"Owindia—Klota—Chilcats—white man," Klitonda continued, not heeding the young man's words. Then his face underwent a marvellous transformation. The look of defiance faded and in its stead came an expression of triumph. He was driving out the Chilcats; he was watching them flee before his people back over the mountains toward the coast. His right arm suddenly shot out, and he partly lifted himself from the bottom of the canoe. "The Chilcats are beaten!" he cried. "They run like dogs. The Ayana, the Ayana are free! Klota is avenged—Owindia—"
He stopped short, and his eyes looked straight before him, wild and triumphant. Then his tense body relaxed, his head drooped, and he sank back into the bottom of the canoe. Klitonda, the chief of the Ranges was dead!
With a big lump in his throat Natsatt looked silently upon the face of the dead warrior. He had striven faithfully for long years to free his land from the invaders, and was this the end?
"Poor chap, it's certainly too bad," Dan remarked, resting on his paddle, and viewing the lifeless body. "He was a brave warrior, and deserved a better fate than that. Oh, if I were only young again I would bring back a regular army, and wipe those vile skunks out of existence. They'll treat the Ayana Indians worse than ever now, and they will laugh at the whites. Good Lord! my blood fairly boils when I think of them. But, then what's the use of worrying over what can't be helped. We've got enough ahead of us, I'm thinking, to occupy us for many days to come. That poor lassie hasn't stirred once since we left the Post. I've had my eyes upon her face most of the time. What are we going to do with her?"
Dan's question remained unanswered. They were in an unknown region never before entered by white men. The Ayana Indians had told them marvellous tales of the ferocity of the natives who live along the lower banks of the river. They were monsters, so they said, with hair hanging to their waists, and living upon the bodies of all Indians they could capture. Both Dan and Natsatt knew enough of the natives to realise that these tales were no doubt much exaggerated. With their guns they believed they could easily frighten them away. What concerned them most was their ignorance of what lay beyond. The wild Indians they would be willing to meet if they knew that somewhere ahead they would come to some camp or Post where Owindia could be cared for. They knew that the Mackenzie River, east of the mountains, flowed north into the Arctic Ocean. This river was apparently bearing them in the same direction. Would they be borne on and on only at last to reach that Great Sea from which they could hardly expect to return with Owindia alive? She needed immediate care which they were unable to give. The river was swift, and at times it was divided by numerous small islands. They were puzzled as to which channel they should keep, but each time the canoe swept down into the main current again. No sign of Indians had they seen. Nothing but a dreary wilderness stretched around them on every side. The trees came right to the water's edge. The banks were not high here as farther upstream, but sloped gently to the river's edge. Their last morsel of food was now gone and they watched anxiously for some animal to appear upon the bank. They had caught sight of a moose swimming across the river ahead of them, but it was too far off for them to attempt to shoot it. Several bears had also been seen along the shore, but they, too, had escaped.
Thus on and on they sped throughout that long day. The sun beat upon their heads, and the flies swarmed around them. They were both weary from the strenuous ordeal through which they had passed, and longed to lie down and rest. But they did not dare to relinquish their paddling for any length of time. Toward evening they espied an island ahead, larger than any they had yet seen. The same thought occupied both their minds. In fact they had been thinking about it for some time. Occasionally they glanced toward the body of the chief lying near at their side.
"Suppose we land on yon island, lad," Dan suggested. "Guess we've got some work ahead of us. We can't carry this poor chap much farther."
"I've been thinking of the same thing," Natsatt replied. "We couldn't leave him in a better place."
Running the canoe ashore on the upper point of the island, they landed, and stretched their cramped legs. It was certainly a beautiful spot. Birds twittered among the trees, and there was an abundance of wild grass and northern flowers. It was a fitting place to leave the chief, who had such a passionate love for his country, and who gave up his life that it might be freed. Bearing the body of the Indian in their arms they brought him ashore, and laid him upon the ground at the foot of a large tree. Searching around they found a few branches, and others they cut with their axes. These they laid tenderly over the body until it was completely covered. Not a word was uttered as they performed this task of love for the fallen man. When the last twig had been deposited Dan stepped back as if to leave the place. He hesitated, and a mistiness dimmed his eyes.
"I can't do it, lad. I can't!" he groaned. "He was Klota's husband, and she must have loved him. How can I leave him here! I can't, I can't!"