The half-breed went to the house of one of his relatives, where he was received with open arms. There he stayed for a week, enjoying his friend's hospitality, and without giving a thought to his home. Happy and careless, a true son of the soil, he was heedless of anything or anyone while he had enough to eat and drink, and was blessed with a fiddle and a friend.
Bearspaw was of a more dignified nature and appearance. He rode slowly through the village to the lodge where one of his tribe lived, and entered quietly, assured of a welcome by the native courtesy and hospitality that ever are characteristic of the Indian races. He talked soberly, without any such demonstrative excitement as was noticeable in the demeanor of the half-breed; made inquiry after the welfare of the people and of the changes which had taken place among the families since he left them. When they told him of death in the camp he said nothing, and as they related the successes his people had met with in the hunting expeditions, he was silent. Bearspaw was sympathetic in both their sorrow and joy, but the training of camps had made him, like all the other members of his tribe and race, the master of his emotions.
Then they told him that the messenger of death had come to his own lodge three nights before and stricken down his eldest son, a young lad and the pride of his father's heart; but Bearspaw still sat motionless, uttering no word. It would seem as if they had been speaking of another. Courage died out of their hearts; they had spoken, they now sat silent.
Presently, with no sign of haste, the bereaved father rose from his place in the lodge, and without a word departed. His horse was still fastened to the pole at the entrance of the lodge, but Bearspaw seemed as if he saw him not. His heart bore too heavy a burden to think of aught but his sorrow. Looking neither to the right nor left he strode onward until he reached a dense wood outside the precincts of the village. He thought not of possible danger; his hand was not laid on his knife as it would have been at ordinary times. Why should he go thence? Why leave his friends? Upon what mission is he bent? Wearied with his long journey does he seek rest?
Alas! no. His heart is very heavy with grief, and he must leave the haunts of men to seek relief for his wounded spirit. Converse with the gods alone can bring peace. Hidden from the eye of men he throws himself upon the ground in an agony of spirit. Hero of a hundred battles, his lodge decked with scalp-locks, the story of his valor written in pictures on the walls—valor that had never been exceeded by any that had been told before—the man who had never been defeated lay prone upon the ground, vanquished by this blow. He shed no tears, uttered no cry, but groaned in the bitterness of his grief. Then on the midnight air the plaintive notes of the wail for the departed fell soft and sad, the coranach of his race, the father wailing for his dead son, calling on his name, repeating it again and again in the curious pathetic monotone peculiar to the Indian.
When the day dawned and the night of grief was passed, Bearspaw returned in sadness to his lodge, and the women with dishevelled hair, bare feet and torn and tattered garments, bewailed the dead until the season of mourning was expired.
Life is sad in every clime; to every camp or home death comes. In the midst of peace, prosperity and joy sorrow falls, our loved ones are taken from us, and the world to us seems empty, valueless and of little worth.
Bearspaw never mentioned his son's name; his grief was silent, but his hair grew whiter and deeper furrows marked his brow, telling better than any lamentations how great had been his loss.
CHAPTER III.
Donald Mackton had spent some days in Brisbane, and was preparing to leave and set out again on his travels when he met Peter Daniels. A new acquaintance in the far West was an event of some importance, and worth something in those days. Friends were few and far between, and the chance acquaintance of to-day might be the helpful friend of the morrow.