"She said that there were no medicine men out there; that the white people believed in the Great Father who cares for each one. She told me many beautiful stories about Him, and I remember them all."
For a time Klitonda did not speak, but gazed thoughtfully into the fire. This noted hunter and dreaded warrior was now as quiet as a little child. Years before the tiny seed of a new power had entered his heart. It had been slowly growing, and was steadily contending with his wild savage nature.
"Your mother often told me about the wonderful ways of the white people," he after a while began. "She taught me many things, and I have always wanted our own race to understand the feeling that is in my heart. Why do we ever remain the same? We are no better than our fathers and forefathers. They hunted, fished, trapped and fought. We are doing the same. This land is ours, and has been ours for ages. Shall we let the Chilcats have it, or shall we drive them back, and learn the secret of the ways of the white people? I cannot tell all that's in my heart and mind, but I see and hear things, and when I try to tell them to my people they shake their heads, and think there is something wrong with me."
Klitonda rose slowly to his feet, and stood erect before the fire. His gaunt face was drawn and tense, and in his eyes dwelt a wistful, yearning expression.
"Little one," and he looked down earnestly upon his daughter as he spoke, "I have a strange feeling to-night. Something tells me that we are soon to break the influence of the Chilcats over this land. I see a new power coming to our aid, though I cannot tell what it is. My heart is much lighter than it has been for months. We must get away from here, for we are never safe so close to the coast. Sleep now, Owindia, for we must leave very early in the morning."
[CHAPTER III]
OUT OF THE STORM
There was snow everywhere. The air was full of it. It had been falling for hours. The wind raced howling over the land, tossing the tree tops in swirling confusion. Klitonda was late, and the soft snow impeded his progress. The small sled he was drawing was well loaded with game he had taken from his traps. He had not expected such a storm when he started from his lodge early that morning. There was not a cloud to be seen then, and the sun was bright above the horizon. But the sky had suddenly darkened, and the tempest had burst upon him when he was miles from home. He had crossed lakes and wild meadows where he could hardly see two rods ahead of him. But he knew his course, and kept steadily on.
He was in the shelter of the forest now where the wind could not worry him, and a little farther on stood his snug winter abode. He was thinking deeply as he plodded forward, though at times he cast furtive glances among the trees as if expecting someone to emerge from their secret depths. He had met a trapper of his own tribe that morning who had imparted to him disquieting news. The Chilcats, so he was told, were preparing to cross the mountains when the winter was over. They were to come in great numbers to demand compensation for the ten traders who had lost their lives the preceding fall. They believed that they had been slain by the Ayana Indians, and would listen to no word of explanation. Besides heavy payments of valuable furs, it was rumoured that they were to demand the persons of Klitonda and his daughter. If their requests were not granted they would wage a merciless war, wipe the Ayana people out of existence, and do all the hunting and trapping themselves. Already there were Chilcat runners in the country who were spying out the various bands, and seeking to ascertain where the chief and his daughter were passing the winter. Such stories were in circulation throughout the country, losing nothing in their transmission from band to band.