When Old Pete left Klassan, and went back to Siwash Creek with Keith's dogs, he expected to return in a short time with a supply of moose-meat. But the game was scarce, and he was forced to go far afield before meeting the proud monarchs of the forest. It led him into a new region, where he spent some time in prospecting a ledge of rocks, which showed indications of gold-bearing ore. By the time he again reached his own cabin Spring was upon him, and the snow was rapidly disappearing from the ground.
One day he spent at Siwash Creek, packing up his meagre household belongings, and that evening Alec McPherson came to visit him. This sturdy son of the heather looked with surprise upon the dismantled room, and turned inquiringly to his companion.
"What, mon, are ye awa' sae soon!" he exclaimed. "I thought ye would stay wi' us noo."
Pete did not seem to hear this remark, but continued stuffing several articles of wearing apparel into an old canvas sack. When the last pair of socks had been carefully stowed away, and the bag deposited in one corner of the room, he suddenly asked:
"What's the news from Klassan, Alec?"
"Nothing, Pete. Since ye came from yon, we've had never a word. The big storm blocked the trail, an' atop o' that came the thaw, an' the water noo is a-spillin' owre the land."
"What! no word from the parson or the lassie?"
"None."
"Wall, then, Alec, I'm a-goin' down, as fast as them hounds'll take me. I'm anxious to hear some word."
"But ye won't strike the trail noo, mon, in its bad condeetion? Stay here till things settle doon a bit."
Seating himself upon a stool Pete began to whittle at a small plug of tobacco, and then deliberately filled an old blackened pipe before replying.
"Sit down, Alec," he demanded at length. "Thar's somethin' on me mind I want to tell ye. Ye've been a good friend to me, man, an' I kin never fergit it. We've trod the trails together fer years, but I'm a-thinkin' we'll do it no more."
"Tut, tut, mon, what's come owre ye? Haven't we fine prospects in sight anent the summer?"
"Ay, ay, Alec, it's true what ye say. But haven't we allus had fine prospects in sight? Tell me that. An' what have we got? I'll tell ye what we've got. We've got old age pilin' a-top of us; we've got stiff jints, an' rheumatiz a-plenty; an' we've got a cabin apiece. That's what we've got, Alec, a-trailin' after this devil gold. We're gittin' old, man, an' the things we should have we haven't got, I tell ye that plain."
"Why, Pete, I thought ye liked the life, sae grand an' free, wi' the great works o' Nature all around ye. Didn't ye often say ye could never live in harness, but wanted the wild always fer yer hame?"
"Sure, man, I know I said it, but I've been a-thinkin' different of late. Out in yon new region I've had strange thoughts, an' they overcome me. Thinks I to meself, I'm an old man without a home, an' no one to care for me whether I come or go. What's the use of me a-rustlin' fer a home-stake when there's never a one to share it with me? The wild life may be fine to read about in stories an' sich like, an' the young chaps may like it, but I want a home now; I want some one to care fer, an' to care fer me. What good is all the gold in the warld, Alec, when ye haven't a wife or kiddies to brighten yer cabin?"
"Ye're owre late thinkin' aboot sic things," said Alec rather dryly, puffing away at his pipe.
"I know it, man, I know it. But hearken. I've a son an' a daughter now in me old age, an' though they're neither kith nor kin of mine, they're very close to me, an' I love 'em. They've been good to me, an' I want to be near 'em. They're now at Klassan, so that's why I'm a-goin' thar."
"An' how lang will ye stay doon yon? Will ye no wark?"
"Make a livin', man? I'm not a-worrin' about that. All my life long the good Lord has provided fer me better than I desarved, an' if He cares fer the flowers an' the birds He'll not abandon an old man, never ye fear that. But thar'll be wark, Alec, an' these rough hands'll not be idle as long as life is in this carcase."
"May God bless ye, Pete!" and Alec stretched out his horny right hand. Then in the silence of that little cabin these two hardy prospectors joined hands, while their eyes filled with tears, at what they felt was at last the parting of the ways.
Some time before Pete reached Klassan the trail became so bad that it was impossible for the dogs to drag the sled with its load of meat and the prospector's small outfit. The only thing to do was to cache the supplies up between three trees, on a triangular scaffold made of fir poles.
"Thar, laddies," said Pete, when the task was finished, "it's safe at any rate, an'll keep till we kin come fer it."
With a small pack on his back and rifle in his hand, he pushed forward, with the dogs bounding along by his side, glad of the freedom from harness. Night had shut down over the land when at length the lights of Klassan came into view.
"We'll soon be thar, b'ys," encouraged the old man, "an' I reckon yer master'll be mighty glad to see us. Mebbe he'll have some supper ready, though it is late, an' we won't be sorry, hey, Yukon?" and he gave the faithful brute an affectionate pat on the head.
Into the village he strode, past the store, the miners' cabins, and up the trail toward the Indian encampment. He had just reached the forks of the road when a heart-rending cry for help split the air. Pete paused in amazement, while with a roar Brisko bounded forward. It was a woman's voice, he was sure of that, and his heart beat fast when he realized that there was only one white woman in the place. With Pete to think was to act, and springing up the trail with huge strides, he soon reached the spot where the prostrate woman lay. He saw the dark figure on the ground and heard the crashing of the bushes through which Pritchen was struggling, at the same time beating off the furious onset of the dog.
