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.
Peter Daniels was a tall man, of an aristocratic appearance indicative
of better days. He was dressed in the usual suit of buckskin, but his
jacket was more elaborately ornamented with colored porcupine quills
than was common; his pants were made of moose-skin and the leggings
worn over them from the knee downward were very handsomely embroidered
with beads; his moccasins were also richly worked by the deft hands of
an Indian woman. The wide sombrero hat, such as is worn by the Mexican
or Montana cowboy, completed his costume. He spoke the pure English of
an educated man, yet his face betrayed unmistakable signs of a
predilection for strong drink in the past, if not at the present time.
Peter was a rare character. He posed as a literary man among his
companions, and expressed his intention of one day writing a history of
the country, one that would include an autobiography.
Donald, as we have said, was something of a scholar, and the pleasure
of meeting an educated man out in the wilds was sufficient attraction
to induce him to prolong his stay in Brisbane. After a short chat in
the store, Donald was easily persuaded to pay him a visit in his own
house. He found the place an old log building, sadly in need of
repair; but this did not seem to trouble its occupant at all. Donald
went in and spent several hours in pleasant conversation with his host.
"You have been several years in the country, Mr. Daniels, I
understand?" said Donald, presently.
"Well, yes; I have spent about twelve years in this particular
district."
"You evidently have been enamored of the people, the climate or the
manner of life, that you have remained so long?"
"Well, sir, I can hardly tell you why I have stayed, or what has been
the particular attraction. I am hard to please, yet there is something
in this country which induces a man to forego many of the benefits of
civilization for the free and easy life possible on these western
prairies."
"You were not brought up to this kind of life, I can see very well,"
replied Donald.
"No, I am an Englishman. I was educated at Eton and Oxford. After I
left college, I took a fancy to see the world."
"You have come a long way to see it."
"Yes. And yet I have been well repaid. I have spent five or six
thousand pounds since I came here, but that is nothing when you think
of all the experience I have gained. If I had lived in England I
should have spent much more and not have known half the things I do
now. We have all to pay for our knowledge, and of course I am no
exception to the rule. My rich friends at home would be shocked to see
me in this shack or dressed in this fashion, but I am happy, and that
is the chief thing in life. It matters little where you are or what
you are doing if you are happy. I hope some day to relate my
experiences and publish them, and that will be full compensation for
all the hardships of this kind of life."
"I hope so," replied Donald, slowly.
"You appear to doubt it, my friend, but I have learned much, and as it
has cost me a great deal, I think, and not without sufficient reason,
that I ought to be able to recount my experiences in an entertaining
manner. If I succeed, they are sure to bring me some compensation for
the trouble."
"I do not doubt that," said Donald; "what I thought was that the labor
will be too great and the hardships too severe for the reward to be
adequate. The isolation, the privations, the absence of all the
luxuries of life, the loss of friends and the monotony of prairie
life--is not this too much to give for all the wealth and fame the
world is able to bestow in one short life?"
"That is true to you, perhaps, but we are not all made alike, and
nothing could please me more than to spend my life for the benefit of
others, in relating to my fellowmen the adventures of the last few
years."
To write a book was evidently Mr. Daniels' highest ambition, as it has
been the worthy desire of many nobler men.
"Your life has been spent chiefly among the Indians, I suppose," said
Donald.
"Indians and half-breeds," replied Daniels.
"Which of the two types of men do you find the better?" asked Donald.
"Are not the former finer men than the latter?"
"Just the opposite. I have spent most of my time while in the country
among the half-breeds, and have gleaned so much of their history and
entered so fully into their spirit that I look upon the race as one of
the noblest on the face of the earth."
"Your experience differs from mine, then."
"Perhaps so, but you will pardon me if I say that possibly mine has
been larger and more varied than yours, and that being the case, I am
better able to speak authoritatively on the question. I do not often
mention the facts of my own life in this relation, but it is sometimes
necessary in order to throw light upon the matter, and I will tell you
as briefly as possible the reasons for my belief in the nobility of
character in the race."
"Thank you; it will be a pleasure to me to listen to what you say,"
said Donald, smiling.
"About fourteen years ago," began Daniels, "my father called me into
his study and told me he had decided to send me out to America. He
would give me a few thousand pounds to enable me to start life there
well and make an independent living. I was very willing to fall in
with his views, as nothing pleased me better than the thought of
hunting in the far West. A few days later he placed a cheque for two
thousand pounds in my hand and bade me make all necessary arrangements
for my journey. There was nothing much to be seen in Montreal, so I
cashed my cheque when I arrived there and pushed on to the West, which
I reached in the course of some weeks in the company of several
adventurers like myself. The first years were spent in the village of
Latona, where I made the acquaintance of the half-breeds, and learned
to respect them. I found many honest and plucky men among them. There
was Jack Sutherland, a Scotch half-breed, true as steel; no prouder man
than he ever stood in a mansion. Let me tell you of him; his story
will serve as well as another to illustrate what I want to prove."
"Go on," said Donald, "I'm all ears."
"Jack was one of the employees of the Hudson's Bay Company, who had
been sent from one of the northern posts to the Company's post at
Latona. He was a quiet fellow, reserved and proud, conscious of his
strength and superior skill with a rifle, but no boaster. He was as
much at home in a canoe on the lake or river as on a horse on the
prairie. He dined at the long table in the Fort, but lived in a small
house by himself that was situated just within the walls of the Fort.
There he had a small but well-chosen stock of books that had belonged
to his father, an officer of the Company. These books were of the
right sort, and what was better, were often read.
"Jack was a very agreeable companion, full of information, and when
among his particular friends was fond of a joke. He had all the canny
disposition of the Scotch race, with the instincts of the Indian. He
was daring and hardy, yet seldom did anything of an extraordinary
nature, which may have arisen from his intense hatred of display. I
knew the man well and learned to love him.
"Late one afternoon we were apprised by some of the Cree Indians that
there were Blackfoot Indians in the vicinity, and it would be well for
us to be on our guard. We took all necessary precautions, but no
Indian appeared.
"Three or four days went by and we felt sure the Cree who brought the
tidings of the proximity of the Blackfeet must have been mistaken. We
did not hear of any misdeeds, so we settled down again to our old ways
of living.
"The villagers were retiring to rest when a man rode down the street,
and called to a few stragglers who were still about that one of the
children of the Factor at the Fort was missing.
"The children had been playing together inside the walls of the Fort,
and unconscious of any danger had gone outside to pluck some of the
flowers growing there in rich profusion. One of them, a girl of about
five years of age, lingered behind the others, and when they turned to
call her she had disappeared. They searched for her, calling her
repeatedly, but all their efforts were fruitless. Then they returned
to inform their parents. All the employees were at once astir and
searching in every direction, but without success.
"The mother was distracted and the father wild with grief and
apprehension.
"The news spread quickly and the villagers joined in the search. They
rode along the river bank and scoured the prairie in the darkness, but
could find no trace of the missing child. For several days they
continued to search the country hoping to find her, but without success.
"Amongst those who had travelled far and near in prosecuting the search
there was one who had not been numbered. About a month before this sad
occurrence the Factor had used some strong language in talking to Jack
Sutherland, and it was well known that the half-breed had been
indignant and had felt the reprimand keenly.
"Jack had not joined the party of searchers, and no one had seen him
since the night on which little Annie MacKenzie had disappeared.
Inquiries elicited the fact that he had been seen repairing his saddle
upon the morning of the day in question, but no one remembered having
seen him later. Had he taken revenge upon the chief of the Fort, done
away with the child and then decamped?
"Everyone knew the Scotch half-breed as an honest, kind-hearted man,
and it was hard to believe that he could be guilty of such a crime;
still the fact remained, he could not be found. His room was unswept,
the door unlocked, articles of clothing left lying about, all evidence
of a hurried departure. This seemed corroborative of the suspicion
that he had either stolen the child or put it to death.
"Factor MacKenzie offered a reward of ten of his best horses to anyone
giving a clue by which the half-breed might be traced and the truth
discovered.
"Jack had too many friends at the Fort and in Latona for anyone to
undertake this mission. Men and women were all anxious and willing to
search for the child, but not one among them could be induced to start
in pursuit of Jack Sutherland. Finding there was no response to his
offer of reward the Factor determined to set out on the search himself.
Two of the most trusted of the officials were to accompany him, well
armed, lest they should meet with opposition in securing the fugitive.
Their outfit was got ready and arrangements made for a lengthened
absence from the Fort.
"The Factor and his men were sitting late discussing their plans for
the following day, when a knock at the door interrupted the
conversation, and a stranger was introduced.
"Pierre le Jeunne had heard of the Factor's loss, and had come a long
distance that he might offer his services to search for the child. He
professed to know the country well, and had not the least doubt that he
would be successful in finding Jack Sutherland and bringing back his
scalp to claim the reward. His eyes sparkled with an evil light as he
uttered the name of the absent half-breed.
"Pierre was a daring fellow, a native of the plains, a French
half-breed with some Spanish blood in his veins. He lived in one of
the native settlements, and as soon as he heard of the calamity at the
Fort had at once started for Latona.
"The Factor saw by the determined manner of the man that he was in
earnest, and learning that he and Jack were old-time enemies, he felt
that there was better chance of successful pursuit being made by him
than by himself and his officers. They were not prepared by
familiarity with the ways and tactics of the Indians, as this French
half-breed was, to cope with the difficulties of encounter with hostile
bands, and though very anxious to prosecute the search for the lost
child they felt that it would be unwise to run into danger
unnecessarily.
"Long and anxiously they talked over their schemes and plans, the
trails to be followed, the hope of gaining the object and the
compensation to be given Pierre le Jeunne for his help. At last the
terms were agreed upon, Pierre was given a good supply of food and
tobacco, and it was agreed that the Factor should wait several days
until sufficient time had been given the half-breed to let them know in
some manner whether he had been successful in his undertaking.
"Bidding them good morning, for the talk had lasted through the night,
Pierre set out, and turned his horse's head toward the south. There
was a determined, evil expression on the man's face as he rode along,
while a faint smile of satisfaction long delayed lingered about his
eyes and mouth. He was in quest of his enemy, and now supported by the
strong arm of the law he was at last to have his revenge.
"Keeping a sharp lookout for straggling parties of Indians he sped on,
covering many miles but meeting with no adventure during the first day.
"On the second day, after fording a river he crossed the plains until
he came to a stone of a peculiar kind that was lying on the ground.
Dismounting beside it he took some tobacco from his saddle-bag and
threw it down near the stone. This was one of the massive meteorites
which the Indians are in the habit of visiting and offering sacrifices
to. The half-breed having made his offering stood awhile muttering his
petitions, asking for protection on his journey and success in his
mission.
