Читать книгу The Chief of the Ranges: A Tale of the Yukon - H. A. Cody - Страница 10

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When Klitonda returned to his lodge he kicked off his snow-shoes, drew back the flap, and entered. He paused abruptly and looked with astonishment into his daughter's face.

"What's wrong, little one?" he demanded.

But Owindia did not reply. She only sat rigid, upright, and wide-eyed, staring straight before her.

"Child, child, what is it?" her father insisted, stepping forward and laying his big right hand upon her shoulder.

The touch aroused her, and brought her somewhat to her senses.

"There, there!" she gasped, pointing with her finger to the deer-skin hanging.

"What do you mean?" replied her father, following the direction of her extended arm.

"Didn't you see it?" she queried. "A face, oh, so terrible, looking in upon me out of the night! You must have seen it, for it disappeared just before you came."

"You must have been mistaken, little one. You have been dreaming. It was the wind, and the movement of the flap."

"No, no! It was a face, with horrible greedy eyes—eyes like the ones which looked at me the night my mother died. I was not mistaken."

Across Klitonda's face swept a dark scowl, and an angry growl escaped his lips. He knew now that Owindia's fear was real. He thought of what he had heard that morning about the Chilcat spies. Quickly he wheeled and left the lodge. He was gone only a short time, when he returned and shook the snow from his body.

"No use," he muttered. "It is too dark to follow the tracks. It is just like the Chilcats to choose such a night as this. We are never safe, little one."

"And you think it was a Chilcat, father? Are you sure now that I was not mistaken; that my eyes did not deceive me?"

"No, child, you were not mistaken. I heard to-day that Chilcat runners are in the land spying us out."

A tremor shook the girl's body as she listened, and drawing close to her father's side she put her hand in his.

"Don't leave me again," she pleaded. "Whenever you go away they come. Let me always go with you, no matter how hard the trail may be. I shall go mad if I have to stay alone after what I have endured to-night."

"Very well, little one," was the reply. "Don't worry over it now. A good sleep will do you much good."

Owindia, however, found it hard to follow her father's advice. The hours passed, and the fire burned low. But sleep would not come to her eyes. The storm still raged with unabated fury. Every time the flap moved she imagined she saw that horrible face looking in upon her. When toward morning she did sink into a fitful slumber she was beset by cruel Chilcats, who were leering upon her with merciless eyes. Then a form bounded to her rescue, drove back her assailants, seized her in his arms, and bore her away. She caught one fleeting glimpse of her rescuer ere the vision faded—it was the face of the white stranger.

With the light of day courage returned to Owindia's heart. The fearful scene of the past night was like a horrible dream. Her face was somewhat pale, and a certain listlessness possessed her which she could not overcome. The presence of the white man kept her from brooding over her fears.

The stranger of the storm, much refreshed after his long sleep, opened his eyes and looked around the lodge in astonishment. His last remembrance was of staggering through the forest, battling with the storm, and trying to urge his weary, over-taxed body forward. How had he come to this place? he wondered. Who had rescued him? It did not concern him much, however, for the bed was comfortable, and his eyes were fixed upon a bright scene on the other side of the fire. It seemed like fairy-land to lie there listening to the crackling of the fire, and watching that graceful form now standing erect, and again bending over something which he could not see. Where had such a beautiful creature come from? She surely did not belong to the wilderness. A form such as hers, clad in a neatly fitting dress, soft and clean, he had not expected to find in this far-off Yukon region. And the poise of her head held him spellbound by its every movement. Presently she turned, looked straight toward him, and their eyes met. It was only for an instant, but that glance was sufficient to stir the stranger's heart to its inmost depth.