Pete lost not an instant, but drawing forth his match case, made of two cartridge shells fitted closely together, he struck a light, and as it flashed upon Constance's face so still and white, a deep groan escaped his lips.
"My God," he cried, looking wildly around. "Whar is the villain who has done this?"
Throwing aside his pack he stooped down, and lifting up the inanimate form in his strong arms, carried her up the hill as tenderly as a mother would bear her little child.
"Poor lassie! Poor lassie!" he crooned. "What has happened? Who could frighten sich a sweet lamb? But never mind, Pete is here, an' he'll look inter this bizness later."
When Constance opened her eyes she found herself lying in her own home, with her father and old Pete standing anxiously by the couch. She tried to rise, but, feeling rather unsteady, was glad to lie down again.
"What has happened?" she asked, "or have I been dreaming? Where is that terrible man?"
"Hush, darling," replied her father soothingly. "Lie still and rest awhile, and you will soon be strong."
"Ye've been dreamin', lassie," said Pete, delighted to know that Constance was recovering. "Ye've had bad visions, an' so fergot yer supper. It's all ready, an' yer dad's been waitin' fer ye to wake up fer some time."
Constance found it very pleasant to be there, weak though she was, listening to the old man's words, and to feel so secure.
"Please tell me how I got here," she asked, looking up at the prospector. "I think you had much to do with my rescue."
"Tut, tut, lassie, never ye mind that now. Drink this hot tea, an' eat this cracker, then we'll tell ye all about it."
While Constance obeyed this injunction, her father and Pete ate their supper at the little table near by. The latter was hungry, very hungry, as it had been hours since he had tasted any food. He asked no question, and seemed to be the most free-from-care fellow in the world. In his quaint way he told stories of his frontier life, till Constance found herself alternately weeping and laughing at his tales of pathos and humour. But if any one could have looked below the mere surface of words, he would have seen how anxious Pete was to hear the whole story of the night, and how the missionary was getting along. Not, however, till the colour had been somewhat restored to Constance's cheeks, the dishes cleared away, and the men seated by the couch, was the tale of adventure related. Then followed the account of Keith's troubles, his trial, and expulsion. Mr. Radhurst told of the latter, as Constance found herself unequal to the task so painful was the memory of it all.
Pete sat on the stool drinking in every word, with his eyes fixed full upon the face of the narrator. At times his huge frame trembled with emotion, and a groan escaped his lips. It was only when Mr. Radhurst had finished that he leaped to his feet and gave vent to his pent-up feelings.
"Oh, God!" he cried, shaking his fist in the direction of the saloon. "Let me live long enough, to punish that villain, that devil!—what's his name, did ye say?"
"Pritchen, Bill Pritchen," replied Mr. Radhurst.
"Bill Pritchen, ye scoundrel, ye'll answer fer this, an' to Pete Martin at that!"
He was about to say more when he suddenly stopped, and a look of remorse crossed his face, as he saw Constance lying on the couch so very still. He seemed to read reproach and wonder in her clear eyes.
"Fergive me, lassie!" he cried. "I didn't mean to frighten ye. But I do feel bad, thar's no mistake."
"Don't mind me, Pete," said Constance, "for I am rather unstrung this evening. But there is one thing which has been worrying me much, and I would like to speak about it now."
"Go ahead, then," and Pete once more resumed his seat.
"Father told you the story of that man dying out in the Ibex cabin, and that the letters on the rock are the same as on the empty poke which was found in that chest. It's a wonder Mr. Steadman didn't say something about it."
"He did, lassie. He did."
"Not to us."
"No, not to you; but he told it to me."
"Who was the man, then, oh, please tell us!" and Constance rose to a sitting posture in her eagerness.
"Lassie," and Pete spoke very slowly, "I don't mind tellin' ye now; mebbe it's best ye should know. That chap was yer brother!"
If the prospector expected an outburst of lamentation at this announcement he was much disappointed. Startling though it was, father and daughter uttered not a word, but sat very still. The news was not altogether unexpected, for often had they discussed the matter when alone, and had reached the conclusion that it could be none other than Kenneth who had died in the cabin. And yet, mingled with this idea, there was the faint hope that they might be mistaken, and that their loved one some day would be given back to them. But now the last slender thread was snapped to which they had clung so long.
For a while Constance sat motionless on the couch, looking into Pete's face. But she saw him not, for her mind was elsewhere, drifting, drifting far away to other days. She did not notice when Mr. Radhurst left his seat and came close to her side. But when he put his arms tenderly around her, and drew her close to him, she awoke from her reverie. Then when she saw the pained look on her father's face, and the tears which were stealing down his faded cheeks, she threw her arms about his neck and sobbed like a child.
For some time no one spoke, and Old Pete sat silently by, a sympathetic witness of the little scene. "It will do the lassie good," he said to himself. "If them tears hadn't come I'd be a-feered, jist as I would of a biler without any safety valve."
After awhile Constance dried her eyes and, turning to Pete, apologized for her emotion.
"But then, I know, you understand. Kenneth was so dear to us—and to think that we shall never see him again!"
