Читать книгу The Chief of the Ranges: A Tale of the Yukon - H. A. Cody - Страница 4

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The crooked river wound its lazy way between gently shelving banks. The pebbles along the shore sparkled like mirrors beneath the sun's bright rays. The whole land stood agleam on this fair summer afternoon in the far Canadian Northland. Only a gentle whisper rose from the dark forest as the drifting breeze stirred the crests of battalions of rugged spruce and fir trees. The wind, floating along the river and rippling the surface of the water, caused the small canoe lying near the shore to chafe fretfully upon the beach.

Owindia, seated well astern, played one small brown hand in the stream. The breeze, touching her loose dark hair, tossed it over her cheeks and forehead in rich confusion. Listlessly she leaned against the side of the canoe, looking down dreamily into the clear depths beneath.

The river, wind and forest were all like herself—creatures of freedom. She knew them in their days of austerity and coldness as well as in times of peace and repose. In winter and summer, in storm and sunshine, they had always been her companions, and she loved them with the deep affection of her ardent nature.

Of what was she thinking as she sat there in the sunshine, idly dabbling in the water? Was it of some bright event in her young life of sixteen summers? Or was it a vision, lying golden in the far-off future? Perhaps she was thinking of her father and wondering when he would return from the chase. Whatever it was the picture was evidently bright which filled her mind, for occasionally her lips parted in a sweet smile. No sense of fear was hers, and no dark forebodings disturbed her quiet repose. So full of joy had been her life that only the outward aspect had been presented to her view. She knew nothing of the many strange, subtle ways within, of darkness, misery, cruelty, and death. The noble forest on her right was brilliant outwardly, but she could not see within its secret depths, nor through its long, sombre arches. Had it been possible the dreamy expression would have faded from her eyes, and the happy smile would have left her lips. What connection had those crouching forms, slinking beneath the outspreading branches, with the peace of that summer day? The venomous serpent crawling through the tall grass can change in an instant the child's joyous laughter to shrieks of terror.

A slight noise among the trees fell upon Owindia's keen ears, causing her to glance quickly around. Seeing nothing unusual she resumed her former position. It was only a rabbit, no doubt, or a squirrel skurrying along the ground. But her interest had become aroused, and once again her eyes searched the dark recesses. As she did so she leaped to her feet, and stood for an instant with the startled expression of a hunted animal. Then from her lips came a wild cry of alarm, as she sprang from the canoe, and darted rapidly along the shore. Occasionally she glanced back over her shoulder, and each time the sight urged her to greater speed. Yes, they were coming with long swinging lopes. Monsters they seemed to the terrified girl, and when she heard their hideous laughter as they steadily gained upon her a sickening dread possessed her. What had become of that bright sunny face? Where were those dreamy eyes? Surely this was not the maiden who had reclined so gracefully in the canoe but a short time before.

Owindia had rounded a bend now, and there ahead appeared a frail rude lodge. Before it stood a woman, who gazed with wonder upon the wild-eyed girl rushing toward her, and screaming in frenzied tones "Chilcats! Chilcats!" Then she caught sight of the pursuers, and with a cry she started forward, reached the maiden, and enfolded her in her arms. Half carrying and half dragging she hurried Owindia toward the lodge, and had only time to thrust her through the opening used as a door when the two braves leaped upon her and endeavoured to hurl her aside. The woman was aroused to the wildest fury. She struggled and fought with her bare-limbed antagonists. She writhed and twisted in their merciless grasp. Her sharp finger nails left streaming red scars wherever she touched their bodies, and her firm white teeth sank deep into the quivering flesh. She was more than a mere woman now; she was a mother fighting for her only child against the overpowering force of brutal passion.

Leaving his companion to contend alone outside with this fury of a woman, the taller Indian freed himself, entered the lodge, caught Owindia in his arms, and started to make his escape by bursting through the rear of the lodge. From the maiden's lips arose shrieks of the wildest terror, and vainly she endeavoured to tear herself away from her captor. But he held her firm, and smothered her cries by placing one big, dirty hand over her mouth.

No sooner did the mother realise what was taking place within the lodge than she loosened her hold upon her adversary, and sprang to the rescue of her daughter. Owindia's captor saw her coming, and, knowing what a close contact would mean, he gave her a brutal kick as she approached. For an instant the woman struggled to maintain her ground, but her brain reeled, a mist rose before her eyes, and she sank to the earth, striking heavily upon a sharp stone as she fell.

The raiders were now free from this turbulent mother, and a harsh laugh of scorn broke from their lips as they looked upon the prostrate form. No sense of pity stirred their hearts, for was not this woman one of the despised Ayana tribe? But with the girl it was different. She was beautiful, and they needed her.