"After waiting a few minutes and receiving no response from the oracle,
he remounted and continued his journey. Upon the fourth day he entered
the country of the Blackfoot tribe, and turned aside to visit the Lone
Pine. There were many offerings laid at its foot and strewn about on
the ground. Pierre threw down his gifts of tobacco and waited for a
response to his prayer. Presently a low murmur fell upon his ear, like
the sound of distant thunder. He looked upward to the sky, but it was
clear. He scanned the horizon and the low bushes growing near, but
could discern nothing, neither human beings nor animals. In an anguish
of superstition he threw himself upon the ground, hopeless of success,
for there seemed to be opposition to him and his mission from some
unknown quarter.
"As he lay motionless the sounds increased. He pressed his ear close
to the ground and listened. Fear took possession of the half-breed
warrior's heart. He had oftentimes gone forth to battle without fear
and had returned victorious; but now he was afraid, and not without
reason.
"The sound he heard was the dull thud of horses' hoofs upon the
prairie. He was alone in an enemy's country, and unable to cope with
them should they prove to be numerous.
"Grasping the bridle he led his horse into the thickest part of the
bush, and there, hidden from view, he lay and watched the advance of
the horsemen. In a few moments a solitary rider dashed past, followed
at some little distance by several Indians, who were yelling wildly and
shooting at random. Pierre recognized some of his friends among the
latter, and emerging from his hiding-place shouted to them, calling
them by name. They turned a moment, sufficient to learn who he was,
and then continued their pursuit of the solitary horseman.
"As he dashed past the Lone Pine this rider flung his offering down,
and as if inspired by fresh courage and hope, grasped more firmly a
bundle which lay across his saddle before him. Maintaining an even,
steady gait, yet one of great speed, he succeeded in keeping in advance
of his pursuers."
[Illustration: "He grasped mure firmly a bundle which lay across his
saddle."]
"As darkness fell the Indians slackened their pace, and at last ceased
to follow, and the sound of their horses' feet being no longer heard,
the man left the trail and sought a safe hiding-place for the night.
Carefully depositing his burden he sat down to watch; he dare not
sleep, although he was obliged to rest.
"Before the sun rose in the morning he was again on his journey
northward. He saw no sign of his pursuers, but he knew he was not
safe, so pressed onward with all the haste his horse could accomplish.
Through rivers and creeks he rode heedless of danger. He was nearing
his journey's end faint with hunger, hard riding and loss of sleep.
His horse, too, was jaded, yet conscious of danger, and hopeful at last
of rest, pressed on without any urging from his master.
"But a few miles and home is gained. Yonder, looming up on the
prairie, are the Fort and houses of the village of Latona.
"Whiz! whiz! Two bullets in rapid succession pass the rider, who, at
the sound of their coming, has bent low, leaning forward to protect the
bundle on his knee.
"The Indians have followed, and are on his track. Madly they ride,
fearful of losing their prize. The blood is trickling down the horse's
side and his strength is well-nigh spent.
"From the Fort their approach has been seen and eager eyes are watching
the chase. The pursuers are gaining, the pursued is wounded, and
evidently in sore straits.
"But he wins, and as he dashes into the Fort the watchers see the
bundle on his knee and shout:
"'Pierre le Jeunne! Pierre le Jeunne! He has found the child! He has
found the child!'
"'Pierre!' cried the Factor, as he took his lost and now restored
darling from the man's outstretched arms.
"But the faltering words that met him were not spoken by the lips of
the French half-breed. It was Jack Sutherland who reeled and would
have fallen from his saddle had not ready hands caught him. They
carried him into the Factor's room at the Fort, and every care was
bestowed upon him, but he was wounded to the death. His lips move.
What is he saying? They bend to listen.
"'I have saved her! She is safe! Thank God!'
"The Factor's eyes were dim. The man he had doubted, who he believed
would revenge so cruelly the slight given him, had saved his child from
a fate that was worse than death. And now he was dying, his life given
for the life of the child. He had preserved the peace and happiness of
the home of the man who had insulted him and believed evil of him.
"Jack lingered a day or two before the end came. Meanwhile Pierre le
Jeunne had returned. It was toward evening when, opening his eyes and
seeing his old enemy standing sullen by the door, the stricken man held
out his hand with a smile.
"'She is safe!' he said faintly, and died. The great soul of the
half-breed, the child of the plains, had gone to its reward."
Donald left Brisbane a few days later. He never met Peter Daniels
again, but in his eastern home, years after, when, surrounded by boys
and girls, he told them tales of the West, the one most in favor among
them was the story of the Lone Pine and the rescue of little Annie
MacKenzie, the Factor's child, by brave Jack Sutherland.
THE WRITING STONE.
Under the shadow of the Rocky Mountains the wandering tribes of Bloods
and Blackfeet roamed free and happy in the days of yore. The prairie
gods looked down and smiled upon the dwellers in the painted lodges,
and the smiles brought peace and plenty to their dusky wards. Over the
prairie lay the huge stones, remnants of the mighty rock which in the
distant past had chased the Old Man of the Mountains, determined to
punish him for his cruel ways. The strangely-shaped trees that fringed
the river, the lonely mounds that stood as sentinels on the prairie,
and these large rocks were now the stopping-places of the prairie gods.
To these sacred relics the pious natives oftentimes repaired, and with
earnest supplications made sacrifices to their spirit friends.
Mastwena, an aged warrior, on bended knee besought help for his kindred
in a time of sorrow. As he laid his gifts upon the ground and prepared
to depart, there came a voice that spoke of woe in the land of the
south. Silently he arose and went toward the lodges, with downcast
head and troubled breast.
It was dark when he entered his lodge, and his friends saw not the
sorrow that clouded his face. The moments were few which he spent in
slumber. Long before the sun had risen Mastwena left his couch and
sought again the sacred spot. As his lips parted once more in earnest
prayer, the voice again was heard telling of desolation and woe. With
a heavy heart he left the place of sacrifice and wandered out upon the
prairie, dreaming of the coming sorrow that should visit the people of
the plains. There came no messenger to relieve him of his grief. The
day wore on, and evening found him again among his people. Four days
he repeated his visit to the Stone of Sacrifice, only to hear the
spirit prophet repeat the revelation so full of mystery and darkness to
his soul.
The lodge fires were burning brightly upon the evening of the fourth
day, as with song and dance the hearts of both young and old were
filled with joy. The quick beating of the medicine drums told that the
young men were amusing themselves at some of their native games, and
the gambler's laugh was occasionally heard as he gathered in the prizes
he had won. In one of the lodges a band of men and women were
celebrating a tea dance. Half intoxicated with the large quantities of
tea which they drank, they were singing and shouting with savage glee.
The old men were relating their war-like deeds, and the young men were
passing jokes upon each other. The whole camp indeed was full of life,
for they had abundance of food and clothing, and the prairie gods had
smiled upon them, bringing health and peace to young and old.
In the midst of this jollity a young man, haggard and weary, came
running slowly into the camp. As he made toward the lodge where the
aged Mastwena dwelt, he fell to the ground from sheer exhaustion.
Mastwena was standing near, confidently waiting for the approach of
some messenger who should unravel the mystery of the Stone of
Sacrifice, and as the young man fell he knelt beside him, raised him
gently in his strong arms, and carried him into his lodge.
He bade his wife and daughter tend him, and as they nursed the young
man back to life again, and beheld the strength and color of youth
returning, they rejoiced exceedingly. Mastwena said little but gazed
often upon the countenance of the young man, and his eye sparkled as
some new thought flashed upon his mind. Anxiously he watched and
waited to put questions to the invalid youth, but betrayed no signs of
his uneasiness.
One evening as the old man sat quietly in his lodge, conversing with
his wife and daughters, the patient looked up as if desirous of
speaking.
"Speak, young man," said Mastwena, "our ears shall listen patiently to
all you have to say."
The young man, encouraged by the words, said: "I am a Cree Indian, and
my name is Pekan."
"Speak on, I am listening," said Mastwena, for the chief knew the Cree
tongue and understood what the young man said.
Pekan continued: "Three weeks ago I left my home in the north and came
south intending to steal some horses from the Blackfoot camp. When I
reached the Blackfoot country I found the camps so well guarded that
there was no chance of getting what I sought. I kept journeying
southward in the hope of finding some camp unprotected, but was
disappointed, and so made up my mind to return home. I laid myself
down to rest, praying to my guardian spirit for protection and
guidance. The sun had risen when I prepared to depart, and as I looked
over the prairie, I saw three young men in the distance riding toward
the south. When they had ridden together for a little while I saw them
get off their horses and kneel down upon the ground. In front of them
was a large stone, and as I saw them kneel and bow their heads, I knew
that they were praying to the gods. I watched them carefully, and soon
perceived that they were young men belonging to the Blackfoot tribe. I
dared not advance, for they were well armed, so I contented myself with
remaining in my place of safety, sheltered by some brush in one of the
coulees.
"As the young men were performing their devotions a dark cloud passed
over the sun, and strange noises broke out in the air. They arose
terror-stricken, and attempted to flee, but found they were chained to
the spot. They beat their horses, but could not make them stir. The
cloud passed away, and then they turned their horses' heads toward the
north, to return home; but an evil spirit had entered the animals, and
they fled toward the south. The young men tried to throw themselves
from their saddles, but they were held firmly upon them by some demon
of the air. They prayed and cried for help, but no good spirits came
to their assistance. Horses and riders rushed wildly into the country
of the Crow, Gros Ventres and Sioux Indians. I followed them in haste,
watching the frantic and useless efforts of the young men to return. A
band of Crow Indians out hunting buffalo crossed their pathway, and as
they saw them madly riding, they gazed for a moment with wild surprise,
and then fled. The very animals that roamed the prairies stood
enchanted with the wonderful vision, and forgot to flee. My heart beat
quickly as I followed them at a distance and watched their mad flight.
"Onward they sped, half drunk with frenzy, riding here and there among
rocks, swamp and brush. Suddenly they returned and fell anew before
the Stone of Sacrifice, praying earnestly for help, and studying the
strangely written characters traced upon the rocks. I desired strongly
to go and warn them of their danger, but was sore afraid.
"Ofttimes had I heard old chiefs tell of the misdeeds of the prairie
gods, their hatred toward the Indians, and the terrible injuries they
were able to inflict, and I dreaded the results of this familiarity
with the spirit-book. Many years ago a Cree chief held intercourse
with the spirits, and was able to do many things that no other chief
could do: but suddenly he disappeared from the camp and no one ever
afterward learned where he had gone. These spirits are wonderful
beings, flying where they will and doing what they choose. I like not
their company or friendship. When I remembered the strange things
performed by the spirits I trembled for the safety of the young men.
One of their number, giving his horse to one of his comrades, advanced
to the stone and traced with his finger the wonderful writing which the
spirits had made thereon. Whilst thus engaged his whole body was
seized with trembling, weird voices were heard in the air, the ground
shook with a violent tremor, and a feeling of helplessness took
possession of the group. Earth and air were alive with spirits, a
grand assembly apparently having taken place. The horses tried to
move, but the ground was enchanted, and the more earnestly they strove
to detach their feet from the soil, the stronger were they held
together.
