CHAPTER XX
THE OLD CHIEF'S MESSENGER
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 Ttia
Ndo nyet nyakkwun,
Kwizyik nititae,
Guselshit chi.
Tthui sih chilig telya
Ndo 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 cross
Raiseth me if
Still my song shall be
Close to Thee, my Father,
Close to Thee."