Owindia no longer struggled, but lay like a crushed flower in those gripping arms. She glanced at her mother lying helplessly before her, and then into the faces of her captors. But no sign of mercy could she detect in their greedy, lustful eyes. No hope could she expect from them. They would carry her away beyond the mountains down to the coast, and what then? Had not her father and mother often told her of the raids the Chilcats had made in days past, when wives and daughters had been ruthlessly snatched away, never more to return to their own people? Had she not pictured it all in her mind—the terror, despair and the long years of heart-breaking life among that ferocious tribe? Had she not at times, even as a child, started up in alarm in the dead of night thinking the Chilcats were upon her? And now it had come to pass. It was no longer a dream, but a terrible reality.

With their precious booty thus secured, the Chilcats turned toward the silent forest at their back. They had taken but a few steps forward when out from amid the trees leaped a gigantic native, and with a wild cry of rage and bereavement rushed toward the raiders. The Indian bearing the maiden dropped his burden upon the ground, and endeavoured to seize the small hatchet hanging at his waist. His efforts were in vain, for the next instant he was stretched full length upon the earth, with his thick skull shattered by a blow that would have rent a rock in twain. His companion, by a tremendous sideward bound, escaped a like fate and sped off nimbly into the forest, and escaped from view.

The victor did not attempt to follow the retreating Chilcat, but stood like a statue over his fallen victim. A rage, wild and ungoverned, possessed his soul. His eyes gleamed with the fury of a lioness bereft of her cubs. His great breast lifted and fell, telling plainly of the storm raging within. The muscles of his long tense right arm stood out like cords of thrice-twisted hemp. With a grip of steel his fingers clutched the haft of his hunting axe. At his feet lay the dead Chilcat. What did it matter that life was extinct in that prostrate form? He was of the hated race, the people who for long years had been grinding down the Ayana. It was something to have even one of their dead so near him now. Lifting high his axe he smote again and again that quivering body. His fury increased at every stroke. It was not one Chilcat he was smiting, but the whole race. He paused at length and looked around as if expecting enemies from every quarter. He glanced toward the forest and the shore, and at last beheld his daughter crouched upon the ground a few paces away. In her eyes was a new expression of fear. She could not understand her father's terrible action. Never before had she witnessed a scene like this; death and such boundless fury. It could not be her father, Klitonda, the brave chief of the Ayana. And even as the giant looked upon his daughter his arm relaxed and a somewhat softer light came into his eyes. He crossed to where she was crouching and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She shrank away at the touch, gentle though it was, while a low moan escaped her lips. Presently she looked up. Her father had moved away, and was kneeling by the side of the prostrate woman, scanning her face and speaking to her.

"Klota, Klota," he called, "Klitonda has come. He is here."

Quickly Owindia rose to her feet and hurried to where her father was kneeling. So great had been her terror that she had scarcely thought of her mother. But now she realised that something was wrong. Seeing her mother huddled there, so still and death-like, with a gurgling cry she dropped by her side and peered into those staring eyes, and softly stroked the face so dear to her.

"Mother, mother!" she wailed, "speak to Owindia. Don't look that way. Don't!"

Then something arrested her attention, which made her heart almost stop its beating. It was the slow trickle of a tiny red stream, oozing out from the jet black hair of the unconscious woman, and mingling with the sand.

"It's blood! It's blood!" she cried, lifting her startled eyes to her father's face. "The Chilcats have killed her! Oh-o-o-o!"

Klitonda was himself once more. No longer was his rage expressed in outward action. It was like the silent, pent-up force of the concealed mine, only waiting the right moment to burst forth in appalling destruction. Gathering his wife tenderly in his strong arms he carried her swiftly to the lodge, and laid her gently upon a bed of soft furs. Well did he know that she would never look at him again, never speak to him more. Picking up a dressed deer-skin lying near he drew it over Klota's stiffening body. He paused for a moment ere shrouding her face. A slight chain of gold encircled the woman's neck, supporting a small locket concealed beneath her dress. This he unfastened, and handed it to Owindia.

"Wear it, child," he said; "it was your mother's."

The long day waned, and night at length shut down chilly over the land. A fitful breeze rippled the river's surface, and stirred the tops of the pointed trees. It moaned around the lodge wherein lay Owindia upon her bed of skins of wild animals. Her black hair fell around her drawn, tear-stained face. The light from the fire outside illumined the interior of the humble abode. It threw into clear relief the graceful form of the sleeping maiden and the contour of her shrouded mother not far away.

By the burning logs crouched Klitonda. No sleep came to his eyes. He gazed down silently into the red hot embers, as if fascinated by their fiery glow. But hotter and more terrible was the fire surging within the breast of this outraged chief. Once he straightened himself up, turned partly around, and threw out a hard clenched fist toward the great Chilcoot range of mountains lying away to the westward. Such action was more eloquent than many words. It was a symbol, the outward and visible sign of a mighty inward resolve.