"Suddenly the sky was lighted up with a bright glow and the enchantment
apparently was at an end. The riders knelt upon the ground and prayed,
and then remounted and rode off leisurely southward. I followed them
at a distance, anxious to learn what would be the result of this
conference with the prairie spirits and the visit to the Writing
Stones. Hungry and tired I sought rest and food among a clump of berry
bushes, intending to go on and see the end of the vision--for such it
seemed to me.
"How long I slept I do not know, so thoroughly exhausted was I, but
when I awoke the sun was shining brightly and I felt refreshed. As I
half reclined, rubbing my eyes, I was startled with the report of
several guns at a short distance from me. Rising quietly and making my
way through the brush, my knees smote each other and my heart sank
within me as I heard a rustling sound. Looking up with gun in
readiness for the approach of an enemy, I saw my horse galloping off.
I had fastened him with a lariat to a small tree, but, startled by the
report of the guns, he had broken loose, and was now making off so
swiftly that I was unable to follow and recover him. There I was,
afoot and in an enemy's country with strange Indians in the near
distance. Arousing myself from the stupor into which I had fallen, I
peered through an opening in the brushwood and beheld the three young
men and their horses fallen to the ground. Six Indians, whom I
perceived to be Gros Ventres, rode toward the place where they lay, and
speedily dispatched them. Quickly dismounting they scalped them, and
then rode away after having taken their guns. Evidently they had not
perceived my runaway horse, for they came not to the place where I lay
concealed.
"When I found that everything was quiet, I carefully followed the
brushwood until I came near the spot where the bodies of the young men
lay. They were still warm, but life was extinct. Covering them
reverently and praying to the Great Spirit for his blessing, I turned
my feet homeward, hoping that I might recover my lost horse. Four
nights was I upon the road without any food and but little rest.
Several times I fell to the ground and thought that I should die from
sheer weakness, but after much pain and fatigue, I reached the top of
the hill, from which I could easily see the curling smoke of your
lodges. Life was of little consequence to me, so I made up my mind to
come to this camp, knowing that you could not do any more than kill me;
and here I am, and here, too, are the medicine bags belonging to the
young men," saying which he handed Mastwena three medicine bags which
the Gros Ventres had evidently overlooked in their hasty flight. These
the old man at once recognized as belonging to the Blood Indians.
"Sad, sad was the day when the young men visited the Writing Stones,"
said Mastwena. "I have told the young men of our camps never to go
there, as the spirits are angry with those who frequent their favored
haunts, but they heed me not. Since I was a young man several of our
people have gone there to consult these writings, and evil has always
befallen our camps after one of these visits. I have felt afraid ever
since I learned that the young men had gone from the camp, and now my
predictions have proved to be true."
He bowed his head in silence, while the women broke out into the
death-wail, which soon spread to the lodges of the relatives of the
young men. The young Cree Indian remained in the camp until he was
strong enough to go home, when the aged Mastwena gave him a horse and
food for the journey, wishing him a safe return to the land of his
people.
Many years have gone by since the young men visited the Writing Stones,
but whenever a hunting party is going out from the southern lodges the
aged people relate the story of Mastwena and the Cree youth, and the
present generation shun the place where the prairie spirits write upon
the rocks, believing, as they do, that sorrow, pain, and death will
follow the unhappy transgressor who seeks to solve the mysteries of the
spirit world.
AKSPINE.
Though known only by his Indian name, Akspine was one of the most
genial, cultured Englishmen one could meet anywhere. He was born and
educated in good old Yorkshire, trained in the faith of his fathers,
and nursed by an honest and kind-hearted woman. As he grew into a
fine, manly lad he attended the village school, was enthusiastic in his
studies, full of energy and always ready to help a lame comrade or to
seize any opportunity of doing good. If there was a widow or an orphan
in the village, he was sure to devise some scheme to benefit that one,
so that he soon became noted as a helper of the needy.
There was an old Mother Swann in the village who eked out a precarious
living by taking in sewing. Yet her poverty did not seem to make the
old lady unhappy; she always had a smile and a cheery word for every
passer-by. A small patch of garden lay beside her cottage, but she
knew of no one whom she could ask to dig it for her: her friends were
far away, and the acquaintances who lived near were as poor and as
fully occupied as herself. Every evening as she looked at it before
retiring to rest she wondered how to get her patch of ground made ready
for sowing. In this meditative mood she bent her knee and thanked the
Lord for all His goodness and love, confessed her sins, prayed
earnestly for a deeper work of grace to be wrought in her heart, and
pled for a continuance of temporal blessings.
Wearied with toil at the close of a busy day, Mother Swann was soon
asleep, resting as only the honest poor rest who trust in God and are
content. The old woman was grateful for the mercies given her, and not
covetous of those withheld and granted to her more prosperous neighbors.
The birds were singing merrily in the early morning when she awoke.
With a hymn of praise upon her lips she arose and dressed, read a
chapter in the old Book, and spent a short time in silent devotion.
Drawing the curtain aside from the window and looking out she was
surprised to see that a large portion of her garden plot had been dug
during the night. Whether it had been done by the hand of man or of
angel she knew not, but it was a glad surprise, and a source of
bewilderment as well to the old woman. Every morning for a week she
saw the work progress until it was finished, but without discovering
who were the busy toilers. Some weeks afterwards she learned that a
Workers' Club had been organized at the village school for the purpose
of helping poor women and children. Zest for the work was given by the
feeling that it was done in secret. The lads found that there was as
much pleasure to be derived from playing useful pranks as by foolish or
cruel ones. The promoter of this Workers' Club was Akspine.
In a miner's shack in Montana a young man lay on the floor, a group of
miners and cowboys bending over his inanimate body, rubbing and turning
him over on his face and using every means within their knowledge to
restore life. For a long time their efforts were unavailing; but,
unwilling to give up, they continued while there remained a chance of
success. At length faint signs of returning animation revived their
hopes, and redoubling their efforts they were at last rewarded by his
recovery. The stranger who had risked his life to save the child of
one of the settlers on the ranch from drowning had won the hearts of
the miners and cowboys by his brave endeavor and pluck: hence no effort
was too great to make in order to restore him to life.
He had approached the river in the dusk of the evening and paused on
the bank seeking a ford. As he sat his horse, gazing on the wildly
rushing stream, seeing no spot which might be crossed in safety, and
wondering what he should do, he heard a scream from the opposite shore,
and saw a woman wringing her hands as she ran down to the river,
crying, "My child! my child!"
To spring to the ground, throw off his coat and plunge into the
turbulent stream was the work of a moment. The stranger struck out
boldly toward the child as it was being carried away by the swift
current. Keeping his eye on the tiny bundle, the courageous swimmer
with almost superhuman effort made his way toward it, contending
manfully with the force of the waters which barred his progress. The
few settlers, attracted by the mother's cries, drew near the river and
watched with breathless interest the battle for life. It was a
terrible struggle, and the cowboys, as they ran along the bank with
hair streaming in the wind, their hearts beating in alternate hope and
fear, wondered whether the man or the river would gain the victory.
Meanwhile the swimmer had reached the middle of the stream, and with a
few powerful strokes overtook the precious bundle. Grasping it with a
firm hold, he turned to the shore. Anxious, praying hearts awaited
him, and willing, but powerless, hands were stretched out to his aid.
But the battle was not yet won; the force of the current carried him
down, the terror-stricken mother following with her cries. He turned
and turned again, at each attempt winning a few yards nearer the shore,
but his strength was failing, though he still struggled bravely on.
The weight of his now saturated clothes, as well as of the child, was
dragging him under. Alas! was he to give his life for nought? Was he
to perish and not save the child? Twice he sank, while the cries of
the woman rent the air. Then as he arose once more to the surface, she
sobbed, "Thank God!" Surely a kind Providence is watching over them
and guiding the man among the jutting rocks and crags, saving him from
being dashed upon the great boulders scattered along the bed of the
river. Again he is nearing the shore, where men are waiting to grasp
him. He sinks again. O God! Is it for the last time? No! A shout
from the people, then one more brave effort! It is the last. He holds
the child in his arms toward them, the men rush into the roaring waters
and seize and bear both to the land.
The mother's arms received the babe. It is cold and apparently
lifeless, but the women know what to do; they carry it away, apply
restoratives, wrap it in warm flannels and rub the little body until
the child breathes, smiles and opens its eyes to the mother's anxious
gaze.
The cowboys carried the stranger to the miner's shack, and there by
rough but kindly methods, and with the determination not to desist
while there remained any hope, succeeded, as we have seen, in restoring
the brave hero to life.
One of the men recovered the horse left on the other side of the river,
and begged its owner to remain among them. He thanked them for their
good-will and kindness, but declined, at the same time refusing to take
the reward offered him for so risking his life.
As soon as the man was sufficiently recovered he paid a visit to the
humble shack of the settler to see the child he had saved. As he took
it in his arms it smiled up into his face as though it too would thank
him for a rescued life. The father was profuse in his gratitude, and
the mother, with tears in her eyes, tried to speak, but her heart was
too full for words. The stranger understood the language of her looks,
and valued such expression of her feeling better than if it had been
couched in the finest words ever spoken. He bade the grateful parents
farewell and rode away with a glad heart, saying, "I have only done my
duty." There was no one in that settlement so happy as Akspine.
His career had been a chequered one since the days when he had
organized and promoted the Workers' Club among his school-fellows. He
had added an efficient musical training to his excellent English
education. After serving an apprenticeship on one of the English
railroads he married and went to India, where he became station-master
on one of the lines. Owing to the ill-health of his wife he was
obliged to give up that position at the end of two years and return to
England. A few months later he followed her remains to the grave, and
placing his infant daughter in the care of his wife's mother he
emigrated to the New World, hoping in its new and stirring life to find
solace for his sorrow, as well as remuneration for his toil. He had
gone first to the home of a friend in the western States, where he
remained a year. Later we find him the hero of this adventure on the
river.
After leaving the settler's shack Akspine journeyed northward toward
the international boundary line. On the way he encountered a camp of
Indians, and being wearied with travel he stayed to rest, intending to
remain with them only a few days.
The Indians' lodges were pitched in a beautifully wooded valley. They
had plenty of horses and abundance of buffalo meat, and the weather
being cold he concluded to prolong his stay among them. He employed
his time teaching the Indians many useful things, and before he left
the camp at the end of three months he had made many friends. He left
many specimens of his handiwork as memorials of his stay with the
natives of the Montana plains. Oftentimes the Indians gathered in the
Chief Peta's lodge, where Akspine was a guest, to watch his busy
fingers carve dogs, horses, buffalo and moose from blocks of wood with
his knife.