"Don't say that, lassie. As ye are a Christian woman ye must believe that ye'll meet yer brother agin, when them pearly gates are opened. I was jist a-thinkin' how once I uster laugh at the idea of a future life. Says I to meself, an' to others, 'This life is enough fer me, so I'll have a good time now.' But as I growed older I began to see, an' it all come gradual like, that this life is only a trail after all. Now, ye see, we have nothin' but trails here, an' purty tough ones at that. By an' by thar'll be roads, an' then when them cities git built thar'll be paved streets. Then when us old pioneers walk on them fine, level highways we'll think of the time when only trails ran here, an' we'll be mighty proud to tell others that we've roughed it a bit. So, lassie, when mushin' over a hard trail, I says to meself that it's jist like life. Some day thar'll be the Holy City we read about, whar the streets are paved with gold, an' if we are to enjoy them thar we must be willin' fust to tramp the trails down here awhile. I know that larned men would laugh at this idea of mine, but I tell ye it's been a heap of comfort to me in my lonely life. But the parson'll tell ye all about it some day better'n I kin."
"So you think he will come back again?" asked Constance eagerly.
"Come back? Certainly he'll come back. He ain't made of sugar an' water. He'll not desart his flock long fer a pack of wicked fools. He knows the good Lord's with 'im, an'll not let his wark be ruined. I reckon that even now he's a-doin' his Master's will somewhar out on them mountains."
"I wonder much why he didn't tell us about Kenneth's death. Was there a reason?"
"Thar was, lassie. Ye was in a big trouble when he fust met ye, an' he kept it from yez both fer fear it would be too much to bear. He did it fer kindness sake, an' wished to wait till things settled down a bit."
"Are you sure that was his reason?"
"Sartin. Didn't he tell me so when we talked the matter over together?"
Constance sat for some time in deep thought, while Pete and her father talked on. Keith would come back. There was comfort, nay, more, there was joy, in the hope, and then she would thank him for his thoughtfulness.
Suddenly a wild cry fell upon their ears—a cry of sorrow and rage, which paled their cheeks and caused them to look at one another with apprehension.
"The Injuns! The Injuns have come!" cried Pete, rushing to the door. "My God, I feered it!"
After the Indians' cry had rung through Klassan there was no more sleep for the miners. Excitement reigned in each cabin, where men waited and wondered what the night would bring forth. Visions filled their minds of tales they had heard, and stories they had read, of enraged natives falling suddenly upon bands of white people and wiping them out of existence in the most cruel manner.
Following the yell came a silence as deep as death. Listen and watch as they might, no signal came from that quiet camp, and Night kept her secret well. Some, imagining they saw Indians stealthily creeping down upon them, sat or stood with rifles at their side, determined to sell their lives as dearly as possible. But as the slow hours dragged by, and nothing happened, the suspense became so unbearable that with one accord they made their way to the saloon. Here morning found them earnestly discussing the situation, and planning some method of defense. Sighs of relief escaped from many a lip as the light struggled in through the dirty window, filling them with new courage.
It is marvellous what a magical effect the day possesses. Men who, through the dreary night of doubt and fear, are veritable cowards, will then become the most arrogant boasters. So several who raised the loudest lamentations of apprehension now proved the greatest talkers.
"Give us daylight," said one, "and I reckon we can stand off a whole horde of redskins."
"Don't be too certain about that," replied another. "If those Indians make up their minds to wipe us out, it's all the same as if we were dead men."
"But can't we stand a siege here, and mow them down as they come up?" persisted the other.
"Mow them down! Mow the devil down! Why, they're five to one, and, if they rushed us, where'd we be? But never fear, that's not their way of working. They'll not run any unnecessary risk when they've got night in which to do the job. If it comes to a hand-and-hand tussle we're out of it, that's all there is about it. They're as tough and supple as mountain ash, and are always in training, while we're as soft as a lot of kids."
The sun rose above the lofty peaks and swung high in the heavens, but still the Indians maintained their silence and showed no sign of hostility. Midday came, and yet no signal.
"I guess they'll do nothing," suggested one. "Maybe they're afraid of our guns."
Just then the mournful sound of an Indian drum fell upon their ears, causing them all to start and look at one another. What did it mean? Were they gathering for the affray?
As they listened and waited Old Pete drew near and entered the building. He was a stranger there, and the men gazed with wonder and admiration upon the hardy prospector. His great stature, commanding presence, buckskin suit, hawk-like eye, and long, flowing beard streaked with gray, would have made him a marked man in any company. But his sudden appearance at such a time made a strong impression.
"Who is he? Where did he come from?" passed from lip to lip, as Pete strode up to the bar and confronted Perdue, who was standing blandly at his post.
"Any baccy?" he inquired, glancing at the array of black bottles along the wall.
"Plenty, pard. What's yer choice?"
"Yer best, an' I guess that'll be none too good."
"Now, what'll ye have next?" and Perdue rubbed his fat hands in anticipation of a new customer.
"A match."
"What! nothing more? What's yer brand?"
"Ain't got any, 'cept old age, an' the good Lord done that Himself. Guess He brands us all the same way sooner or later."
"Oh, I don't mean that," retorted the saloon-keeper, somewhat nettled at the laugh from the men at his expense. "I mean, 'What de'ye drink?'"
