It was a curious sight that we beheld. Straight down below us there was a deep pool, inclosed on three sides by high walls of eternal rock, thus forming a perpetual barrier to the passage of the water. The noisy mountain stream poured great volumes into this natural basin, and then lost itself. The water in the pool swung round as on a pivot. In the very centre was a great funnel-shaped "suck-hole," fully eight feet across, the water rushing downward with lightning speed. In the centre of this funnel was a mass of snow-white foam, dancing and whirling and scattering flakes of itself around the dark-blue rim of the vortex. At intervals of fifteen or twenty seconds there would be a greater downward rush of water, and the pillar of foam would disappear with the increased speed of the current; then the roar would increase in volume, another pillar of foam would form, only to disappear a few moments later as the previous one had done. It was a grand, a terrible sight.
As I gazed upon it suddenly there was a low, crumbling sound, and then a mass of shelving rock right under Klikat broke loose and fell with a fearful crash. I started to my feet just as I saw the Indian making frantic efforts to cling to the edge of the cliff. But his hold was too slight, and, without uttering word or sound of any kind, Klikat fell headlong into the mad waters beneath.
Barnes rushed to one of the pack mules for a rope, but it was too late. Three, four, five times did Klikat swing around in a spiral course, and then, with a sudden twist, he shot into the very centre of the vortex. Down he went with the pillar of foam, out of sight into the bowels of the earth, and the darkness of death.
The cavity filled with water and was silent. But it was short satiety. It quickly opened its dark and unfathomable depths again, and gave out a roaring snore that made the very mountains tremble.
Cautiously we three withdrew from the edge of the precipice. We gazed at each other silently and in horror.
Two weeks later we reached the Kootenai country, in British Columbia, and prepared to camp on the south shore of Lake Kootenai. It was while in the act of gathering driftwood along the shore for our first night's supper that Leger discovered a very ghastly object lying in the water within six feet of land.
It was the corpse of a man—an Indian. The face of the dead was badly bruised and torn, and utterly disfigured.
"Heavens!" cried Barnes, as he cut a ragged cloth from the neck. "This is a remnant of my silk handkerchief, which I gave to poor Klikat to cover the gash he cut on his neck by that dead limb one day—do you remember? And see! Right here in this corner is my monogram—'P. B.'—worked in silk."
It was so. We all recognized the silken rag, and we all knew that the corpse before us was the dead body of Klikat, who had fallen into the funnel of that awful subterranean river, fully 250 miles away, far up in the Rockies of Northern Montana. And yet here was his corpse, drifted ashore on this lake, between which and the "big-hole-in-the-water" there is not the slightest connection, so far as mortal eyes can see. How came he to Lake Kootenai, and how long had he been there?
We buried poor Klikat on a bit of rising ground about fifty yards from the lake shore.