One of the young men of the camp who watched the white man most closely
was Yellow Snake. He was deeply interested in the work, asked that he
might learn the art, and proved an apt pupil. He went out from the
lodge and returned in a few days, bringing an exact and perfect
imitation of the work done by Akspine. Between these two young men,
though representatives of different races, there sprang up a deep
attachment, and they became close companions. It was during his stay
with these people that Akspine received his Indian name, and this
brought him into still closer relationship with the Indians.
There were sad hearts in the camp when at the end of three months
Akspine suddenly determined to leave it and ride farther north. They
had learned to love him dearly, and had hoped to keep him always with
them; but Akspine could not stay, and one fine morning he rode away
into the enemy's country. Scanning the horizon on all sides, and
keeping a sharp lookout for any sign of hostile Indians, he had ridden
five days' journey without encountering a foe or meeting with any
adventure. He had slept on the prairie, picketing his horse near, and
using his saddle for a pillow. At the end of the fifth day he drew
near a wood which skirted one of the rivers of the plains. Though
appearances indicated that he was not far from a white settlement, he
yet had to be as careful as though he were still out on the lonely
prairie. He first cared for and secured his horse, and then, after
eating his supper of pemmican, lay down to rest at the foot of a
sheltering tree, placing his gun and revolver close at hand, for to
lose either of them would be death; and he could not be sure that a
sudden emergency might not arise when he should need them for
self-defence. The night was calm and clear, and with his thoughts
dwelling on the past and the home in the old land, Akspine fell asleep.
He was not far from the settlement of Mackleton, on the banks of the
Marion River, but was still within reach of any hostile Indians who
might have an antipathy to the whites.
Akspine slept well until he was roused in the darkness of the early
morning by the sharp report of a rifle. Grasping his gun he sprang to
his feet, but could see no one. A second report rang out, followed by
a groan. Turning in the direction from which the sound came, he heard
a familiar voice utter his name, and recognized his friend Yellow
Snake. From him he learned that two of the worst renegades in the camp
had been heard plotting to slay him and steal his horse and other
valuables. Yellow Snake had watched the men, and learning their
destination had gone in another direction to the same spot. He had
kept out of sight, yet knew where they were until he had seen Akspine
enter the wood. Noting the place where the evil-disposed Indians had
entered it, he had approached it at another. When Akspine lay down to
rest he had crept up quietly and stationed himself near that he might
keep guard and frustrate the wicked design of the would-be murderers.
He knew by the movements of the Indians that they were likely to make
the attack in the early dawn. His fears were fully realized. Long
before the sun arose he made out two figures moving stealthily among
the trees. Peering through the darkness he saw that each held his gun
tightly in his hand. Yellow Snake watched them, and as they knelt down
to take aim at the white man sleeping so peacefully at the foot of the
tree, he raised his rifle and shot one of them dead; a second shot
followed, and the other Indian fell to the ground with a groan. While
Yellow Snake was relating all this to Akspine, a bullet whizzed past
their ears. Grasping their guns they turned them upon the second
Indian, whom they had thought dead. He was, however, only severely
wounded, and had sufficient strength to raise his rifle and fire it. A
bullet from Yellow Snake's gun finished him, and upon examination he
found that the men were indeed two of the worst characters in the camp.
Akspine's gratitude was deep and sincere. He took Yellow Snake's hand
in his and tried to stammer out his thanks in the little Indian
language he had acquired while in the camp, but it was too slow and too
inadequate a medium to express his feelings. He spoke from a full
heart in his own English speech: "Yellow Snake, you have indeed been a
true friend to me. Never can I repay you for your kindness and
devotion. You have come a long way to protect me from these men, and
if you had not done so I should have been killed. What can I do to pay
you for it? Tell me and I will gladly do it."
Yellow Snake looked into Akspine's eyes as they shone with gratitude
and love, and although he did not understand a word the white man had
spoken, he gathered their import from his expression. A gleam of
satisfaction was in his eyes and his face met Akspine's in its joy, as
he answered in a few words:
"You are a stranger and a good man," he said; "I learned it from your
life in our camp, and I love you as a brother. Let me go with you and
I will be your companion and help you all I can. I have only done my
duty."
Akspine and his friend carried the bodies of the slain Indians to the
river bank, and fastening stones to the feet cast them in. They then
spent some time searching for the horses that had belonged to the
Indians, and when they found them, led them to the bank of the river
and shot them there that the carcases might fall into the stream.
Having disposed of all belonging to their foes, the friends crossed the
river, and before setting out upon their day's journey, ate their
morning meal with gratitude in their hearts to the Great Spirit for
having preserved their lives.
The sun was high in the heavens before they were on their way
northward, but by hard riding they reached a camp of the Blackfoot
Indians before night fell. They found the lodge of Button Chief, who
received them kindly and treated them with his accustomed hospitality,
asking that they would make his lodge their home. The travellers,
being tired, were allowed to rest, and although the news spread rapidly
among the lodges that a white stranger had come to stay with them, and
young and old were eager to see him and learn the import of his visit,
none approached. Even the youngest showed no signs of impatience. In
such manner the Indians are taught to suppress their emotions, and
never to betray surprise, joy or fear.
Upon the following day the chief gave a feast in honor of his guests,
and invited to it the other chiefs and soldiers of the tribe. The
crier stood outside the lodge door and called them to come to the feast
given by the chief. The invitation met with a hearty response, and a
large party soon filled the lodge. The choicest pieces of buffalo meat
were placed before the guests, and they were given an abundance of tea.
The pipes were filled again and again, and passed from one to another
of the company until they appeared to be on fire, yet the pipes were
filled again. When these were smoked less vigorously the conversation
began in earnest.
An interpreter was found in the camp to repeat in the ears of the
people all that the white stranger had to tell them. This man had
spent some time among the whites, having been taken in hand to be
educated by a merchant, but unable to remain away he had come back to
find a home with his own people. He could understand all that Akspine
said, and repeated it to the listening chiefs in their own tongue.
Akspine related many scenes of his life in the Old World, and
astonished them beyond measure as he told of the wonders of the sea,
and the mighty vessels which crossed the ocean and plied upon the
rivers and lakes; of the large stone and iron buildings in the towns
and cities: of the tens of thousands of people, and finally, of a visit
to Windsor Castle. The "Great Mother" is to the natives of the
northwestern prairies the greatest among the chief men and women of the
earth, a fact which is all the more singular when we remember the
opinion generally held by the Indians on the inferiority of women. An
aged warrior named White Calf had listened attentively, making no
comment until Akspine told of the ships of iron manned by more than a
hundred sailors and sailing across the ocean. Then he arose, and
uttering a grunt of dissent and dissatisfaction, exclaimed:
"It is a lie! No one could do that. This white man is a medicine-man
who has come to steal away the hearts of the people, and if you listen
to him he will make you believe whatever he tells you." Saying which
he departed, leaving the company doubtful whether to be amused or
shocked.
The hours fled rapidly by as Akspine continued his wonderful tales of
the white men and the strange land in which they dwelt. The interest
increased as he related them, and though he was weary and would gladly
have ceased, the intense eagerness of the Indians as they sat with eyes
riveted upon him, drinking in his words with breathless excitement,
made it impossible for him to refuse to gratify them. It was nearly
midnight when they departed to their own lodges, and Akspine was
permitted to retire. He had nothing to fear from the worst renegade in
the camp, knowing that he was perfectly safe under the protection of
the aged chief in whose lodge he dwelt. The Indians returned the
following day, eager to hear more of the stories that had been related
on the previous night. This continued for several nights, and there
was yet no abatement of interest.
On the seventh night an unusually large company had assembled to hear
Akspine recite the tales of the white men. The pipe was filled and
passed around, then Button Chief turned to his guest and said:
"Tell us the story of the Master."
In a lower tone of voice than usual Akspine obeyed.
"Many years ago, when I was a boy, as I sat on the floor by my mother
while she worked she told me of a time long past. It is a story of a
company of men who bade farewell to their homes, their wives, children
and friends, and went upon a journey across the sea. They hoped to
make large sums of money there, and return to their native land to live
in contentment all their days. The voyage was long, and the vessel
that bore them did not return for two years. The captain of the ship
then brought word that he had left his passengers in good health and
excellent spirits, and the prospects of success on the island where he
had landed them were good. Several years passed by and no word was
received from any of the company. Intense anxiety was felt among their
friends, and although many efforts were made to learn something of
their fate, none were successful. All hope of ever hearing from them
again had well-nigh passed away, the wives and mothers alone clinging
to the belief that they would one day see or hear from their loved ones.
"In the early winter there came a rich stranger to the country from
which the company of men had sailed so many years before. The
stranger's home was far distant, but he seemed to enter into and
sympathize heartily with all the schemes for the welfare of the people
of the land. As he went in and out among them he soon learned of the
long absence of the adventurers. He talked to the women, who were
still sorrowing for their husbands and sons. Day after day he listened
to the story and sympathized with their grief. Often after he had been
in the houses of the poor, sums of money were found where he had left
them in order that they might be used for the purpose of providing the
needed food and clothing.
"In the spring a large vessel came into the harbor. The people flocked
in numbers to see it, thinking it might bring some intelligence of the
lost ones, but it brought no tidings. The sailors in the vessel had
been hired for a long voyage, and had brought her around to take her
owner on board from that port. In a few days the stately stranger
embarked. He examined the machinery and general appointments of the
vessel, and when he had satisfied himself upon her fitness for the
expedition, he announced that within a few hours they were to set sail
for a distant island.
"The moon was shining brightly as the fine ship left the landing, the
rich stranger standing on her deck and looking kindly upon the large
number of people who had come down to see him depart. In after years
many of them remembered the kind words he had spoken to the women and
children. A week later they learned that the ship had been built by
the express order of the stranger, and the captain and crew engaged to
go in search of the men who were supposed to have been lost so many
years before. Love and sympathy had kept the stranger from making his
purpose known. He had set about his important mission quietly that he
might not arouse hope too soon in the people's minds, as well as to
avoid the overwhelming expression of their gratitude which any hint of
his intentions would certainly have excited. He was a man of few words
and many deeds.
"Two years passed without any tidings of the stranger, when one day the
whole town was awakened by the shouts of many voices from a vessel in
the harbor. The people ran to the landing; hundreds were soon crowding
one another to look on the band of aged men who stood together on the
deck of the vessel. As she drew near the landing they scanned the
faces of the passengers, and as one and then another recognized a
friend or long-mourned loved one, a shout of joyous welcome rent the
air. Men, women and children rushed on the deck and threw their arms
around the necks of the old men, weeping for joy as they repeated their
names.