"Oh, I see," and Pete stroked his beard meditatively. "Wall, t'stimerlate the heart I sometimes drink the water of Life; to freshen up the mind a bit, I swaller a few drops from the mighty spring of Nater; while to keep this old carcase bright I find the good Lord's sparklin' water jist the thing. Have ye ever tried it?"
Perdue was certainly puzzled. It was impossible to take offence at the old man's words, spoken so quietly and impressively. Neither could he detect any sign of fun-making in his open face and kindly eyes. He wondered if this giant were altogether sane. He had often heard stories of men who, living so long in lonely places, had become quite demented. Perhaps this was one of them.
"Yer a stranger here, are ye not?" he asked not ungently. "Where did ye drop from?"
"Jist from the Injun camp up yon."
"What! not from there!" and Perdue looked his surprise.
"Sartin. Been strollin' round, sizin' things up a bit."
"But wasn't ye afraid of the Injuns? I understand they're as mad as hornets."
"Mebbe they be, an' I guess ye're right. But they never sting a friend. They know Pete Martin purty wall by this time."
"What! you're not Pete Martin, the prospector, are you?" and Perdue's eyes opened with astonishment.
And not only was the saloon-keeper surprised. The men in the room moved a little nearer, and craned their necks to obtain a better view of the stranger. Much had they heard of him: his great strength, wonderful endurance, feats of daring, and simplicity of life.
"Way back in New Brunswick," replied the prospector, "the old Parish Register says that I was baptized Peter Bartholomew Martin. I was ginnerally known, however, as 'Pete,' while up here I only git 'Old Pete,' though it doesn't make any difference what a feller's called. I guess the Lord'll know me by any name; I only hope so."
"But what are the Indians doing?" asked one of the men.
"Doin'? What ain't they a-doin'! They're gittin' down to bizness mighty lively; that's what they're a-doin'."
"In what way?"
"Wall, they're tryin' to decide whether it's best to pinch only the ones who burnt their store, or to hand out a bunch to the whole gang. Ye see, it's this way," and Pete glanced around upon the eager listeners, "they're sorter divided like, some wantin' to go the limit, an' others not. Now, the ones who hold back are the rale Christians, the best men of the lot. This camp jist depends upon which side wins out, an' if ye're saved ye may give the credit to that parson chap ye hiked away from here in sich a mighty hurry."
"We're better rid of him," said Perdue.
"Ye may think what ye like, pard; it's a free country in that way. But let me remind ye that if ye'd done this same trick to them Injuns ten years ago, when I fust struck these diggin's, they'd a wiped ye out quicker'n ye could say Jack Rabbit."
"Ye seem to know a heap about things here for a stranger," remarked Perdue.
"Ay, it's true, man, what ye say. I ain't been here long, but long enough to find out a few things, 'specially 'bout that fine lassie up yon."
"Why, what about her?" asked several.
"What! didn't ye hear?"
"Hear what?"
"'Bout the chap that caught her on the trail last night, an' scart her so that she fainted dead away."
At this, several men who were sitting on benches sprang to their feet, and angry oaths rang through the room.
"Who was it?" they demanded. "Tell us more about it! We're bad men, God knows, but we've a little manhood left. Tell us his name!"
"Don't git excited, now," replied Pete. "Jist keep cool, an' don't do nothin' rash, or ye may be sorry fer it."
Then in his quaint way he told the story of his trip from Siwash Creek, the cry in the night, the attack of the dog, escape of the villain, and the finding Constance lying unconscious on the trail. Pete related his story well, while many a muttered oath burst from the men during the recital.
"Do you know his name?" came the cry.
"Yes."
"Is he here?"
"I don't know. Mebbe ye kin tell when ye hear, fer it's Bill Pritchen."
When Pete entered the saloon, Pritchen was sitting at a small table dealing a pack of cards. Looking suddenly up, and noticing the prospector, his face became pale, and his hand shook. He made up his mind to leave the room at the first opportunity and not run the risk of meeting the old man. Anyway, his back was to the bar, so he would not be recognized. As Pete talked on he felt somewhat relieved. But when the story of darkness began to be unrolled a great fear seized his cowardly heart. He did not dare to leave the place, for if his name were mentioned he must be on hand to defend himself before the miners became too much excited. During the recital a burning rage possessed him, and he longed to drop the prospector in his tracks. He saw the trap which he had laid for another about to close upon himself with a deadly grip, and all owing to this one old man. When, however, Pete mentioned his name, he leaped to his feet with a terrible oath.
"You lie!" he shouted. "It's an infernal lie, I tell you, and you'll answer for this!"
Pete swung suddenly around, and looked full upon the irate man before him.
"So yer the gintleman, are ye? I'm rale glad to make yer acquaintance. Mebbe ye kin explain matters, an' unravel this tangle a bit."
"There's nothing to explain, d— you! I was out walking last night and met Miss Radhurst on the trail. Just as I was about to pass her a brute of a dog fell suddenly upon me, and tore my clothes, while the young woman fell to the ground in a dead faint."