Never before had he been thus affected by such eyes. They were different from any he had ever seen, so full of tenderness, mingled with sadness were they. A secret fear, as of a hunted animal lurked within their clear orbs. They were eyes which roused in the soul a longing for action, a desire to do something which would cause them to glow with pleasure and pride. The quick glance which had met the stranger's was a questioning one. "Are you worthy to be trusted?" it seemed to say. And in fact the young man wanted to feel that he could be trusted. He could not describe the sensation which came to him now; he had never experienced the like before. To a man whose life had been a roving one full of adventure, it was certainly new to be captivated by a pair of eyes. But in that brief space of time, with not even a word spoken he knew that, for him, life would never be the same again. There was something more to live for than the chase, and no matter where he went those sad dark eyes would ever be with him.

For some time he remained in his recumbent position satisfied to watch her helping her father. The latter was skinning the game he had taken from his traps the day before and Owindia was assisting. There were various animals, fox, lynx, wolverine, and marten, for Klitonda had made a good catch. Owindia was stretching the pelts, and the stranger noticed how deftly she did the work. His eyes roamed from the skins near the fire to the many hanging upon the walls of the lodge. There were fine beaver pelts, and black fox skins, too, of rare quality. With the eyes of a connoisseur he noted them all, and conjectured their various values when laid down in London. And this was only one lodge. There must be hundreds more, he felt confident, each with as rich a supply as this. What prizes he had found here in the wilderness, furs to satisfy the heart of the keenest trader, and a maiden, whose presence stirred his very soul. His weariness and lassitude had left him now. He sat bolt upright that he might obtain a better view of the skins hanging around him. How much would the Indian ask for them? he wondered, or were they already spoken for by some native trader? He did not believe that there were other white men in the country, but he had heard that the coast Indians crossed the mountains, and did considerable bartering. He knew next to nothing about the Chilcats, and had yet to learn the history of that rapacious tribe. He was the trader once more. Keenness mingled with caution, and a smile of satisfaction lurked about the corners of his mouth as he thought of the favourable report he would make upon his return down river.

Owindia, seeing the stranger sitting up, went to the fire, lifted the cover from a kettle, and taking a spoon, artistically made from the horn of a mountain sheep, began to dip out some of the rich broth into a small wooden vessel. This done, she brought it to the white man's side, and without a word held it out for him to take. The stranger was hungry, and he drank eagerly, at the same time noticing how small were the nut-brown hands of the maiden standing before him. Next she brought him a piece of well-cooked moose meat, and the relish with which he ate brought an expression of satisfaction to her face.

"Is the white man better now?"

They were the first words she had uttered, and the stranger was surprised at the soft tone of her voice. He was delighted, too, to find that he could understand her language, which was little different from that he was in the habit of speaking.

"I feel quite well," he replied. "You are very kind to me. But please tell me how I came here. I was battling through the storm, I fell and knew no more until I awoke and found myself in this lodge."

"It was my father who saved you," Owindia replied, while a smile illumined her face.

"And is that your father over there?"

"Ah, ah."

"And what is his name?"

"Klitonda."

"What! Klitonda, chief of the Ayana?"

"Ah, ah."

"And your name?"

"Owindia."

"Owindia; how pretty. I like it. Do you wish to know mine?"

"Ah, ah."

"Natsatt is my name."

"I like it," was the shy reply. "It is different from any I ever heard."

Klitonda in the meantime had finished his work, and had taken his place near where the white man was sitting. His face brightened as he listened to the conversation, for it always pleased him to see Owindia happy. Something about the stranger attracted him. He liked his face; it was candid and open. Klitonda was a good judge of character. He could read men like an open book, and had a name for each. He could detect the wolf, bear, or fox nature in a short time.

"I want to thank you for your kindness to me," and Natsatt turned toward the chief as he spoke. "But for you I should have perished out there in the storm."

"The white man is welcome to Klitonda's lodge," was the quiet reply. "Klitonda's heart is always warm to the great race beyond the mountains of the rising sun."

"You have traded with them, then?" Natsatt somewhat anxiously queried. "They have been here buying your skins?"

"Klitonda's wife was born there. Klota's father was a white man."