"So long absent, given up for dead and now restored so suddenly and
unexpectedly, the scene was one to touch the heart of the hardest. The
inhabitants of the town wept as they saw the joy of the women and heard
their cries of 'Father!' 'Brother!' On that morning the axe and spade
were thrown aside, men forgot to labor in the common joy. Few found
time to rest or eat as they gathered around the lost ones that were
found, and eagerly inquired the cause of their long absence from home.
"They had reached their destination safely and without delay had begun
their labors. They were hopeful and their hearts were light. Matters
had gone well with them for a year or two; then a rebellion broke out
in the land, they became implicated, and it ended badly for them, the
result being that they suffered loss and were imprisoned for life.
"The long weary years which followed oppressed their spirits, and
losing all hope of ever returning to their homes or their loved ones
again, they longed for death to release them from the heavy burden of
hopelessness and despair. Several of their number, unable to endure,
had sunk beneath the weight of sorrow and the effects of the close
confinement, and were borne to their last resting-place in a strange
land, the sighs and groans of their comrades following them to the
grave.
"But help was at hand, though they knew it not. One day a stately form
entered the prison. With sympathetic countenance he inquired into
their circumstances and listened to their story. A few days later the
prison was again visited by the guard, who, bidding the remaining
members of the party follow him, escorted them to a vessel lying in the
harbor near. Soon the sails were set and they were homeward bound; but
not until they were two days at sea did they learn the price that had
been paid for their freedom.
"The stately stranger first offered the whole of his immense fortune
for their release. This was refused, but when he added to the vast sum
his own personal service, his sacrifice was accepted. Rather than
leave the aged men to perish in prison in a strange land, he had sold
himself into slavery, resolving to live and work as a slave in a
foreign country that others might be free and return to their homes.
The captain said the only message the stranger had given him to deliver
were the words, 'Love one another!'
"The inhabitants of the town when they heard the story told by the aged
men, remembered the man who had a smile and a kind word for everyone,
the stranger who had sailed his ship from their port to the distant
land. As the mothers and fathers sat around their cottage hearths in
the winter evenings, happy in each other's presence, they related the
story of the man who had sold himself for them, and always when they
assembled in the morning or retired at night they repeated the message,
'Love one another!' When they spoke of him they called him 'Master,'
and seldom made mention of his name without shedding tears of gratitude
for his love."
Akspine's face shone as he continued his story, and the eager listeners
bent forward that they might catch every word that fell from his lips.
"The Master," continued Akspine, "worked hard in the service of the
king, but he only lived for one year. When he lay upon his death-bed
and strangers gathered around him, he closed his eyes; then whispering
softly and tenderly the words, 'Love one another!' he gently breathed
his life away. The inhabitants of the town for whose exiles he had
given his life raised a magnificent pillar to his memory, and inscribed
upon its base this simple phrase, and as the children gather around it
in the long summer evenings they repeat the story of the Master,
concluding ever with the words, 'Love one another!'"
As Akspine concluded his tale the Indians looked at each other and in
hushed tones repeated the words, "Love one another!"
Deep thought was on every brow in that Indian lodge. Not a word was
spoken. Each one arose, and gliding silently out went homeward
thinking of the meaning of the simple message and the story of that
wonderful life.
Night after night the lodge was filled with anxious listeners to hear
again the story of the Master. Over and over again they said, "Tell us
the story of the Master!" and as they repeated it to the women and
children they said, "Wonderful! Wonderful!"
Soon upon every lip and in every heart the sweet command, "Love one
another!" was found. The noisy brawls formerly common to the camp
ceased. The petty jealousies, the immorality, the love of war passed
away before the influence of the gentle teaching of this tale among the
red men. There was no longer cause for strife in the contemplation of
this blessed life.
When their time came, and one and another of the aged men and women of
the camps died, while friends gathered around their bed they looked up
into the dusky faces and with their last breath whispered faintly,
"Love one another!"
Akspine had not forgotten his music, and oftentimes sat in the lodges
and played and sang sweet songs to the chiefs and warriors while the
people gathered without to listen. His influence became very great in
the camps. He was initiated into some of the secret societies and
learned many of the mysterious rites of the people. He entered
heartily into their schemes for improvement, and was always consulted
upon important questions, the chiefs recognizing the power of his
intellect, his courage and the purity of his life.
He soon became thoroughly familiar with the language of the tribe, and
could converse in it upon any subject. Young and old were strongly
drawn to him. He became as one of themselves, thinking about the same
things, engaging in the same kind of work. It was impossible for him
to remain long in such intimate relationship to the people without
forming some attachment more sacred than others, though he loved Yellow
Snake as a brother and Yellow Snake was always true to him.
The tribe was noted for its many beautiful maidens, young women of
gentle, pleasing manners, modest and neat, and it was not possible that
such should fail to attract the notice of the white stranger. Dressed
in their native garb they were comely and attractive, and some of them
slyly added a little more paint to their faces or a few more ornaments
to their hair when they knew they were likely to pass the lodge where
Akspine dwelt.
In this lodge there was a lovely maiden of fourteen winters, who sat
entranced for hours while Akspine played on his flute, or sang the
plaintive songs of his native land, or who listened absorbed while he
repeated the oft-told tales to the wondering natives. The maiden hung
upon his words as a true worshipper, yet she never spoke to him nor
showed by look or act that his words conveyed any meaning to her ears.
She was only one of her father's chattels, to be disposed of as he
wished. True, her father loved her, but she was only a girl, and in
the Indian camp that meant in value a few horses, more or less,
according to her good looks.
Unconsciously she trimmed her long black hair neatly, painted her face
and the parting of the hair, arranged the necklace of bear's claws
about her graceful throat, or the rings on her fingers, the bracelets
of brass wire on her wrists, and the pretty beaded moccasins on her
tiny feet. Her dress was made of the antelope skin well dressed and
white, fashioned as a wide-flowing gown with two holes for sleeves, the
top and bottom neatly trimmed with the teeth of the antelope and bear.
A wide belt, to which was attached a piece of steel procured by the
Indians from the traders, was fastened about her waist. Her limbs from
the knees downward were clothed in a pair of beautifully embroidered
leggings. Natoatchistaki, or the Rabbit woman, the daughter of Button
Chief, was one of the beauties of the Indian camp. Every morning she
went to the river and performed her ablutions. In the summer she swam
across the swiftly flowing stream, and sported in the waters as if in
her native element.
Akspine looked upon the maiden with the dark hair and eyes, but said no
word of love to her; he was silent, though his heart bade him speak.
The old chief beheld with satisfaction that the white stranger was
suffering; he knew well what caused the failing appetite, the listless
action and unrest.
It is customary among the Indians for the father of the young man who
desires a wife to negotiate with the father of the maiden, and for a
certain valuation, averaging from two to eight or ten horses, to be
placed upon her. After these negotiations are completed the sale or
marriage is ended by a season of festivities.
Akspine had no wealth and no friend to make arrangements for him, yet
he was anxious to obtain the maiden for his wife. The chief watched
Akspine with a loving eye, and seeing his wish, said: "My friend, you
are a stranger among us. You have endeared yourself to us by your
words and actions, and we have learned to love you. You have healed
our sick people and taught the children. Since you have come among us
my people have been more contented and happy than they have been for
years. We cannot repay you for the kindness and courage you have
always shown, and although we belong to a different race we can see
that the hearts of all men are the same. The Great Spirit made us all.
We now wish you to become one of ourselves. You have learned our
language and know some of the customs and mysteries of our religion and
our secret societies, but we wish you to forget your own people and
live always with us, to make your home here and claim us as your
people. We cannot give you much; we cannot tell you of wonderful
things or show you such great works as you have seen among your own
people, but we have glorious records of brave men, heroes who belong to
us and who for the love they bore their country and their people laid
down their lives with their faces to the foe, singing their death-songs
as they saw death approaching.
"We have decided in the council of the chiefs that the bravest should
give you the daughter he loves best for a wife. There is not one in
the camp too good for you. I now offer you my daughter Natoatchistaki.
Take her and let her build you a lodge where you may dwell in peace.
My heart is sad in losing her, for I love her above all the others, but
I shall go often to your lodge and there I shall talk with you. Take
her. She is yours. That is all I have to say."
As the chief finished, Akspine raised his head and let it fall in token
of acquiescence in the decision, then the brave old man arose and left
his lodge. His heart was full, but he would not allow his emotions to
control him. He walked away dignified and silent, and no one meeting
him could have told from his manner that anything unusual had occurred.
When Akspine looked up the lodge was empty. He remained alone in deep
meditation, pondering over the step which was to sever him from his
kindred and unite him forever with the Indians of the plains. He felt
compelled to listen to the eloquence of his heart, and after a short
struggle he decided to obey its dictates.
This decision made, and his heart lightened of the burden of doubt,
Akspine went out into the adjoining bluffs where he could listen to the
songs of the birds and gather courage to meet the new life. Darkness
had fallen before he returned to the lodge. When he sought his
accustomed place, the other occupants turned their eyes on him, but no
word was spoken. Four days passed, during which no reference was made
to the conversation that had taken place, but on the fifth evening a
merry group assembled in the chief's lodge. The women in the camp had
prepared many dainties; the best food was provided, venison and buffalo
tongues were freely given, and the guests ate eagerly of the good
things. It was a marriage feast indeed. Amid the rejoicing and
feasting many gifts were bestowed; then the young men and maidens
gathered outside the lodge as the bride and bridegroom were escorted
from the home of the old chief to a lodge that had been lately built
and handsomely furnished. Here, after many expressions of good-will,
the company separated, each retracing his steps to his own lodge.
Thus were Akspine and Natoatchistaki married in the Indian fashion,
their courtship coming after marriage, a reversal of the method of the
white men. In many cases the plan works well, but in the instances
where no courtship follows, there is bitter enmity, slavery, and at
last rejection. Akspine and his Indian bride, however, loved each
other devotedly, and were happy.
After the first few days had lapsed, their friends came to call upon
them in their own lodge. As the days passed the influence of the white
man increased, though some of the young men were jealous of the power
he wielded over the tribe. Within a short time he had attained the
highest position and been made a chief. While sitting in the council
of the chiefs Akspine listened attentively, offered no advice, but
waited until all the others had spoken, then in a few clear, decisive
words he unravelled the difficulty, showing by his ability to settle
knotty questions that he was possessed of superior wisdom. His fame
spread rapidly beyond his own tribe, and many Indians belonging to
other camps were anxious to see him, but he was guarded closely by his
people lest harm should come to him or an enemy attack him.
The power of the tribe grew. When drawn into war they conquered, but
the wise counsels of Akspine enabled them often to avert it without
losing honor among the nations. Peace and contentment reigned in the
camps, the herds of horses multiplied, and the health of the people was
good.
With a grave and dignified air the white chief strode through the camp,
calling at a favorite lodge here and there to consult with the wise men
on matters affecting the welfare of the tribe. At such times the
children ran to him for the kind word or smile that was always ready
for them.