"Oh, that's the way ye put it, is it? An' so ye left the young lassie a-lyin' thar on the snow, while ye took to yer heels with the dog after ye. Didn't ye stop to think that there might be other dogs around what would hurt the woman? Oh, no, ye never thought of that. Ye may tell what ye like, but that lassie up yon has another story, which I jist told."
"It's a lie, I tell you; a job put up against me! and you, you confounded meddler, will answer for this!"
"Mebbe I will, man," and Pete's eyes gleamed with a light which spoke danger. "At present the matter lies atween you an' the lassie, so I leave the b'ys here to jedge which to believe. But as we are now acquainted, I'd like to ax ye another question."
"Spit it out, then."
"Haven't I seed ye afore, Bill Pritchen?"
"H— if I know."
"But ye do know. Ye know very well that I met ye on the trail in 'Dead Man's Land,' last Fall."
"You must have been dreaming then."
"No, I wasn't a-dreamin' an' ye know I wasn't."
"Well, suppose you did meet me, what of it?"
"I'll tell ye what I want," and Pete moved nearer. "I want to know what's become of that fine young chap what was out with ye, the lad what had the fiddle?"
"How do I know? I can't keep track of every idiot who happens to meet me on the trail and travels along with me for a time."
"But I tell ye ye do know, an' what's more, I'm here to find out."
"Then you'll find out something else!" cried Pritchen, as his hand dropped to his hip pocket.
He was quick, but Pete was quicker, for almost like a flash a huge hand reached out, seized the revolver, and wrenched it from the villain's grasp. With an oath the latter sprang forward to strike, but he was as a child in the giant's terrible grip. He struggled for awhile, writhed in agony, and then sank upon the floor.
"Git up, ye coward! Git up, an' answer me!"
Pete's voice was terrible, and his eyes blazed as he bent over the prostrate man, who made no effort to move.
"Git up, I tell ye!" again came the command. "Git up an' explain what ye did to Kenneth Radhurst!"
Receiving no reply, he continued:
"Then I'll tell the men what ye did, ye coward. Ye left 'im a sick man, to starve, to die in the Ibex cabin; that's what ye did. Ye stole his gold, an' left 'im thar."
"You lie!" came from the prostrate man.
"It's no lie, I tell ye that. An' what's more, when the parson came along, cared fer 'im, an' when he died buried 'im, ye made out that he killed 'im. Ye went sneakin' around an' found a book he left thar, an' tried to stir up the men here at Klassan agin 'im. That's what ye did."
A cry of rage burst from the miners as they listened with amazement to this revelation.
"Is it true?" they shouted, as they surged near. "Tell us, is it true?"
"It's not true! By heavens, it's a lie!" and Pritchen, with face pale as death, struggled to his feet and faced the angry men.
"Stand back, b'ys, stand back!" cried Pete. "Lave 'im to me! He's injured 'im that's as dear to me as the apple of me eye. Lave 'im to me!"
Just what would have happened is hard to tell, if at that moment three Indians had not entered the room. One was Amos, the catechist, who was accompanied by three stalwart hunters.
In the exciting affray between Pete and Pritchen the Indians for a time had been forgotten. But the presence of these natives recalled their uncertain position, and with one accord they turned their attention to the visitors.
For a few minutes silence reigned in the room, and then Amos stepping forward delivered his message in broken English.
"Pale-face brothers," he began. "The Tukudhs come back from hunt. Dey find store burn, teacher gone. Beeg chief call Council. He want pale face come. Amos has spoke."
With this the catechist stepped back by the side of his companions, who had remained perfectly erect during it all.
Among the miners there was a hurried whispered conversation, and at length Caribou Sol arose to speak.
"Whar," he asked, "will the Council be held?"
"On de flat, at foot of hill. Half way," replied Amos.
"When?"
"Bime by, to-day. Two, mebbe tree hour. Beeg chief wait word."
"All right, then. Go an' tell the chief that the white men will come to the Council. Is that the will of all?" and Sol glanced around the room.
"Ay, ay," came the response as one voice. "It is well."
"It is well," repeated Amos, as he and his companions turned and left the building.
Pritchen, too, hastened away. In the excitement of the moment no one thought of him. Terrified, filled with rage, he reached his own cabin, stumbled through the door, and flung himself upon his cot.
The miners' cabins at Klassan were erected on a level strip of land along the Kaslo River. Upon the hill above nestled the Indian camps, secure from the wild north wind in winter, and the over-flowing stream in the springtime. At the foot of the hill was a space of ground, covered in summer with wild grass, but now denuded of every sign of vegetation. This spot was chosen by the Indians for the holding of the Council as being half way between the two settlements. Here, too, the earth was dry, free from the mud which was found so abundantly elsewhere. Near by stood several fir trees, gaunt and half dead, through whose naked branches the storms had howled for many years.
It was a bright spring day, and the sun riding high poured its hot beams upon the land. Masses of fleecy clouds drifted overhead, and early-returned birds flitted through the air or chirped and twittered among the trees. Everything in Nature spoke of peace; peace in the great blue vault above; peace in the air, and peace on earth. Most fitting was the day for men of different tongues, different races and different modes of life to meet together in sacred Council for the settling of their disputes.
No intimation was given, no sign was vouchsafed to the miners as they gathered there, that miles up the river millions of tons of water were ready to burst their bonds, and sweep down upon them their fearful besom of destruction.
