Читать книгу The Chief of the Ranges: A Tale of the Yukon - H. A. Cody - Страница 8

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There was snow everywhere. The air was full of it. It had been falling for hours. The wind raced howling over the land, tossing the tree tops in swirling confusion. Klitonda was late, and the soft snow impeded his progress. The small sled he was drawing was well loaded with game he had taken from his traps. He had not expected such a storm when he started from his lodge early that morning. There was not a cloud to be seen then, and the sun was bright above the horizon. But the sky had suddenly darkened, and the tempest had burst upon him when he was miles from home. He had crossed lakes and wild meadows where he could hardly see two rods ahead of him. But he knew his course, and kept steadily on.

He was in the shelter of the forest now where the wind could not worry him, and a little farther on stood his snug winter abode. He was thinking deeply as he plodded forward, though at times he cast furtive glances among the trees as if expecting someone to emerge from their secret depths. He had met a trapper of his own tribe that morning who had imparted to him disquieting news. The Chilcats, so he was told, were preparing to cross the mountains when the winter was over. They were to come in great numbers to demand compensation for the ten traders who had lost their lives the preceding fall. They believed that they had been slain by the Ayana Indians, and would listen to no word of explanation. Besides heavy payments of valuable furs, it was rumoured that they were to demand the persons of Klitonda and his daughter. If their requests were not granted they would wage a merciless war, wipe the Ayana people out of existence, and do all the hunting and trapping themselves. Already there were Chilcat runners in the country who were spying out the various bands, and seeking to ascertain where the chief and his daughter were passing the winter. Such stories were in circulation throughout the country, losing nothing in their transmission from band to band.

Although Klitonda was well aware how prone his people were to exaggerate such tales, and at times to make out matters really worse than they were, he felt, nevertheless, there must be some truth at the bottom of such reports. He had fully expected that the Chilcats would bestir themselves over the death of the ten braves, and had often wondered what course of action they would take to obtain satisfaction.

He was thinking seriously over what he had heard as he pressed steadily forward through the storm on this late mid-winter afternoon. His alert attitude, and the restless roving of his eyes among the trees plainly showed that the stories were not without their effect. He longed to catch sight of the runners now. There would be no more prowling around his lodge.

At length he came to a sudden standstill, and gazed down intently upon the snow. There before him were snow-shoe tracks recently made. From the impressions left Klitonda knew that it was not one of his own tribe who had passed that way. It must have been a stranger, and who else would be prowling around in such a storm but one of the Chilcat spies?

Dropping the cord of his sled the chief unslung the bow from off his back, drew forth a sharp pointed arrow from the moose-hide quiver, and looked keenly ahead. Then he started cautiously forward upon the trail of the unknown traveller. As he advanced he noted that the marks in the snow became more crooked, and it seemed as if the person who made them was staggering heavily. In one place he saw where he had evidently fallen, and only after a struggle had regained his feet. Henceforth the tracks were more zig-zag than ever. Wondering as to the meaning of it all Klitonda now stepped on more rapidly, and soon through the storm he caught a glimpse of a reeling figure some distance beyond. That he was a Chilcat he had not the slightest doubt, and his one desire was to approach quietly and dispatch him as quickly as possible. No feeling of pity stirred Klitonda's heart at the sight of the unfortunate man lost in such a storm. He was a spy, his merciless enemy who had come to seek him out.

The staggering man never once looked back. His head was bent forward, and he seemed to be groping his way as if in the darkest night. Klitonda had the arrow fitted to the string, and was about to draw it full to the head when the stranger, with a pitiful cry of despair, threw up his hands, and fell full length upon his face in the soft yielding snow. Seeing that he did not move, or make any attempt to rise, Klitonda stepped warily toward him, still keeping the bow and arrow in readiness for any sudden emergency. When a few feet from where the fallen man was lying he paused and studied him most carefully. Then he stepped nearer and peered down close in an effort to obtain a view of the man's face. Next he laid aside his bow and arrow, seized the man and turned him over upon his back. As he did so a grunt of surprise escaped Klitonda's lips. He was not a Chilcat spy, but one of another race, a white man. Klitonda did not begin to conjecture as to the purpose of the stranger's visit. It was sufficient for the present to know that the man was not a Chilcat enemy. For the whites he had the greatest respect and admiration. White blood had flowed in the veins of his own dead wife, and for her sake, at least, he must be good to this wayfarer.

Stooping, he lifted the unconscious man in his arms, and retraced his steps over the trail he had just traversed. It was no light burden he bore, but a dead weight of not less than one hundred and seventy pounds. Reaching the place where he had left the sled, Klitonda turned somewhat to the left, and plunged rapidly forward. Every moment was precious. Night was shutting down early, and the storm showed no sign of abatement. But not once did Klitonda hesitate as to the course he was to pursue, and ere long a log cabin loomed up suddenly out of the storm a few rods ahead. Several long strides brought him to the building. Then kicking off his snow-shoes, he drew aside a deer skin flap hanging over an opening, and entered. As he did so a draught of cold air rushed through, and vigorously fanned the fire burning brightly within.

This structure was a typical Indian abode, erected for winter use. It was stoutly made and had the appearance of having been pulled apart, leaving an open scope several feet wide in the middle. This latter was the place for the fire, the smoke escaping through the large opening overhead. At the sides, where the logs were parted, were deer-skin hangings which kept out the wind and the cold. The space on each side of the fire was as cozy and comfortable as fir boughs and skins could make it. From a kettle, resting close to the red hot embers, drifted the appetising smell of cooking meat. The interior was bright and warm, a pleasing contrast to the raging of the elements outside.

