The Chief of the Ranges: A Tale of the Yukon

by H. A. Cody

Klitonda's stay at such places was always short. Miles beyond he knew there was a large band of Indians, and thither he and Owindia turned their faces. It was a cold late afternoon as weary with their long march, they reached the encampment, and here that night Klitonda related again the marvellous tale he had come so far to tell. For this moment he had been longing since the day he had started forth from his lonely lodge in the wilderness. Surely now these hunters would respond as they listened to the story of the white man, the opportunity for better trade, and the assistance they would receive in driving back the Chilcats. But as he talked his keen eyes noted the apathy upon the faces of those before him. He even detected signs of hostility, which was different from anything he had ever experienced in their midst. They had always treated him with marked respect even though they did not carry out his wishes. When at length he ceased the usual exclamations of assent were wanting. A deep silence prevailed, which to Klitonda was most ominous. He could not understand the meaning of such action. When, however, old Nagu, the crafty medicine man, rose slowly to his feet, light dawned upon the chief's mind. In this man he saw his bitter opponent, his violent enemy. He recalled the day, over a year ago, when he had mortally offended this wily impostor. He had refused to pay the customary tribute, or "medicine," of valuable furs and skins to this man. He had told him that his incantations were all a farce, and that he himself was a useless humbug. For years Klitonda had despised the vain pretensions of this creature. He had kept his thoughts to himself, however, and had paid the required tribute, until that day, when roused by the insolence of the man, he had expressed his feelings in no moderate terms. Klitonda had yet to learn that the way of the reformer is hard, and that people held in thrall by the ingrained superstition of ages, are not easily taught to open their eyes to the bright light of a new and an ampler day. Such a task at any time is difficult, but it is increased tenfold when the acknowledged leaders, whether they be prophets, priests or medicine men are themselves debased, and are seeking for material gain and personal influence.

And such was Nagu. Those who honoured him, he favoured; but woe betide the man or woman daring enough to offer any opposition. So standing there in the midst of his people, he hurled his pent-up anger at Klitonda. Subtly concealing his own personal injury he upbraided the chief as the cause of all their present trouble. He had been stirring up strife, had killed the Chilcat brave, and thus brought upon the Ayana people the extra vengeance of the coast tribe. And what were they now to do? The Chilcats were coming in full force, and if Klitonda were not delivered up terrible would be the consequences.

During his harangue the medicine man had worked himself up to the highest pitch of fury. He foamed, raved, and gesticulated like a madman, while all the time his eyes glared upon Klitonda with the most intense hatred.

During this attack the chief stood like a statue, with Owindia crouching near at his feet. The latter was terrified by the scene before her. But not a movement of her father's face betrayed the state of his feelings. It was only when the medicine man had ceased and the murmurs of approval had subsided, that he took a step forward, and looked around upon the assembled natives. A sadness, mingled with pity might have been detected in his eyes as he stood there. Then he lifted his right arm and pointed to the medicine man.

"Will the Ayana people listen to such words as that creature has just uttered?" he asked. "They know it is not Klitonda who is to blame for all their trouble; it is their own cowardly hearts. Where is the spirit of our ancestors? Where is the power of our once famous Ayana tribe? There was a time when the call to battle was like the sweetest of music to our people. They gloried in war. Klitonda would rouse the Ayana to action. But they would rather be slaves. They wish to crawl like dogs at the feet of the Chilcat wolves. Klitonda is your chief. He has never failed his people yet. He stands here to-night; his daughter is there," and he partly turned as he spoke and pointed to the pathetic figure of Owindia crouching upon the snow. "Take your chief; take his daughter, and give them to the Chilcats that you may be safe. Then go and tell your little ones, and when they are grown let them tell their children that you were afraid to fight; that your hearts were like water, and your arms like straw, and you gave up your chief and his daughter to those wolves of the coast. How will it sound? You hunters and trappers, answer me that. Klitonda is willing to give himself, nay to die for his people. Here he stands, come and take him."

He paused, and waited for some one to advance. But none moved. What hunter would dare to lay hands upon that chief, of whose courage and prowess they were well aware? They did not even look upon his face, but sat or stood with downcast averted eyes. Their chiefs words had cut deep, for they knew that they were true. Only the medicine man glared like a wild beast, but to him Klitonda gave no heed.

The latter waited to see what the people would do. But finding that they remained silent and inactive, he turned to Owindia and took her by the hand.

"Come, little one," he said. "Let us get back to the wilderness. Our people do not want us."

Not a word was uttered, and not a hand was raised as father and daughter left the camp, and turned their faces toward the black, silent forest. The chief had come to his own, to help, to uplift them; but his own received him not. They preferred the flesh pots of serfdom to the freedom of a larger and a fuller life.

Klitonda was accustomed to discouragements. He could meet death without a tremor. When face to face with avowed enemies his heart thrilled with the joy of conflict. But when it came to downright opposition and repulsion by his own people it was different. Next to Owindia they were nearest his heart in affection. For them he had toiled and suffered, and for them he was willing to die. Their pitiable downtrodden condition moved him deeply. Though he had often lashed the men with stinging words in the hope of stirring the spirit of manhood within them, there was really no anger in his heart. He had looked upon their strong, lithe forms; he had studied them at their games, in which they rivalled with one another in feats of endurance. Oh, if he could only utilise such strength in a more worthy cause, how much might be accomplished. He had watched the bright-eyed comely maidens, and a sadness always filled his heart, for he knew that the more beautiful they were the sooner would they be likely to fall captives to the wily Chilcats. Even the little babes in their moose-skin bags touched him. What trials and sorrows they had ahead of them—the same life of serfdom as their parents. For the cowardice of their forefathers the little ones must tread the cruel trail of affliction.