Akspine's lodge became the resort of all who were in trouble. The sick
sought his advice, the chiefs came to consult him, the young men
resorted to him for encouragement, and when domestic troubles divided
members of the same family, it was to Akspine's lodge they came to have
the difficulty settled and the wounds healed. The young chief's wise
rule indeed rested like a benediction upon all classes. Wherever he
went, peace followed his footsteps. Several years were spent in thus
influencing others for good, and the white chief was happy in the
possession of such power over the people.
Early one morning during the fall of the year Akspine started on a trip
to the mountains, accompanied by one of his friends, expecting to be
absent four or five days. He chatted freely with his companion as he
passed the lodges on his way through the camps, giving a word of
counsel here and a gentle reproof there. The people smiled as he
greeted them at the doors of the lodges, and prayed for success in his
enterprise in the mountains.
Five days passed quickly, but Akspine did not return. No fears,
though, were entertained for his safety, but when two more days had
come and gone without bringing tidings of him, the people grew anxious,
and runners were sent to discover the cause of his prolonged absence.
Day after day the search was continued, but without success.
All hope of learning anything of their beloved chief had well-nigh fled
from the hearts of the people when suddenly the wail for the dead fell
upon their ears. The women rushed from the lodges and looked in the
direction from which the sound came. A travaille drawn by a single
horse was seen approaching slowly, led by two young men, who bowed
their heads as they uttered the sad wail.
The foremost of the young men was Yellow Snake, the bosom friend of
Akspine. Faithful to the last, he had not given up the search for his
friend until he had tracked the footprints of his horse to a crossing
that was deep and treacherous. Here the footprints had ended, but
Yellow Snake followed the stream, still searching, until it entered a
lake. Straightway he plunged into the clear water, and after diving
many times he at last found the remains of Akspine and his companion.
He brought the bodies to the shore and left them until he procured a
travaille on which to convey them to the camp.
Men, women and children gathered around the travaille, weeping
bitterly. They carried Akspine to his lodge, wrapped him in his
chief's garments, and then in solemn state they bore him to a lofty
eminence beyond the camp. On this height a warrior's lodge was built,
and the body of the great white chief, Akspine, was placed within it.
He was surrounded by all the insignia of his office and securely
guarded by his people's love. There at the close of day the women
gathered to mourn, and as they lifted their faces heavenward,
reiterated in the plaintive cadences of grief the cry, "Akspine!
Akspine!"
Many years have gone by, yet on the hill young and old meet at eventide
to repeat the story of the white chief who told them of the Master and
taught them always to say, "Love one another!"
OLD GLAD.
CHAPTER I.
A small company of men were sitting about a camp-fire on the prairie,
enjoying their pipes and chatting. They were all trappers and traders.
Their deerskin coats, with embroidered bands and fringed shoulders,
were tanned soft, and soiled from constant wear. The beaded leggings
generally worn by the half-breeds were replaced by long boots that
reached to the knee; their cartridge belts were well filled, the stocks
of their revolvers bright, and the knife stuck in the beaded or
leathern sheath was sharp and keen.
The men were typical specimens of the class of hardy, honest,
true-hearted hunters, who held a proprietary right over the prairies
second only to those of the aboriginal possessors. Having no
newspapers, and but few letters or correspondence with the more
civilized world, and therefore scant means of obtaining news of events
which serve as topics of conversation to men nearer the centres of
civilization, they talked of old times, repeated stories they had
heard, or recounted the adventures and experiences that had fallen into
their own lives or surroundings.
Long practice in the art of story-telling had made some of them
excellent raconteurs, and though the style and diction in which the
stories were couched might not bear criticism from the standpoint of
literary perfection, they had the charm of being personal
recollections, veritable history, and also of being told in the
vernacular most intelligible to the listeners.
"Wall, boys, I've been down to bed-rock many a time, but you bet I
never came so near givin' in my checks as in the year of the big snow.
It wus the worst year for cold and sickness we ever had in the country."
The speaker was Old Glad, the famous hunter and trapper. Several of
the men, with their long unkempt hair, presented a wild appearance, but
the speaker had a soft, sweet voice and a mild expression of face.
This gentle tone gave a dignity to the peculiar phraseology of the
West. Old Glad had come as a lad from the shores of the St. Lawrence,
and had been for several years in the employ of the Hudson's Bay
Company.
Following the custom of that honorable corporation he had taken to wife
one of the Indian women of the Cree tribe, and had been happy and
content with her. He had a number of sons and daughters who were no
small comfort and help to their mother during his absence on buffalo
hunts or while working at the different trading posts in the country.
Old Glad was a favorite among his comrades, and they leaned forward
that night by the fire to listen to his tale of the by-gone days.
"In my old shanty up in the mountains, I wus tryin' to live through the
hard times, huntin' some bear an' deer, an' eatin' whatever I could
get. The snow wus deep an' it wus terrible cold, but I ses to the old
woman, 'There's no use grumblin', fur that won't bring in buffalo
meat.' We hed a few sacks of pemmican an' berries, but that couldn't
last long with so many mouths to fill.
"Wall, late one night, an' it wus bitter cold, I heard the door open,
an' lookin' up from the fire I saw a white man come in. He wus half
naked, an' I didn't like his looks; he had a kind o' skeered look about
him that wasn't much in his favor. But I couldn't turn him out on such
a cold night, so I giv' him a seat by the fire an' my woman made him
some supper.
"He had little to say, and the poor dog eat what wus made for him as if
he had been starved fur a whole month. He stayed with us fur three or
four weeks, an' it wur while he wus with us, one o' my wee uns took
sick. She wur the best o' the house, an' we grudged losin' her. The
stranger 'd come to her hammock an' sit down an' begin to coo to her,
an' the wee un 'd open her eyes an' a bit of a smile wud come to her
face.
"Arter a while he wud sing to her--some queer songs they wur--an' the
wee un wud try to follow him, though she wur so sick she couldn't hold
up her head. Wall, she kept gettin' worse, an' I made up my mind there
wus no chance fur her.
"Some years afore, one o' my little folks wur sick just like wee Nan,
an' a doctor come along our way an' gave us some medicine that cured
him; an' he wrote a perscription on a piece o' paper an' told us if any
o' the children wus taken sick again, if we sent to Bennivale, where he
lived, if he couldn't come himself, he would send medicine to help us.
"Wall, this night I walked up an' down wishin' I could go, but I
couldn't leave my folk, an' it wus blowin' an' snowin' so as no man
could ha' found his way to Bennivale. It wur on the Missouri River,
more'n two hundred miles away.
"I looked at the paper over an' over again, an' wished I could go. I
wus walkin' an' lookin' at wee Nan an' then at my woman, an' then at
the stranger. He said his name wus Bill, and that wus all I could get
from him, so I sometimes called him 'Prairie Bill' an' sometimes
'Wanderin' Willie.'
"Wall, I sat down in the old chair, an' I saw Bill lookin' at wee Nan
very serious like, an', wud you believe it, comrades, there wus tears
in his eyes.
"That night I wus gettin' some wood fur the fire when I saw Bill ridin'
off on his horse, an' I thought he'd got tired an' wus goin' to some o'
the shanties in the mountains, 'r mebbe to the Indian camp. I thought
it queer he should go away in that fashion an' never tell me where he
wus goin', but of course it wus none o' my business, so I said nothin'.
"Wall, the storm got worse, and wee Nan didn't get any better. I sat
beside her night after night, an' the wee thing kept singin' the songs
Bill had been singin'. It wus queer, fur though, she wus very sick,
she would keep cooin' like Bill, an' then she wud close her eyes an'
keep dosin'.
"We tried the medicines the Indians gave us, but they didn't do her no
good. Often I wished the storm would stop, and I near made up my mind
a dozen times that I'd go to Bennivale an' see the doctor anyway.
"The days an' nights went by slow, an' as I wus sittin' by the little
un the door opened an' in come Bill, an' without say in' a word, jest
as if he'd gone out o' the door an' come right back, he put his hand in
his pocket, an' pulls out a parcel o' powders an' giv' them to me. It
was the doctor's writin', an' I knew it. He put a letter along with
the medicine, an' this is what he said, fur I always carries this
letter with me wherever I go:
"'Dear Mr. Glad'--ye see, he called me by my old name o' the mountains,
which I like best, fur it keeps me in mind o' the prairies an' the
foot-hills. I can't speak it in the fine style he writes in, but I'll
read it like our talk o' the prairie.
"Here's what he ses: 'Dear Mr. Glad, a stranger named Bill has just
returned sufferin' with exposure, an' he has just informed me that one
o' your children is very sick--a little girl. From all the fac's o'
the case, which I wus able to gather from yer friend, I am able to send
you some medicine which I feel sure will restore her. Mix the powders
accordin' to directions. Whenever you come this way, bring me a few
furs, and I will pay you fur them. I want some good beaver skins.
Your friend Bill is a rare chap. He has had an excellent edication,
and has seen better days. You can't go wrong in trustin' that fellow.
He is sharp, clever an' queer.
"'Sincerely yours,
"'TOM. KETSON, M.D.'
"Comrades, as I read the letter I looked up an' saw that Bill wus
pretty sick. He had suffered pretty bad from cold an' hunger, an' was
a good deal frost-bitten.
"It wasn't long afore we fixed the powders for wee Nan, an' got Bill in
good shape, but he wus very bad.
"Wall, the wee thing began to mend, an' Bill, lyin' beside the fire,
though he couldn't speak much fur pain, wud sing a wee song, and coo to
her--the stranger an' the wee un wur like lovers, an' they both kep'
gettin' better.
"After a time wee Nan got round again, but Bill never got over his long
ride, fur it left a bad cough that settled on his lungs, an' he lost
half o' one foot an' some toes off the other.
"Wall, last summer I went back to the old shanty where I used to live,
to fix the fence round Nan's grave, fur ye remember, comrades, that she
left us three years ago, an' we buried her beside the shanty. As I wus
fixin' the fence, I saw a man walkin' with two sticks, an' he wus
comin' to the shanty. I wus a wee bit suspicious, an' I stepped aside
into the bush to see if he wur after mischief. He come up to the
grave, an' kneeled down beside it, an' then he took some flowers--roses
an' the like--an' planted them on the grave. I waited fur a long time
till I saw him wander off, an' then I come down an' finished my job.
"I saw him go to one of the coulees, an' there I found his shanty. I
dropt in to get somethin' to eat, just fur an excuse, an' when the door
wus opened it wus Bill 't met me.
"Boys, ye mind that cripple that ye wus laughin' at in camp the other
day? Wall, he's passed in his checks. Ye won't trouble him any more.
I went to dig his grave, an' I made the best coffin I could fur him.
The boys made fun o' him because he wus only a cripple an' he wus poor.
