He accordingly fled to other encampments, but everywhere it was the same. Out on the hills, in forest depth, or by inland lakes, he found that the Church had been ahead of him and had influenced the natives in a most remarkable manner. He learned, too, that these Indians were not the ordinary miserable creatures sometimes seen hanging around stores and railway stations. They were the nobility of the land, and having once embraced the teaching of the Church, they endeavoured to put their belief into practice. More than once the words of his bishop uttered ten years ago came to his mind, and he began to realise that they were truer than he had imagined.
Thus he fled from camp to camp, and almost despaired of ever reaching a band of Indians untouched by the Christian religion. Hearing at length of the far-off Tasko tribe, he set his face toward Lake Klutana with two friendly natives, who were bound thither. The journey was a hard one, for Nance had to be carried every step of the way. Since leaving the boats at the great river he had at times chided himself for his foolishness in bringing the child with him. Why had he not left her at the mission station where she would have been well cared for? He thought of this by day as he struggled over the cruel trail with the little one in his arms, and he upbraided himself at night when she awoke and cried piteously for her father and mother. But as a rule he was glad that he had her with him. She fared better than he did, for at every camp the Indian women vied with one another in caring for the girl, who now no longer feared their dusky faces. Rutland's love for Nance increased as the days passed. The severe task of bearing her over long miles of trail became at last a joy. He was more than repaid by her prattling talk, and her gentle, affectionate ways. She imagined that he was taking her to her parents, and her guardian had not the courage to tell her otherwise.
By the time Rutland reached the Tasko encampment his strength was almost gone. If these natives were Christians he would abide here for a few days and then carry Nance off somewhere into the wilderness, where they would live alone, undisturbed by either Indians or whites. He dreaded the idea, however, of doing this, for he knew that it would mean many hardships for a time at least. So now as he sat quietly smoking, he was anxious to ascertain whether these people would hold a service such as he had witnessed at other places. As the evening wore on he was greatly relieved when the Indians began to move away to their various lodges. He now believed that he was safe, and that these natives were free from all influence of missionary enterprise.
At length he picked up his violin case which was lying by his side and opened it. Through all the hardships of the past weeks he had never relinquished this companion. It had cheered him when most depressed, and by means of it he had been able to entertain and please the Indians who had been so hospitable to him. As he now tuned up the instrument and drew the bow across the strings a movement took place in the camp. Indians came from all sides and gazed with wonder upon the white man, who was producing such marvellous sounds. As Rutland continued to play the natives squatted around him upon the ground. Their only musical instrument was the mournful Indian drum. But this was altogether different. On one occasion several of the men had listened to the sound of a violin at the fur-trading post, and they had never wearied of telling what they had heard to the rest of their tribe. They were naturally musical, these waifs of the wilderness. The sighing of the breeze, the murmur of the stream, and the roar of the tempest in winter, all had their meaning. They were sounds which soothed or roused their wild nature. So as they listened this night their hearts became strangely affected. Something more than ordinary began to stir within them. It was the same old story being repeated here in the northland. It was the beginning of a new life, new longings, and new aspirations. It was, in short, the dawn of Art which once moved the hearts of the uncouth ancestors of the most cultured races and inspired them to higher things. These Tasko Indians knew nothing of the history of civilisation. They felt only a keen pleasure as the white man played, and they gave vent to an occasional "Ah, ah," when something appealed to them more than usual.
It was late ere Rutland ceased and laid his violin aside. The Indians at once dispersed to their lodges, and silence brooded over the encampment. The moon rose big and bright above the mountains and cast its reflection down into the depths of the quiet lake. Rutland sat for a while watching the superb scene. Then he rose to his feet, and went to the lodge where Nance was lying. He saw that she was sleeping comfortably and, bending over her, he kissed her little white cheek. The child moved, and the word "mamma" came sleepily from her lips. Perhaps the mother, all unseen, was watching over her little one—who knows? Rutland crept softly away and, with his single blanket wrapped about his body, was soon fast asleep upon the hard ground.
CHAPTER V
A CABIN FOR TWO
In a few days Martin's strength was much renewed. The Indians treated him with great kindness, and the women were never weary of caring for the little white child. With hooks supplied him by the natives, Martin succeeded in catching a number of fine salmon in the lake, and these formed excellent food. He looked forward also to the hunting of moose and mountain-sheep, for he had brought with him a good rifle and a number of cartridges. His spirits naturally rose as the days passed. To him the life was ideal. There was a freedom from care, and with Nance by his side he often wandered for hours along the shore of the lake. The child thoroughly enjoyed these rambles, and many were the questions she asked as well as making quaint remarks about the numerous things she saw.
Martin soon realised that it would not do to remain idle for any length of time. The cool nights warned him that summer was passing, and unless he had a shelter for the winter their position would be a sorry one. Such lodges as the Indians used would be unbearable to them when frost sealed the streams and storms swept howling over the land. He accordingly searched around for a suitable place to build a cabin, and at length settled upon a beautiful spot near the mouth of the Quaska River, where trees stood in abundance suitable for his purpose.