But brighter than all else within that lodge was Owindia, as she sat on a large soft bear skin, her fingers busily engaged upon a piece of beaded-work. Her black hair was smoothed back over her broad though not high forehead. Her dress of the softest and finest of native tanned deer skin fitted perfectly her lithe form. Around her neck hung the slender chain, with locket attached, which had once belonged to her mother.

Something, however, had been disturbing Owindia's peace of mind this evening. In her eyes dwelt an expression of anxiety, and at every violent gust of wind she would pause and listen intently. When the deer-skin flaps shook more than usual she always gave a distinct start. Why was her father so long in coming? she wondered. Had something happened to him? Since the day of her mother's death she had never felt safe when left alone. She imagined that the Chilcats were prowling around, trying to steal her away. This feeling was greatly intensified whenever a storm was sweeping over the land.

A bright smile illumined her face, and the anxious look faded from her eyes when at last she heard her father approach, draw back the flap to the right, and enter. But when she saw the limp form in his arms she gave a slight cry of surprise, sprang lightly to her feet, and hastened to his side.

Carefully Klitonda laid the unconscious man near the fire, and in a few words explained to his daughter his experience that afternoon.

"He is a white man, little one," he said in conclusion, "and for your mother's sake we must take good care of him."

Owindia needed no urging to arouse her to action. The sight of the quiet man lying before her with closed eyes and drawn white face, touched her heart with the deepest pity. He was a young man, tall and powerfully built, she could tell at a glance. Removing his fur-lined parka she at once began to chafe his cold numb hands. Then going to the kettle steaming near the fire, she brought a hot drink in a small cup, and with her father's aid forced some of the nourishing broth between the firmly-set teeth. Ere long the warmth of the fire and the drink he had taken revived the stranger. Opening his eyes he looked about him in a vacant manner. Then with a deep sigh he closed them again, and drifted off into a natural slumber.

After Klitonda had eaten his supper he donned his cap and mittens.

"I am going back for my sled, little one," he said. "I left it only a short distance away, so it will not take me long. It is not safe to leave it out there."

He did not notice the look of fear which leaped into his daughter's face at these words. She said nothing, however, but having watched her father leave the lodge she went back to her beaded-work. But her fingers were not busy now. She picked up the jacket, only to let it drop again into her lap. She found it impossible to keep her eyes away from the sleeping man. Who was he? she wondered, and what was he doing so far on this side of the mountains? His face was different from any she had ever seen, and his hair was not long, black and straight, but dark brown, and curling over his forehead. She had caught one glimpse of his eyes when he had opened them and looked vacantly around. She should like to see them again, to notice their colour. Then she drifted off into a world of fancy. Were all white people beyond the mountains of the rising sun like this one? How much he must know. Had he a home, and if so why did he leave it? Was someone waiting for him to return? How long would he stay at the lodge, and would he go away again, and she would never see him more?

Although the most beautiful flower of all the maidens in the Yukon region Owindia had never been wooed. There was not a brave in the whole land but longed to take her to his lodge as wife, and would have fought and even died for her sake. Her presence in any camp always caused a flutter of excitement, and a stirring of dusky hearts. How the striplings vied with one another in waiting upon her every want. And in their various games of wrestling, running and jumping, the victors always turned to the chief's daughter for signs of special favour. But Owindia favoured none of them. Although kind and friendly to all there was a barrier, a certain reserve, which always checked the most impetuous, and love-smitten braves, and kept them at a respectable distance.

Combined with her father's strong and independent spirit, there were her mother's powerful influence and careful teaching. Klitonda's dissatisfaction with the life of his people, and his yearning for nobler things sank deep in his daughter's soul. She knew what it meant to be an Ayana Indian wife. Had she not too often seen the life the women led? It was to be a mere drudge, to bear children, and to be an abject slave to her imperious lord and master. So much had her mother told her about the wonderful things beyond the great mountains of the rising sun that Owindia held the white race to be little less than divine. Was not her mother part white? she oftened reasoned with herself, and if she knew so much, and was so good what must the people be like who had all white blood in their veins?

Once her mother had playfully told her that a white brave would come for her, take her away, and she would see the marvellous things for herself. These words spoken so lightly had remained in Owindia's mind. How real the world of fancy and romance had become to her, and often she pictured her hero coming to meet her just as her mother had said.

For a while she forgot the storm and the dark night as she sat before the fire. Her eyes were looking straight before her, but they dwelt upon nothing near; they only saw things far off and rosy. A movement of the lodge flap to the right attracted her attention. How hard the wind was blowing, she thought, and she glanced around to be sure that the hanging was well secured at the top. It sometimes got loose if neglected. To-night no such thing must happen. The lodge must be kept warm on account of the sleeping man.

As she looked her face underwent a marvellous transformation. Terror filled her eyes; wild fear blanched her cheeks; a numbing sensation almost paralysed her body. She could neither speak nor move. She could only look with eyes that never winked upon that horrible face peering in through the partly withdrawn flap. Great glaring greedy eyes gloated over her; they roved around the interior of the lodge, and rested at last upon the sleeping man. To Owindia it seemed an age that the terrible visage confronted her, ere at length it was withdrawn, and the flap dropped back into its place. Then silence reigned, save for the roaring of the wind, the crackling of the fire, and the wild beating of Owindia's heart.