BY THE MIRRORING LAKE
Of all the sheets of water lying hidden in the great range of mountains
sloping to the cold North Pacific Ocean, none was fairer than Lake
Klutana. It was one of nature's most beautiful cameos. Tall, dark trees
of spruce, fir, and jack-pine shouldered back from the margin and cast
irregular silhouettes around the border. Lofty mountain peaks towered
beyond and reflected their coronals of snow in the lake which they
embosomed. To the north-east stretched a long wooded valley with
crouching foot-hills on either side. Down through this opening flowed a
small river, called by the Indians the "Quaska." Where this stream
joined the lake the land was level, which from time immemorial had
afforded an excellent camping ground for the natives of the locality.
In days long past the Tasko tribe had been a large one. Hundreds of them
had come regularly to this lake to catch the fine salmon, white, and
other fish its water contained. At times mighty warriors had gone forth
to make raids upon neighboring tribes, and once a furious battle had
taken place among the trees at the mouth of the Quaska. But wars and
diseases had thinned the tribe until it numbered barely one hundred
souls, men, women, and children in all. The days of warfare were now
over, and these natives led a quiet life, subsisting chiefly upon the
game which the land produced in abundance. The arrival of the white men
beyond the great mountains of the rising sun gave them a market for
their furs, which they bartered for clothing, food utensils, and
trinkets of the world of civilisation.
To all outward appearance theirs was the ideal life as they gathered
around their lodges one evening when summer was slowly merging into
fall. Several small fires were sending up wreaths of smoke into the
pine-scented air. The women were preparing the evening meal; the men
were lying prone upon the ground, while the children played near the
shore. It all seemed such a free and easy existence. There was none of
the mad rush for wealth, no hard grinding at the wheels of industrial
life in office, factory, or store. The dwelling places were of the
humblest. All the land for miles around was theirs, with no taxes to
pay, and no rents continually coming due. Game was plentiful in forest
and stream, with only a moderate effort needed to procure it. Changing
fashions were unknown, and with the exception of the clothes obtained
from the trading post, they used the dressed-skins of wild animals as
did their ancestors for many generations.
The sun of the long northern summer day was swinging low in the west as
three men suddenly emerged from the forest, and moved slowly along the
shore of the lake toward the Indian encampment several hundred yards
away. They bore heavy packs strapped upon their shoulders, while one
carried a large bundle in his arms. At length they came to a lodge where
a middle-aged woman and a girl of seventeen were seated upon the ground
just before the entrance. As the men approached the women rose quickly
to their feet, and looked intently upon the man with the burden in his
arms. His companions uttered a few words in the guttural native tongue,
and at once the girl stepped forward and relieved the man of the bundle.
Then a cry of surprise and pleasure came from her lips as she beheld the
little white face of a sleeping child peeping out from beneath the
blanket with which it was enfolded.
Martin Rutland had greatly changed in appearance since the morning he
had caught Nance in his arms and carried her swiftly to the river. His
hair and beard were long, his face was worn and haggard, while his
clothes were almost in tatters. When he saw that Nance was in good hands
he gave a sigh of relief, unstrapped the pack from his back, and sank,
much exhausted, upon the ground. A conversation at once ensued between
his two companions and the Indian women. Then, while the girl laid Nance
upon a bed of furs within the lodge, the other squaw began to broil a
fish over the hot coals of the fire-place. Rutland was very hungry, and
never did any food taste as good as the piece of salmon which was soon
handed to him by the kind-hearted squaw. This fish formed the entire
meal, but it satisfied his appetite. When he was through he lighted his
pipe, and stretched himself full length upon the ground.
Though he did not understand the language of these people, the two
Indian men knew a few words of English. He accordingly learned that
these women were their wives. The name of the elder was Naheesh, and
that of the younger Quabee. Rutland was too tired to talk much. It was
so comfortable lying there, leaning against the butt of a log, watching
the smoke curling up from his well-blackened pipe. Other Indians had now
gathered around, and a continual buzz of voices fell upon his ears. He
surmised that the conversation centered upon himself and the child
asleep within the lodge. But this did not trouble him in the least. One
thing alone disturbed his mind. He wondered if he would be forced to
leave this place as he had to abandon camp after camp during the past
weeks. He recalled, as he lay there, how hard it had been to find a band
of Indians uninfluenced by the Church. At first he had imagined that
such a thing would be very easy. In this, however, he had been mistaken.
At the trading post, where he and Nance had left the boats, there was a
mission church. That evening, at the ringing of the little bell, the
Indians had left whatever they were doing and flocked to service.