They called him 'Tanglefoot Bill,' an' a good deal o' sport they got
out o' him. Wall, when I looked at his feet an' heard him cough, I
thought o' the day I wus mendin' the grave an' of the stranger who went
fur the medicine fur wee Nan.
"I put a board at the head o' the poor feller's grave, an' these is the
words I wrote on it:
"'TO THE MEMORY O' PRAIRIE BILL,
THE FRIEND O' WEE NAN."
When Old Glad had finished his story the men knocked the ashes out of
their pipes, and wrapping themselves in blanket or skin, turned over on
the sod and went to sleep. They had to make an early start in the
morning, and though they made no comment they felt no interest in
asking for another story that night.
After breakfast no time was lost; the dishes were washed, and the
"boss" of the outfit put everything in order to start the long
cavalcade of men and horses. Three heavily laden wagons were fastened
to each other, and then ten or twelve horses hitched together to draw
the load. Four or five of these teams comprised a train, and the
manager of the whole was the "wagon-boss." He was generally a shrewd,
hard-working, capable man. Black Jack was the name by which the boss
of the train to which Old Glad was attached was known. He was a
sterling fellow, big and strong, with long hair and heavy moustache.
He was a man of few words, but an excellent boss-captain of the fleet
of prairie schooners. Though many of the men he employed on his fleet
were accustomed to use pretty strong language while on the trips across
the prairie, they desisted when with Black Jack. He was a stern man,
but with his stern determination had a kindly manner and a love of
honesty which affected his men and imbued them with something of the
same spirit that animated him.
Jack had married a handsome half-breed woman, who lived in a neat log
shanty in one of the settlements that had grown up around the Hudson's
Bay posts. She was queen of the home, and her chief pride lay in
having it well kept and attractive to her husband when he returned from
the long trips on the prairie. The house was a small one, but ample
for their needs. It was built of hewn logs laid one above the other
until the walls were about eight feet high. Notched ridge-poles formed
the roof, which was thatched with prairie hay and moss and made
water-tight by a plastering of mud. The interior had white calico
stretched over the ceiling and was whitewashed with lime. The walls
were covered with pictures from the illustrated papers, which served
the double purpose of keeping out the wind and providing a sort of
universal library and reading room, affording many hours of amusement
to Julia and her friends.
Two years previous to his marriage a little girl in the settlement had
been left an orphan. Jack had taken compassion on her and provided her
a home, and Alice was now the joy of his household. He spent many of
his leisure hours in making her toys. She was a pretty,
dimpled-cheeked child with light hair and blue eyes, and was always
happy and strong. The Indians called her Curly Hair, but Jack had
named her Alice. While he guided the long train of wagons across the
prairie the wagon-boss's thoughts were often in the log house with his
little girl. Black Jack had therefore been one of the most interested
listeners to Old Glad's story of wee Nan and Prairie Bill.
A halt was called at noon, and after a spell of rest they journeyed
onward steadily, until as darkness fell they entered the trading-post
of Whoop Up.
After picketing their horses and wagons inside the stockade they had
supper, and sat down around the fire to talk. The manager of the Fort
had much to ask of Black Jack and his men concerning the prospects of
the buffalo trade, the condition of the Indians and the probabilities
of the weather, and then they drifted into the old course of
story-telling.
A few minor anecdotes were told and enjoyed, but when Black Jack,
looked up from the fire and spoke his men listened eagerly.
"Our visit here," he said, "reminds me of the year of the small-pox
among the Indians."
The wagon-boss spoke excellent English, and in spite of the many years
spent on the prairie he had retained much of the purity of his native
speech.
"It was very late in that fatal year. The Bloods, Blackfeet and
Piegans were restless and seemed bent on war, and the Crees and
Assiniboines were none the less fidgety. Not far from here, on the
banks of the Belly River, a band of Bloods and Blackfeet were camped,
and the South Piegans had pitched their tents on the St. Mary's River.
"The Crees and Assiniboines, as you know, hate the Blackfeet. There is
a tradition that many years ago when the Crees and the Blackfeet were
united as one family, there was only one dog in the camp, and some of
the people having quarrelled over the possession of this animal, the
tribes took up the quarrel and soon were at enmity, and although they
have made treaties of peace since there never has been the same unity
as existed in former years.
"They were at the time of my story bitter enemies to each other, and
the Crees thought they could do no better than take advantage of the
great loss sustained by the Blackfeet and Bloods through the ravages of
the small-pox plague and attack them. They had, therefore, come down
to the Little Bow country with this determination, and encamping there
waited for accurate information as to the strength and location of
their enemies.
"The Bloods, Blackfeet and Piegans were well armed, having obtained
good rifles from the traders across the line, but the Crees and their
confederates had nothing but arrows and old guns supplied them by the
Hudson's Bay Company.
"The Crees sent forward a band of seven or eight hundred warriors to
reconnoitre. These came upon a band of Blood Indians camped near the
Fort and attacked them, killing a few men and women.
"This roused the camp, and it did not take long to send word to the
Blackfeet and Piegans. The Bloods had lost some of their best men and
were in the mood to fight desperately.
"In the early morning the fight began in earnest. The Bloods assisted
by their allies drove the Crees hard. Overcome by superior numbers
they were forced to retreat lower down the river until they reached the
big coulees where the trail crosses the river.
"You remember the big coulees beside the trail; but it was a little
lower down the Belly River that the battle raged the hottest. The
Crees and the Assiniboines were in one coulee, the Piegans in another,
and the Blackfeet and Bloods in a third.
"Well, boys, I believe that was one of the greatest battles ever read
of, for the fellows fought like troopers. Talk about your British
soldiers, there are none living who could beat some of those men for
courage and skill according to their own methods.
"The Crees put their horses down in one of the river bottoms to shelter
them from the bullets of the foe, and although they had no better
weapons than bows and arrows and old guns, they had the advantage of
their enemies in position. They fought desperately for some hours,
however, without gaining much on either side. As they were unable to
reach each other and engage in a hand-to-hand light, nor to learn the
actual strength of the enemy, they were too wise to risk an open
attack. As they lay hidden by the ridge of the coulee they crawled to
the top and fired. Some of the Crees, more daring than the others,
raised themselves above the edge and were immediately shot down by
their enemies. The better weapons of the Blackfeet were telling, and
the Crees were getting the worst of the fight. Seeing this they
determined by a sudden movement to evade the Piegans and Blackfeet.
They rushed down the coulee, sprang on their horses and made for the
river. The Piegans saw them and pursued them, and a general fight
followed, in which both Piegans and Crees were carried over one of the
steep precipices. Some were killed outright, others badly injured.
Stones were hurled into the ravine by those above, bruising the
warriors of both sides.
"Still the Crees and Assiniboines dashed into the river. Many of them
were shot or carried down by the current. The Bloods and Blackfeet
went in after them and a terrible slaughter took place. As the Crees
struggled in the water they were shot down like dogs.
"It was terrible to slay the poor creatures in such a cruel fashion,
but an old Indian friend of mine who was at the fight told me with glee
that it was splendid sport, for if the Crees had got the chance they
would have done the same thing to them.
"Others of the Blackfeet crossed the river higher up and engaged the
Crees in another skirmish, in which about fifty were killed.
"If you go along the river now I can show you some of the piles of
stones that were raised to mark the spot where Blackfeet and Bloods
fell, and others where the Crees were slain. A great many of the
latter were killed, but we never learned the exact number, so many were
carried down the river.
"My old friend Jerry Potts said the Blackfeet only lost about fifty.
"The tribes had, however, apparently enough of fighting, for the very
next year they made a treaty, and have never since gone to war with
each other. Since the white men came to the country they seem to think
they have a common enemy and no time to fight among themselves."
When the boss had finished his story the men spread their buffalo robes
and blankets on the floor, and lay down on them to sleep the sound
sleep that only an open-air life can induce.
CHAPTER II.
Up among the foot-hills of the Rockies, far from the villages that have
sprung up in the western country, nestling beneath the shadow of the
everlasting hills, a tiny cottage shanty stands. The way to it from
the main trail is hidden behind the overlapping spurs of hill which
rise in undulating lines from the plains to the bewildering passes of
the mountain range. The sun alone seems to have found its way to it,
and shining down in a benediction of beauty brings its picturesque
outline into bold relief against the background of sun-kissed cloud and
sheltered mountain tops.
Some anchorite surely, weary of the world, whose wounded spirit needs
the healing influences of nature unalloyed by man, has built his
dwelling here. Some artist who would saturate his senses with the
beauty of the ever-changing shadows, the luxury of color, the softness
of the veiling mists, the tender touch of coming night, the mystery of
distance, has come here.
How refined must be the nature of the occupant of such a spot! How
attuned his life to nature's moods! Alas! How long will the place be
unspoiled by man? How long before the aggressive enterprise of the
commercial spirit of the age will send its locomotive to insult the
clouds with its nether smoke and the disturbing sounds of hurrying
traffic?
The early summer had passed, the days had begun their downward course,
and the nights were colder. A traveller who had come to the Rockies in
search of better air and health had wandered many miles from the
village where he had taken up quarters for the season. The many and
beautiful flowers which grow in rich profusion among the foot-hills had
attracted his steps and robbed his limbs of all sense of fatigue. He
was all unconscious of the distance he had walked or how far he was
from the village. He was drinking in health with every breath of the
pure mountain air, beauty with every bud or blossom he gathered, and
such things as supper or bed were of a secondary nature to him at the
moment.
As he stooped to pick yet another flower more perfect than the last, he
was accosted with the words, "Good-day, Stranger!" spoken in a soft
minor key. Turning, he saw an old grey-haired man. There were lines
of care and thought in the face, yet not such as have been furrowed
deep by rebellion against the discipline of life. His dress was that
of an old-timer of the mountains, its buckskin in picturesque harmony
with the surroundings.
The traveller having responded courteously to the greeting, the two men
were soon deep in a pleasant conversation.
"This is a delightful country; the air is so pure and the scenery
grand," said the stranger, by way of preface.
"Yes; a man must get a long way off nowadays to think and breathe," was
the unexpected reply.
"Do you live in this part of the country?"
"Yes, I hev' a shanty in the hills, an' if ye'd care to look in I'll
give ye a welcome. We're a bit rough in these parts, for we don't see
strangers often, an' we're willin' to just live in our own way an' be
content," and turning the old man led the way up the winding path in
the hills.
Each bend and higher level reached revealed fresh beauty to the eye of
the stranger, and when their steps crossed a wimpling, bubbling
mountain stream to the shanty he had seen from the distance, words
failed him to express his appreciation of the beauty of the spot.
"Lovely!" Far away the forest-crowned mountain tops pierced the clouds
and hid from sight the snows and glaciered sides. Bright rivers wound
about the foot-hills or plunged into the great canyons and were lost to
sight. The stranger stood entranced, as if caught in some vision
beyond his power to grasp the meaning of, and the mountaineer, knowing
well the feeling, waited silent by his side.