It was late ere the Indians arrived, and the miners became much impatient. When at length they did appear, they seemed to the white men like an army marching to battle. The old chief led the way with uncertain steps. Behind him came scores of hunters, great, stalwart men some of them, regular Anaks in girth and stature.
They were a proud race of men, unsubdued and untarnished by contact with civilization. And good reason was there for their proud bearing and firm, elastic step as they moved along the trail. Was not the land theirs? Had they not received it from a long line of ancestors? No sword had ever conquered them, and no foreign yoke had ever been placed upon their necks. The birds of the air, the fishes of the streams, the lordly moose of the forests, and the bighorn sheep of the mountains—all were theirs. And so they came to the Council, not as suppliants, not as beggars, but as free men, in whose veins flowed the blood of a race which will break, but not bend. How many, oh, how many before them, throughout the length and breadth of North America, had drawn near in the same spirit to greet their pale-face brothers in open Council. They too had assembled with weapons laid aside, with confidence in their faces, and peace in their hearts, only to find in the end treachery for goodwill, betrayal for trust, and contempt for respect. Could these sturdy Tukudhs have looked forward to the day when their land would be flooded by thousands of greedy gold seekers, their game slaughtered, and their sons and daughters demoralized by bad whiskey, their attitude would have been very different to these fore-lopers of a foreign race.
On the ground a wolf-skin robe was placed, and upon this the old chief squatted, facing the miners. Around him gathered the hunters of his band, two hundred strong, in the form of a semicircle. There was no haste, no jostling one another as they took their various positions. Everything was done quietly and with much decorum, the younger giving the foremost places to their elders.
By the side of the chief stood Amos, who was to act as interpreter, dressed in a simple hunting costume. His face bore an expression of care, and ever and anon he cast anxious glances towards the Indians and then at the white men. To him the day had been one of severe strain, and he knew the end was not yet. In the Indian Council he had fought a hard battle against the hot-headed youths who thirsted for revenge upon the miners. With infinite patience, much tact and burning eloquence he had pleaded for the Christlike virtue of forgiveness. He listened to their harangues, settled disputes and appealed to their higher nature. He sketched their mode of living ten years before, and emphasized the changes which had taken place upon the arrival of the missionary. After hours of discussion the matter reached a deadlock, so it was left for the old chief to decide. He favoured peace, and gave as his reasons for this conclusion the Christian teaching he had received, and the friendly visit of the pale-face maiden to his lodge."
"Let the guilty men be punished," he had said in conclusion. "Let us not do it in the spirit of revenge, but only as a warning to others."
Squatting upon the wolf-skin robe the chief now scanned the miners as intently as his weak eyes would permit, and then addressed a few words to the interpreter.
"Pale-face brothers," began Amos, turning to the white men, "chief of Tukudhs give you welcome to Council. He come here with peace in heart. His hunters all leave guns in camps, dey trust white man. But white man no trust Tukudh. Dey come with guns. Dey keep guns in hand. Old chief moche sorry."
The miners looked at one another when Amos ended, uncertain what to do.
"Stack yer guns, b'ys," demanded Old Pete, who was the only one among them without a rifle. "Be fair to the Injuns an' they'll be fair to us."
"Well said," replied Caribou Sol, and suiting the action to the word, he stepped forward and laid his weapon in the open space of ground, half way between the two parties.
One by one the rest of the miners went forward, and in the same manner deposited their rifles.
A general exclamation of "Ah, ah," from the natives signified their approval of this friendly act.
But still something disturbed the chief. He looked long and intently at the white men, and again spoke to Amos.
"De chief," explained the latter to the miners, "ask if white man all here?"
"No," responded Sol, who had been requested by his companions to act as spokesman, "there are two absent, the gray-haired man up in yon cabin, and Bill Pritchen."
"De chief only want Bill," was the response. "He no want ole man in cabin on hill."
"But mebbe he won't come. Can't we git along without 'im?"
When this was communicated to the chief he shook his head.
"We wait den till Bill come," and having said this Amos moved back a few steps.
The Indians maintained a stolid silence as they watched the miners discussing the matter.
"Fetch 'im," said Old Pete. "Why should he stay away. I guess he'll be needed."
And so it was decided that several should go in search of Pritchen and bring him as quickly as possible. This was received with evident satisfaction on both sides, and operations for a time were suspended.
Pritchen was found in his cabin, and expressed himself as quite unwilling to attend the Council. His face told most plainly the state of his mind, which was far from enviable. At times the longing seized him to flee into the wilderness—anywhere would be better than Klassan he thought. But this he knew was not practicable, for the Indian hunters, with the instinct of sleuth hounds, would track him down in a short time. While he waited and listened the messengers drew near.
"I'll not go, d— you!" he cried. "Leave me alone, can't you?"
"Well, if you won't come peaceably," replied one, "we'll not try to force you now. But I think it's better for you to come quietly along with us than to have the gang to come after you. There'll be no coaxing if they come, I tell you that."
Pritchen fully realized the truth of these words, so after a few moments of hesitation he agreed to comply with the request.