"Oh, I see," and a surprised look came into Natsatt's eyes. Then he looked at Owindia and light began to dawn upon his mind. Here was the reason why she was so different from other Indian women he had met. There was white blood in her veins.

"And your wife is dead?" he questioned.

"Ah, ah. Dead."

The pathos in Klitonda's voice, and the pained expression upon his face, deterred Natsatt from inquiring further.

"Do the white traders come here now?" he asked.

The chief shook his head.

"No, the white men have never traded here."

"But where do you sell your furs?"

"To the Chilcat wolves," and Klitonda's voice hardened. "They come here; they rob the Ayana. They are bad, ugh!"

"But why do you trade with them?"

"Where else can the Ayana trade? What can they do with their skins?"

"Will the Chilcats get all these?" and Natsatt pointed to the furs hanging on the walls.

"No!" Klitonda replied, clenching his hands fiercely together. "No Chilcat gets these skins."

"But what will you do with them?"

"Klitonda will cross the great mountains. He will find the white traders."

"Did you ever go there before?"

"No."

"And will other hunters take their skins there, too?"

"No; they fear the Chilcats."

"But would they trade with the white men if they came into your country? Would they bring their furs to the white man's store?"

To this Klitonda did not at once reply. He seemed to be thinking deeply. A new idea had entered his mind. Would the white traders come? Would they buy the furs, and would they help to drive back the Chilcats beyond the coast range? Then he thought of the anger of the Chilcats should the white men enter the land, and begin trading with the Ayana. There would be trouble, he felt sure of that.

"It would not be safe for the white men to come," he at length remarked. "The Chilcat wolves would be angry; they would come in great force, and kill them."

"You think so?" Natsatt questioned.

"Ah, ah. Klitonda knows what the Chilcats would do."

"But the white men have come. They have built a Post at the mouth of the Segas River. They have goods, and will trade with the Ayana. They will give fair prices for their skins."

Klitonda started at these words, and looked keenly into Natsatt's face.

"Does the white man speak true?" he demanded. "Does he mean all he says?"

"Yes, yes; it is true. The Post has been built, and the white men are there. I was sent out with another trader to visit some of the Indian camps, to invite them to bring their furs to the Post. My companion went more to the right, while I followed the river and got lost in the storm. I hope nothing has happened to him."

Slowly Klitonda shook his head.

"Let the white men beware," he replied. "The Chilcats are fierce."

And yet within his own heart Klitonda rejoiced at what he had just heard. He himself could take his furs to the white men, and he determined to get as many as possible of his own people to do the same. He would let them know of the new Post, and he felt quite sure that they would visit the place out of mere curiosity at least as soon as the ice moved out of the river.

Natsatt pondered carefully what Klitonda had told him. The news was disturbing. He thought of the trading Post down the river, devoid of defence, should the Chilcats make trouble. It was his duty to return as speedily as possible, and report what he had heard. And yet he did not wish to leave the lodge. He longed to stay, to be near this beautiful maiden. He leaned comfortably back against a pile of skins, and watched her busy fingers as they ran the beads upon the slender sinew thread. The storm still roared outside, the fire crackled, and the heat made him drowsy. Yes, he must hasten away; he must not delay. But those hands fascinated him. How little they were, and yet how strong. And that thread upon which the beads were slipping brought to his mind a quaint fancy. It was his life, bare and lonely, stretching out through more than a score of years. But how changed it had become of late. What a transformation had taken place. Various colours, red and blue, green and orange, all blending so naturally. And it was she who did it. Yes, his life was like that thread, and she was working the change, transforming bareness into beauty, sweet peace and harmony for the spirit of restlessness. He wished to stay there forever, to be close to her side, to look into her eyes, and to watch those wonderful fingers. Far away now she seemed—fading from his sight—and as she moved there floated upon his ears the sound of singing, sweeter than the song of a bird, and more entrancing than any thing he had ever heard. Was it a dream?