Snowdrift: A Story of the Land of the Strong Cold

by James B. Hendryx

The old squaw's muscles relaxed as she felt the arm of the girl steal about her shoulders. The knife slipped back into its sheath, as her body was drawn close against the girl's. For a long time they sat thus in silence, and then the girl rose, for she was very tired. At the door of the tepee she paused: "There are some good white men," she said, "Tell me again, was my father a good white man?"

Still seated beside the fire the old squaw nodded slowly, "A good white man—yes. He is dead."

The eyes of the girl sought with penetrating glance the face beside the fire. Was there veiled meaning in those last words? Snowdrift thought not, and entering the tepee she crept between her blankets.

When the sound of the girl's breathing told that she slept old Wananebish stole noiselessly into the tepee and, emerging a moment later with the old moss bag, she poked at the fire with a stick, and threw on some dry twigs, and seated herself in the light of the flickering flames. She thrust her hand into the bag and withdrew a packet from which she undid the wrappings. Minutes passed as she sat staring at the notebook of MacFarlane, and at the package of parchment deer-skin still secure in its original wrapping. For never had the squaw touched a dollar of the money left in her care for

the maintainance and education of the girl. Poor as she was Wananebish had kept Snowdrift in school, had clothed and fed her solely by her own efforts, by the fruits of her hunting and trapping. All during the years she had starved, and saved, and driven shrewd bargains that the girl might receive education, even as she herself had received education.

And, now, tonight, she knew that the girl had been suddenly made to realize that she was one of those born out of wedlock, and the shame of it was heavy upon her. The old woman's heart beat warm as she realized that the girl held no blame for her—only an intense hatred for the white men, one of whose race had wrought the supposed wrong.

For a long time Wananebish sat beside the fire her heart torn by conflicting emotions. She knew right from wrong. She had not the excuse of ignorance of the ethics of conduct, for she, too, had been an apt pupil at the mission school. And for nearly nineteen years she had been living a lie. And during those years right had struggled against love a thousand times—and always love had won—the savage, selfish love that bade her keep the object of her affections with her in the Northland. Upon the death of her baby soon after the visit of MacFarlane, her whole life centered upon the tiny white child. In the spring when the band moved, she had left false directions in the caribou skull beside the river, and instead of heading for Lash

ing Water to deliver the babe to old Molaire, she had headed northward, and upon the third day had come upon the remains of a sled, and a short distance farther on, a rifle, and a sheath knife—the same that now swung at her own belt, and which bore upon its inside surface, the legend "Murdo MacFarlane." A thousand times she had been upon the point of telling the girl of her parentage, and turning over to her the packet, but always the fear was upon her that she would forsake the North, and seek the land of her own people. Years before, when she had entered the girl at the mission, she had smothered the temptation to tell all, and to deliver the packet to the priest. But instead, she invented the story of her illegitimate birth and accepted the shame. She knew from the first that Sister Mercedes doubted the tale, that she believed the girl to be white, but she stoutly held to her story, nor deviated from it so much as a hair's breadth, during years of periodical questioning.

But now? What should she do now that the girl herself was suffering under the stigma of her birth? Should she tell her the truth and deliver to her the packet of her father? If she did would not the girl turn upon her with hatred, even as she had turned against the people of her own race? Should she remain silent, still living the lie she had lived all these years, and thus keep at her side the girl she loved with the savage mother love of a wild beast? Was it not the girl's right to know

who she was, and if she so willed, to go among her own people, and to go among them with unsullied name? Clearly this was her right. Wananebish admitted the right, and the admission strengthened her purpose. Slowly she rose from the fire and with the packet and the notebook in her hand, stepped to the door of the tepee and stood listening to the breathing of the sleeping girl. She would slip the packet beneath the blankets, and then—and then—she, herself would go away—and stay until the girl had gone out of the North. Then she would come back to her people. Her eyes swept the group of tepees that showed dimly in the starlight—back to her people! A great wave of revulsion and self-pity swept over her as she saw herself, old and unheeded, working desperately for the betterment of the little band of degenerates, waging almost single handed the losing battle against the whiskey runners. Suddenly she straightened, and the hand clutched tightly the packet. If Snowdrift stayed, might not the band yet be saved? What is it the white men say when they seek excuse for their misdeeds? Ah, yes, it is that the end justifies the means. As she repeated the old sophistry a gleam of hope lighted her eyes and she returned again to the fire. At least, the girl would remain at her side, and would care for her in her old age—only a few more years, and then she would die, and after that— Carefully she rewrapped the packet and returned it to the moss bag.