As he drew near to the Council ground a nameless fear took possession of him. He saw the miners shrug their shoulders as he took his place among them. They seemed to forget his presence, however, as they turned their attention to the old chief to watch his next move. Neither did they have to wait long, for with much deliberation and many gestures, the hoary patriarch began his harangue.
First, he invoked the aid of the Great Father of Heaven upon the gathering. Then he told of the nobleness of his race, of the mighty men and warriors who had died. He described the vastness of the land which they had owned from time immemorial. He next gave an account of their wild condition before the arrival of the missionary.
"We were brutes," he said in substance, flourishing his arm in an eloquent manner. "We had many wives and treated them worse than dogs. They cut and drew our wood; they brought in the moose, when killed, into camp, and waited upon us, doing our slightest bidding. When they refused to work we beat them, and when too old to toil we turned them out to die, or left them on the trail. Our wives, dreading such a life for their little girl babies, often killed them and we thought nothing of it.
"We robbed, cheated, fought and killed one another. Our hearts were always bad, all same black bear. We were like men walking at night in a thick wood, lost and unable to find our way out. Oh, it was a bad time! Then the teacher came to us from beyond the great mountains. He lived in our midst, and learned our language. At first we treated him very badly and tried to kill him, but we could not, for something stopped us. When we shot at him the arrows and balls went wide. When we threw our knives and hatchets they did not touch him. When we broke down his cabin and stole from him, he prayed for us, and built a new house. When we were sick, he healed us. When we wanted food he shared with us of his own supply. He led us slowly out of the wood. He told us about Christ and another life. He taught us how to build good cabins, and live as true Christians. Thus the Spirit came to us like the breath of Spring, and thawed and warmed our cold hearts. New, sweet flowers of love, truth, purity and peace sprang up, which choked and killed the bad weeds. We put away our old manner of living. We cared for our children, treated our wives better, built a church, school room and store. We lived happier, with plenty to eat and to wear, and looked forward to another life after death. Then the miners came; they built cabins in our midst, dug our land for gold, and tried to ruin our young men and women. They drove away our teacher, and burnt our store. Our men have come back from the hunting grounds; they find what has been done, and are very angry.
"'Are we not men?' say they. 'We will fight and drive out the strangers.' But the Spirit conquers; it holds them back. 'Call a Council,' it says. 'Gather the white men, and let them punish the ones who injured us.'
"In your midst stands one man who has caused all the trouble. His heart is bad, like the heart of a black bear. He wronged our teacher; he stole gold; he put it in the mission house; hid it there. He said our teacher did it. He laughed at him, and drove him from Klassan. He is there! He is there!" and the chief stretched out his hand and pointed straight at Pritchen, who shrank back as from a terrific blow.
The speaker was about to proceed, but ere he could utter another word Old Pete sprang forward, and with blazing eyes confronted the Indian who had made this serious charge.
"Tell me!" he cried, "is it true? Is it true what ye say about the missionary? Is the skunk among us what done that deed? Tell me, quick!"
"Over there," replied Amos, pointing to the wretched Pritchen.
"It's a lie! A d— lie, I tell you!" shouted the latter. "I know nothing about it! The Injun hates me, and wants to ruin me. Let them prove it, if they can! They can't do it!"
Pete was about to turn towards him with angry words on his lips, when cries of rage from the miners caused him to hesitate, and to realize his position. The men were thoroughly aroused, he knew that, and ready to fall upon the villain without more ado. That the scoundrel needed a severe punishment there was no doubt, but he wished to be just and not let the base mob instinct rule.
"B'ys!" he shouted, "jist wait a leetle, afore ye do anything rash. Let the Injun prove to us first what he says is true. It may be all imagination."
"Injun speak true," said Amos somewhat indignant to think that the chief's words should be doubted.
"What ye say may be kerrect," replied Pete, "but all we ax is fer ye to show yer proof. How d'ye's know that Pritchen put the gold in the cabin?"
"Jennie see 'um."
"Jennie who?"
"Jennie. Yukon Jennie. Injun squaw. She see 'um. She tell old chief."
"Whar is she then?" and Pete looked around as if expecting to see the girl.
"Up dere," and Amos stretched out his hand towards the Indian lodges.
"Fetch her down. We'll wait."
"No squaw come to Council. Only men, hunters."
"But this ain't all Injun Council. White men here, an' they ax fer the gal."
When this was communicated to the chief, a scowl passed over his face, and a sharp discussion took place among the Indians. What they said the miners could not tell, but after much bickering Amos lifted up his voice and gave several short calls in the direction of the lodges. Soon a reply was returned, and then down the trail sped Jennie towards the Council ground. As she drew near her steps slackened, for was she not breaking a custom of long standing among her people? Encouraged by Amos, she at length reached the place, and was requested to relate her story.
So intent were the miners upon their task that they scarcely noticed the change which had taken place around them, or how the time was passing. The wind had risen, moaning gently at first, but increasing in strength, blowing in from the Yukon, and drawing up the Kaslo as through a mighty funnel. It shook and swayed the trees along the banks of the stream; it played with the old chief's blanket, causing him to clutch it firmly, and tossed Jennie's long black hair in confusion about her oval, dusky face.
Timidly the maiden stood before the expectant miners, uncertain what to say.
"Speak out, gal," encouraged Pete. "Ye needn't fear. Nothin'll harm ye."