Rutland, knowing that this was no place for him, had left at once,
carrying Nance in his arms. In company with several natives he reached
an encampment miles away. Here he believed he could remain. But no, even
out in the great open he saw the Indians gather together in a little
group ere they laid themselves down to sleep. He watched them with much
curiosity, thinking they were about to perform some ancient heathen
rite. One native, who seemed to be a leader, spoke a few words, and then
all began to sing. Though he did not understand a word of the language,
he recognised the tune of an old familiar hymn. He remembered how
impressively they had sung it, and what fine voices they had. When they
finished they all knelt down, and the leader prayed. A feeling of
admiration swept over Rutland as he watched them. Then his own heart
began to rebuke him for the first time since he left the Ministry. Here
were these natives, children of the wild, putting him, who had taken
such solemn vows upon himself, to utter shame. Had they only known the
life-story of the white man in their midst, what would they have thought
of the Christian religion? He had looked into their sincere faces, and
for the first time in years felt humbled. It was impossible for him to
remain here. How could he, whose life was a failure and a disgrace,
endure the presence of such trusting people? Their simple faith stabbed
him to the heart and brought back memories he was striving so hard to
forget.
He accordingly fled to other encampments, but everywhere it was the
same. Out on the hills, in forest depth, or by inland lakes, he found
that the Church had been ahead of him and had influenced the natives in
a most remarkable manner. He learned, too, that these Indians were not
the ordinary miserable creatures sometimes seen hanging around stores
and railway stations. They were the nobility of the land, and having
once embraced the teaching of the Church, they endeavoured to put their
belief into practice. More than once the words of his bishop uttered ten
years ago came to his mind, and he began to realise that they were truer
than he had imagined.
Thus he fled from camp to camp, and almost despaired of ever reaching a
band of Indians untouched by the Christian religion. Hearing at length
of the far-off Tasko tribe, he set his face toward Lake Klutana with two
friendly natives, who were bound thither. The journey was a hard one,
for Nance had to be carried every step of the way. Since leaving the
boats at the great river he had at times chided himself for his
foolishness in bringing the child with him. Why had he not left her at
the mission station where she would have been well cared for? He thought
of this by day as he struggled over the cruel trail with the little one
in his arms, and he upbraided himself at night when she awoke and cried
piteously for her father and mother. But as a rule he was glad that he
had her with him. She fared better than he did, for at every camp the
Indian women vied with one another in caring for the girl, who now no
longer feared their dusky faces. Rutland's love for Nance increased as
the days passed. The severe task of bearing her over long miles of trail
became at last a joy. He was more than repaid by her prattling talk, and
her gentle, affectionate ways. She imagined that he was taking her to
her parents, and her guardian had not the courage to tell her otherwise.
By the time Rutland reached the Tasko encampment his strength was almost
gone. If these natives were Christians he would abide here for a few
days and then carry Nance off somewhere into the wilderness, where they
would live alone, undisturbed by either Indians or whites. He dreaded
the idea, however, of doing this, for he knew that it would mean many
hardships for a time at least. So now as he sat quietly smoking, he was
anxious to ascertain whether these people would hold a service such as
he had witnessed at other places. As the evening wore on he was greatly
relieved when the Indians began to move away to their various lodges. He
now believed that he was safe, and that these natives were free from all
influence of missionary enterprise.
At length he picked up his violin case which was lying by his side and
opened it. Through all the hardships of the past weeks he had never
relinquished this companion. It had cheered him when most depressed, and
by means of it he had been able to entertain and please the Indians who
had been so hospitable to him. As he now tuned up the instrument and
drew the bow across the strings a movement took place in the camp.
Indians came from all sides and gazed with wonder upon the white man,
who was producing such marvellous sounds. As Rutland continued to play
the natives squatted around him upon the ground. Their only musical
instrument was the mournful Indian drum. But this was altogether
different. On one occasion several of the men had listened to the sound
of a violin at the fur-trading post, and they had never wearied of
telling what they had heard to the rest of their tribe. They were
naturally musical, these waifs of the wilderness. The sighing of the
breeze, the murmur of the stream, and the roar of the tempest in winter,
all had their meaning. They were sounds which soothed or roused their
wild nature. So as they listened this night their hearts became
strangely affected. Something more than ordinary began to stir within
them. It was the same old story being repeated here in the northland. It
was the beginning of a new life, new longings, and new aspirations. It
was, in short, the dawn of Art which once moved the hearts of the
uncouth ancestors of the most cultured races and inspired them to higher
things. These Tasko Indians knew nothing of the history of civilisation.
They felt only a keen pleasure as the white man played, and they gave
vent to an occasional "Ah, ah," when something appealed to them more
than usual.
It was late ere Rutland ceased and laid his violin aside. The Indians at
once dispersed to their lodges, and silence brooded over the encampment.
The moon rose big and bright above the mountains and cast its reflection
down into the depths of the quiet lake. Rutland sat for a while watching
the superb scene. Then he rose to his feet, and went to the lodge where
Nance was lying. He saw that she was sleeping comfortably and, bending
over her, he kissed her little white cheek. The child moved, and the
word "mamma" came sleepily from her lips. Perhaps the mother, all
unseen, was watching over her little one--who knows? Rutland crept
softly away and, with his single blanket wrapped about his body, was
soon fast asleep upon the hard ground.