Later, when seated before the door of the shanty they watched the sun
go down, a sight to be remembered for all time, the hearts of the two
men were one in praise to the Great Creator of the universe, the
Master-mind who had so clothed the land with beauty and given to the
mind of man the capacity to enjoy it.
Old Glad's quaintly proffered hospitality was willingly and gratefully
accepted, and after his guest had been refreshed by a nicely cooked
supper, their talk turned to the past in the old mountaineer's life.
The story-telling days of camp and prairie were once more revived.
"Have you always lived up here in the mountains?"
"No, but I hev bin here most of my life. Ye see there's not much to
annoy ye here, an' I don't keer fur all yer noise in the towns.
There's nothin' like the prairie an' the mountains fur a man to get a
livin' in an' be happy."
"And have you always found the happiness you wished for in these
places?" asked the stranger with interest. "Happiness is what I have
ever been in quest of, and I must confess I have failed to find what I
desired."
"Wall, I've got along pretty well. Of course I've had my hard times
like other folk an' been down to bed-rock many a time."
"Have you all your children with you?"
"No. I've lost some, like my neighbors. It's not so very long since
we buried Nan, and then my Bill went like all the rest." And the old
man sighed as he paused for a moment. The stranger waited until he
spoke again.
"Yes, Bill was a brave lad. He was born in the Indian camp when I wus
workin' fur the Company, away in the north. The little fellow ran
among the lodges, an' it wusn't long till he could talk Cree, an'
Blackfoot, an' Sioux, an' French. He wus a good rider an' a fine hand
at the gun. I tell ye I wus proud o' him when he wus a little fellow.
The Indians an' half-breeds wus afeard o' him, 'cause, ye see, he could
ride an' shoot better'n them, an' he wus a fine talker in the Indian
camps. I min' once when he wus a little fellow runnin' around the Fort
an' up to all kinds o' tricks, that he went off with Long Tom the
half-breed, without lettin' me know.
"Tom wus a good shot, but a reckless fellow, an' if ye didn't look out
he wus sure to get himself an' his friends into trouble. After he had
gone some o' my comrades come an' told me, an' I wusn't well pleased,
but I thought it 'ud turn out all right, so I said nothin', an' waited
fur him to get back.
"Wall, ten days went by an' I wus gettin' kind o' anxious, an' I made
up my mind if he didn't get back in a couple o' days I'd go off an'
look fur him.
"Late that night as I wus sittin' by the fire he come in. The wee
fellow had his head tied up with a bit o' blanket, an' one o' his arms
in a sling. His moccasins wur worn off his feet an' he couldn't speak.
He looked in my face an' kin' o' staggered an' fell down on the floor.
He wur completely done. I jumped out o' my old cheer an' took him in
my arms. His head wus badly cut an' his hair all stickin' wi' blood,
an' his arm wus bruised an' black. We got him fixed up in bed an'
didn't ask any questions fur two weeks. Then he told his story. Long
Tom an' him had gone off to shoot deer an' weren't havin' much success,
an' when their grub wus all gone an' they had to live on berries, they
thought they'd better get back.
"As they wur sittin' down restin' a bit an' their horses wur feedin'
they heard a terrible rush, an' lookin' up saw their horses racin'
toward them an' a grizzly standin' kind o' meditatin'. Long Tom up
with his gun an' fired, but missed his aim, an' wud ye believe it, his
horse fell dead, shot through the heart. The grizzly jumped on him and
threw him to the ground. My wee fellow ran back a few paces an' took
aim. He sent two bullets into the b'ar, but the old fellow was hard to
die. He left Tom an' made fur the boy. But he just made one spring
and struck Bill down 'fore he giv' his yell an' fell dead.
"The poor boy lay on the ground, his head covered with blood an' his
arm bruised where the b'ar had struck him. Long Tom couldn't move, an'
by an' by the lad, who was a plucky un, crawled over to him. He saw he
wus bad, an' at first he didn't know what to do. They had only one
horse, an' Tom couldn't walk, an' thur wurn't a post fur miles.
"Wall, they lay there fur a while an' then Tom got a bit better an' my
lad put him on the horse an' started fur home. Bill wanted fur to take
the grizzly's skin, but they wur too done to get it, so they hed to
leave it. My Bill walked alongside the horse an' got berries fur Tom
an' him to eat, fur they hed no grub. It wur two days 'fore they got
to the Fort an' my Bill had left Tom at his shanty.
"I tell ye, it wur a close shave, an' it wus a long time 'fore the lad
wur strong again, but as soon as he wur able to climb on his horse
again he wus off out shootin' an' huntin'."
"He must have been a brave lad."
"Ay, he wur that, stranger, as brave a lad as ever lived among these
mountains."
"I should like to meet him some day and have a talk with him."
"Ah, stranger, he hev passed in his checks, an' we'll not see him
again!" and the soft voice was sad and the buckskin sleeve was brushed
hastily across the old man's eyes, brave in his grief as the lad had
been in his encounter with the terrible grizzly.
Many stories are told of the pluck and bravery of this son of our old
friend Old Glad. He had grown to man's estate, had married a Cree
Indian woman and was settled down as an interpreter in the employ of
the white men in the country.
One night when he had just returned from a long, wearisome trip over
the prairies with a party of travellers, he was awakened about midnight
by an Indian woman tapping at his shanty window. He sprang to his feet
and listened; in a moment he heard the sound of the tramp of a band of
horses. He roused a few of the settlers in the vicinity of his shanty,
and they started in pursuit of the stampede. The men in advance with
the horses heard the party coming behind and increased their speed.
Not a word was uttered, but with the lariats they lashed their horses
and rode madly on, as the animals responded to the lash.
Over hills and down through coulees the stampede led them. They
reached the river, and though it was swollen it did not stop the men
who had driven off the horses. In the darkness the pursuers could not
distinguish the figures of the men, and it was useless to resort to
weapons. They knew, too, that the horse-thieves would ride lying along
the sides of the horses and thus escape being made a target for the
pursuers' bullets.
In crossing the river, Bill and his party lost time, the stream being
so swift that they were carried down for some distance before they
could make a landing on the other side. The consequence was that the
Indians who had driven off the horses were a long way ahead of their
pursuers. It was evident that from their knowledge of the country the
thieves were Indians and no strangers. The sound of their feet was
still heard distinctly, and Bill urged his party to greater speed that
they might yet overtake them.
The water was dripping from their clothes, but that was a slight matter
if they could only succeed in gaining on the thieves.
Suddenly they found themselves in the midst of a band of horses
scattered over the prairie, spent with the long chase, and wet with
water and perspiration. No Indian was in sight. The horses were
there, but where were the men who had driven them off? Had they been
chasing a phantom? Had these horses been running of their own accord,
or were they on the enchanted ground of the red man?
Fear took possession of the hearts of the bravest. Each man grasped
his revolver and held his breath, expecting that an enemy would spring
upon him from the darkness at any moment, or a well-armed band of
warriors would pour a volley of shot into their ranks from some unseen
vantage cover, or by stealthy craft seize them singly and destroy them.
A few moments passed, seeming like so many hours, when, reviving their
courage, they rode among the spent horses and learned that they
belonged to the white settlers, and had certainly been driven off by
someone. Bill and his men held a short consultation. Darkness and
Indians were the enemies of the white man, and until the day dawned
they could not feel safe from danger. They scattered themselves among
the horses and waited for daylight, listening for any sound that might
give them warning of an approaching foe.
The early morning brought relief, and when exploring a narrow belt of
brushwood one of the horses snorted and swerved aside from an old
blanket that lay in a roll on the ground. They would have passed it by
had not a groan from beneath attracted their attention. Turning, they
saw the blanket move. Bill bent over it cautiously, and discovered an
Indian in the last agony of death. Some of the men counselled shooting
him to end his misery, but Bill knelt beside him and spoke a few words
of peace. The man had been thrown from his horse as he stumbled, and
had been so trampled on by the band of horses he had stolen that he had
been able only to crawl into the bush and cover himself. Bill promised
to tell his friends of his fate, and to let them bear away his body and
lay it in the lodge of the dead. He knew the customs of the race, and
how the women would mourn over the poor Indian's death; for,
horse-thief as he was to the white man, he was a hero to his own
people. The horses were returned to their respective owners, and one
more story added to those told of Old Glad's son.
CHAPTER III.
The shadows of night had fallen about the lonely cabin as, with a
tender light in his eyes, the old trapper continued in quiet,
reminiscent strain:
"Yes, stranger, my Bill hev passed in his checks. I don't talk o' him
often, fur it makes my heart sore to talk o' him. But ye seem
interested, and it'll not do me any harm and mebbe do ye some good.
"My Bill wus allus tryin' to help somebody. There wusn't a man in all
the country that could travel over the prairie like him. He knew every
coulee. He wus a splendid guide and a good one. One day one o' his
comrades started off fur the Missouri in the winter when the weather
was fine. He wus ridin' and he didn't expect to be long on the road,
so he didn't take much grub with him.
"He'd got away just two days when it come up a terrible snow-storm. I
tell ye it wur enough to freeze the hair off yer head. The folks got
anxious about him, but they wur all afeard to go out in the storm.
"Bill ses to them, 'I'm goin' to find him;' but they ses, 'It's no use,
ye'll get lost yerself.'
"Wall, without tellin' anybody, he started off one morning, an' it wur
cold; but he never heeded that. He ses, 'I'm goin' to find him, dead
or alive.' Ah, my Bill wus a brave fellow, an' as kind-hearted a
fellow as ever lived.
"Two or three days went by, an' the storm kep' up, but Bill didn't turn
up. The men in the Fort got anxious about him, an' so one night they
talked together an' they agreed to wait another day, an' if he didn't
turn up they'd send a party after him.
"It wur gettin' dark the next night when the men in the Fort see two
ridin' on one horse, one in front o' the other, comin' over the prairie.
"They got out glasses an' made out that the one in front wus an Indian
boy. He wus ridin' fast, an' the man behind him was muffled up an' had
a cloth over his eyes.
"The men in the village went out to meet them, an' as they rode up they
saw it wus Bill. He was snow-blind, an' his hands and feet wur frozen.
He couldn't speak.
"The Indian boy told the men that as he wus comin' in from the Indian
camp, he saw him ridin' slowly an' his reins wus thrown loose on his
horse's neck, an' he wus trustin' to him to get to the Fort.
"The men in the Fort nursed him, but they thought he wouldn't get
better.
"After lyin' still fur several hours, he ses, 'Is he gettin' better?'
"One o' the men sittin' beside his bed ses, 'Yes, ye're gettin' better.'
"Bill shook his head, but didn't say any thin'. After a while he cried
out, 'I saved him. Is he gettin' better?'
"'Yes, yes, ye're gettin' better,' said another of the men.