"Hold on!" called out one of the miners. "Wouldn't it be as well for Bill to stand forth so all can see him?"
"Hear, hear!" shouted the men.
But Pritchen shrank back, and glanced around as if seeking some avenue of escape.
"No, ye don't do that, man," said Caribou Sol, interpreting his thoughts. "Not till we're through with ye, at any rate."
Pritchen was in a trap, he fully realized that, and a wild rage mingled with his fear. He reached for his revolver, but it was not there. Anyway it would have been of little use, for instantly a score of revolvers leaped from as many hip pockets, and covered him in the twinkling of an eye.
"Come out here!" roared Pete, "an' stand up like a man. Thar's no use kickin'."
There was nothing else to be done, and sulkily Pritchen stepped forward and faced the Indian girl.
"Thar, that's better. Now go ahead," continued Pete, turning to Jennie.
The latter, however, did not speak, but stood staring at Pritchen, as a bird fascinated by a serpent.
"De' ye know that man?" demanded the prospector, seeing her embarrassment.
"Yes. Me know 'um," came the low reply.
"Whar did ye fust see 'im?"
"Heem bad man; bad heart. Heem keel my modder long tam ago."
"It's a lie!" shouted Pritchen.
"Jennie no lie. Me see 'um."
A movement among the miners was quieted by Pete's next question.
"Gal, did ye see that man put the bags of gold in the missionary's cabin? Tell me that."
"Yes. Me see 'um."
"How did you see 'im do it?"
"Jennie see in windee. Heem look all around. Heem see box. Heem take wan poke, heem take two poke, all same dis," and the girl drew her hand twice from beneath her shawl, and stooped to the ground to show how it had been done.
"You lie!" snarled Pritchen. But it was easy to see from his pallid face that the girl's words were having their effect.
"Jennie no lie!" and the maiden, with fear all gone and an indignant mien, looked unwaveringly into the villain's eyes. "Me tell true. Me Clistin. Me no lie! You laugh at peegee in box. You put down cover lak dat," and she slapped her hands together. "You lock box. You trow key in stove. You laugh, bad, ugh!"
During this disclosure Pritchen had stood with his eyes fixed upon the ground, to all outward appearance abashed and confounded. But such was not the case. He was thinking hard and fast, while from the corner of his left eye he beheld a sight which filled him with a new determination. He was a desperate man, in a desperate position, and though hope had fled his heart, the spirit of revenge rankled deep. He had played his game and lost, but at any rate he would leave a mark which would be felt.
Scarcely had Jennie finished speaking, when, quick as thought, he leaped towards the pile of rifles lying on the ground, and seizing one turned fiercely upon Old Pete. The rifle was raised, his finger pressed the trigger, and the report rang out. Instead, however, of the ball touching the prospector, it bored its way into the earth, while the rifle flew from Pritchen's grasp, and a dozen hands were laid roughly upon him. He struggled, fought, and tore like a wildcat, but all to no avail. The blood in the miners' veins ran fire. They surged around their victim, overpowered him, and with a leathern belt bound his hands firmly behind his back.
"A rope! A rope!" shouted one. "There, in my cabin you'll find a strong one!"
"That tree!" yelled another. "We'll sling him up!"
Old Pete tried his best to stop them in their mad design. He shouted, pleaded, and even fought to free the captive.
"Drive 'im from Klassan!" he roared, "but don't let his blood be on our heads!"
He might as well have spoken to the wind which was roaring around them. The men were besides themselves, demented. They had reached the limit of their patience, and the wild passions surged within their breasts. In their eyes the cowardly deeds of Pritchen were without parallel. What dastardly tricks! What base, underhanded work! What designs of hell! The rope, and rope only, was the proper punishment!
Half dragged and half stumbling, the wretched man reached the tree, Nature's solid gallows, standing ghost-like and grim in the deepening darkness. He looked wildly around, and tried to free his hands.
"Mercy! For God's sake, mercy!" he cried, as the noose was slipped around his neck. "Let me go! Give me another chance, and I'll leave the country!"
"The rope'll take you to a new country, and a hot one at that, quicker than you can mush," jeered one.
"Mercy! Mercy!" pleaded the wretched man. "Spare me this once! I'll tell you all, and get out!"
"Did ye kill that Injun woman?" asked Pete, stepping near.
"Yes."
"Did ye lave young Radhurst to die in the Ibex cabin, an' stole his gold?"
"Yes."
"An' did ye steal Tim Fleeters' gold an' put it in the mission house?"
"Yes. Yes, I did it all. For God's sake, forgive me! I'm a bad man! O God, help me!"
A yell of rage was the only response to his wild pleadings, for a dozen hands had seized the rope, which had been thrown over one of the large projecting branches.
"All together, pull!" was the shout, and with a terrible, gurgling cry, Pritchen swung from the ground into the air.
And even as the men pulled, dead set upon their fearful deed, there was sweeping down upon their own heads the mighty flood of ice and water. The jam had given way and, sweeping down, was bearing all before it. The excitement of the men and the roaring of the wind up-stream prevented the noise from reaching their ears. Thus, unconscious of destruction to themselves, they were all intent upon their efforts to hurl a comrade into eternity.