As the Indians moved away they turned to the right and formed in a circle several lines deep around the grave, where they stood silently leaning upon their rifles. At the end of the procession came Nadu, the Indian woman. She advanced slowly with bent head, over which a scarf had been carelessly thrown. She stopped before the body, gazed for an instant upon the face, and then sinking on her knees upon the ground remained silent for a few minutes. A stillness as deep as death pervaded the onlookers, while Dan stared in amazement. Then from the woman's lips came a low wail which steadily increased in intensity. Once Dan had heard such a sound. He had been in an Indian village where a little child had just died. He had heard the mother's cry ringing out upon the night air from the rude cabin. It had haunted him for days—that low, plaintive wail of a bereaved heart, which swelled to a wild, piercing shriek. Until then Dan had not believed that so much pathos and agony could be expressed in the human voice. And here was this woman kneeling on the ground giving vent to the same heart-rending cry. What did it all mean? Why should she, from Hishu, feel so keenly the death of the old man? What was he to her?
As he listened and wondered the sounds grew fainter and fainter until they ceased altogether, and she knelt as before with bowed head. For a few moments an intense silence reigned on the hilltop.
Dan was about to give orders to lower the body into the grave when Hishu Sam stepped forward and stood close to where Nadu was kneeling. His tall commanding figure was drawn to its full height as he surveyed the silent natives before him. Then he began to speak in the Hishu tongue, which made it quite easy for Dan to understand what he was saying.
"The sun shines in the sky," he began, "the mountains stand as of old, the rivers flow through the land, the fish swim in the water, the moose roam the forest; but the hearts of the Indians are sad. The Hishus and the Big Lakes are all of one family. But they have not lived as brothers. They have been always fighting as did their fathers before them. They lived for war. Their hearts were hard and cruel. They thought only of evil, of killing one another. Ten winters ago a pale face came from the great river beyond the big mountains. With his own hands he built those houses down there. He learned to speak our language. He taught our little ones from a book he brought with him. He made more books, and he gave them to our children to read. He lived with us. When we were sick he healed us, when we were hungry he gave us food, when we were cold he gave us clothes. But our hearts were hard. He worked for us, and loved us, but when he asked us to give up fighting we laughed at him. When he would teach us a better way we would not listen. One night my little child was sick. The pale face came. He made her well. He taught me wonderful things. He told me of the Great Chief who died to save us all. I listened, and my heart, which was like a frozen river, thawed. I became a new man. The pale face came into our land. He did not come to rob us. He did not come to give us fire-water. He did not come to ruin our young women. He came to help us, to save us. And what have we done to him?" Here the speaker paused, and raised his right hand in an impressive manner. "We killed him, and he now lies before us. We were fighting. We wished to kill one another. But the pale face came between us. He tried to stop us, and he died. Now our eyes have been opened. We see what he has done for us, and how he loved us. We have had a great meeting. We have talked much. Our hearts and mouths spoke peace. We have given up fighting with one another. We have promised to be friends as long as the sun rises in the sky and the water flows in the river. We will have a big pot-latch—the tribes will all come to witness our agreement of peace. The pale face has done it. He is dead. We cannot speak to him. But if another teacher comes from beyond the great mountains we will listen."
Hishu Sam paused, and from the assembled Indians came the murmur of assent. Several others stepped forward and spoke. They were natural orators, and with much gesticulation they emphasised the greatness of their race. But they all agreed with the first speaker that they had met with a deep loss in the death of the pale face, and were anxious now for peace.
During these harangues Dan stood silently by. He was accustomed to the ways of the Indians. In his heart he was most thankful at the happy termination of the trouble. When the speakers were through he gave the signal, and the body was lowered into the ground. Seizing a handful of gravel he stepped close to the grave, and bared his head.
"Great God in Heaven," he prayed, "listen to the words of these people. They have killed this old man, but punish 'em not fer the sin they have committed. They are sorry now, O Lord, an' want to do better. This old man has died fer 'em, an' by his death they've been united. I can't make a long prayer, O Lord, nor tell ye all that's in me heart jist now. But I ax ye to bless these Injuns fer the sake of the old man who died fer 'em, an' in their presence I commit his body to the ground, arth to arth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, sartin that sich a man as this'll rise ag'in to the life etarnal. Hear an old trapper's words, O Lord. Amen."
Dan stood long and silently by the grave and watched the three Indians toss in the earth upon the body. The Big Lakes and the Hishus remained for a few moments, and then filed quickly away. When at last the grave had been filled, the trapper, too, turned and walked slowly back to the Mission House. His heart was deeply touched by what he had heard and seen. Much had been accomplished, but, oh, at what a cost! It was the story of history repeated here on this far-off frontier, that without the shedding of blood there is no advancement, no remission of sins.