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."