "I must be a monster."
"What do you mean?" Constance demanded, summoning what courage she could. "How dare you stop me here in this lonely place!"
"Oh, just out for a stroll and happened to pass this way."
"Well, let me past, please."
"Yes, when I get ready. T'ain't often I have the pleasure of meeting such a fine, high-spirited lady in my nightly meditations."
"Will you let me pass?"
"You seem to be in a hurry."
"I am. My father is waiting for me, and will be anxious."
"Ha, ha, that's a good one. Now, you wouldn't be a bit uneasy about your dad if I happened to be the parson, would you?"
Constance was getting desperate, and not wishing to bandy words with the villain, made an effort to go by him.
"Oh, no, you don't do that," and an oath leaped from his vile mouth.
"Let me go by, I tell you."
"Yes, when I get what I want."
"Well, what is it? Tell me, quick."
"Visiting the old chief, eh?"
"Yes."
"Any success?"
"What do you mean?"
"Get the picture?"
"What picture? And why do you ask?"
"Oh, you know, well enough. The one the old devil has."
"He has my brother's picture, which I believe you gave him. I didn't get it, however, and maybe you'll tell me where you got it."
"Hell if I'll tell you, and what's more, I believe you've got it, and I want it."
"But I tell you I didn't get it."
"Oh, that's a fine story. Didn't get it! But I believe you did, and I want it."
Constance looked around, as if seeking some avenue of escape. What was she to do? Alone there with such a villain! Should she cry for help?
Pritchen seemed to read her thoughts.
"It's no use to run or make a fuss," he growled. "You can't get clear of me, and you'll soon be choked off if you start to do any croaking. You might as well make up your mind at once, and hand out that picture."
"But I tell you I haven't got it," she persisted. "Oh, please, please, let me go. Have you no pity at all?"
"Give me that picture, or by heavens, I'll take it!" and he sprang forward, and seized her with his rough hands.
With one piercing cry, Constance struggled to free herself from his terrible clutches, while her brain reeled as she felt herself being borne to the ground. Just when the last hope of help had fled, a harsh growl and a roar fell upon her ears, while out of the night sprang a dark object, and hurled itself full upon the villain bending over her. The last that Constance heard was Pritchen's cry of rage and fear as he struggled with his antagonist, and then she fell back unconscious upon the trail.