OUT OF THE STORM
There was snow everywhere. The air was full of it. It had been falling
for hours. The wind raced howling over the land, tossing the tree tops
in swirling confusion. Klitonda was late, and the soft snow impeded his
progress. The small sled he was drawing was well loaded with game he had
taken from his traps. He had not expected such a storm when he started
from his lodge early that morning. There was not a cloud to be seen
then, and the sun was bright above the horizon. But the sky had suddenly
darkened, and the tempest had burst upon him when he was miles from
home. He had crossed lakes and wild meadows where he could hardly see
two rods ahead of him. But he knew his course, and kept steadily on.
He was in the shelter of the forest now where the wind could not worry
him, and a little farther on stood his snug winter abode. He was
thinking deeply as he plodded forward, though at times he cast furtive
glances among the trees as if expecting someone to emerge from their
secret depths. He had met a trapper of his own tribe that morning who
had imparted to him disquieting news. The Chilcats, so he was told,
were preparing to cross the mountains when the winter was over. They
were to come in great numbers to demand compensation for the ten traders
who had lost their lives the preceding fall. They believed that they
had been slain by the Ayana Indians, and would listen to no word of
explanation. Besides heavy payments of valuable furs, it was rumoured
that they were to demand the persons of Klitonda and his daughter. If
their requests were not granted they would wage a merciless war, wipe
the Ayana people out of existence, and do all the hunting and trapping
themselves. Already there were Chilcat runners in the country who
were spying out the various bands, and seeking to ascertain where the
chief and his daughter were passing the winter. Such stories were in
circulation throughout the country, losing nothing in their transmission
from band to band.
Although Klitonda was well aware how prone his people were to exaggerate
such tales, and at times to make out matters really worse than they
were, he felt, nevertheless, there must be some truth at the bottom
of such reports. He had fully expected that the Chilcats would bestir
themselves over the death of the ten braves, and had often wondered what
course of action they would take to obtain satisfaction.
He was thinking seriously over what he had heard as he pressed steadily
forward through the storm on this late mid-winter afternoon. His alert
attitude, and the restless roving of his eyes among the trees plainly
showed that the stories were not without their effect. He longed to
catch sight of the runners now. There would be no more prowling around
his lodge.
At length he came to a sudden standstill, and gazed down intently upon
the snow. There before him were snow-shoe tracks recently made. From the
impressions left Klitonda knew that it was not one of his own tribe who
had passed that way. It must have been a stranger, and who else would be
prowling around in such a storm but one of the Chilcat spies?
Dropping the cord of his sled the chief unslung the bow from off his
back, drew forth a sharp pointed arrow from the moose-hide quiver, and
looked keenly ahead. Then he started cautiously forward upon the trail
of the unknown traveller. As he advanced he noted that the marks in
the snow became more crooked, and it seemed as if the person who made
them was staggering heavily. In one place he saw where he had evidently
fallen, and only after a struggle had regained his feet. Henceforth the
tracks were more zig-zag than ever. Wondering as to the meaning of it
all Klitonda now stepped on more rapidly, and soon through the storm
he caught a glimpse of a reeling figure some distance beyond. That he
was a Chilcat he had not the slightest doubt, and his one desire was to
approach quietly and dispatch him as quickly as possible. No feeling of
pity stirred Klitonda's heart at the sight of the unfortunate man lost
in such a storm. He was a spy, his merciless enemy who had come to seek
him out.
The staggering man never once looked back. His head was bent forward,
and he seemed to be groping his way as if in the darkest night. Klitonda
had the arrow fitted to the string, and was about to draw it full to
the head when the stranger, with a pitiful cry of despair, threw up his
hands, and fell full length upon his face in the soft yielding snow.
Seeing that he did not move, or make any attempt to rise, Klitonda
stepped warily toward him, still keeping the bow and arrow in readiness
for any sudden emergency. When a few feet from where the fallen man was
lying he paused and studied him most carefully. Then he stepped nearer
and peered down close in an effort to obtain a view of the man's face.
Next he laid aside his bow and arrow, seized the man and turned him over
upon his back. As he did so a grunt of surprise escaped Klitonda's lips.
He was not a Chilcat spy, but one of another race, a white man. Klitonda
did not begin to conjecture as to the purpose of the stranger's visit.
It was sufficient for the present to know that the man was not a Chilcat
enemy. For the whites he had the greatest respect and admiration. White
blood had flowed in the veins of his own dead wife, and for her sake, at
least, he must be good to this wayfarer.
Stooping, he lifted the unconscious man in his arms, and retraced his
steps over the trail he had just traversed. It was no light burden
he bore, but a dead weight of not less than one hundred and seventy
pounds. Reaching the place where he had left the sled, Klitonda turned
somewhat to the left, and plunged rapidly forward. Every moment was
precious. Night was shutting down early, and the storm showed no sign of
abatement. But not once did Klitonda hesitate as to the course he was
to pursue, and ere long a log cabin loomed up suddenly out of the storm
a few rods ahead. Several long strides brought him to the building.
Then kicking off his snow-shoes, he drew aside a deer skin flap hanging
over an opening, and entered. As he did so a draught of cold air rushed
through, and vigorously fanned the fire burning brightly within.
This structure was a typical Indian abode, erected for winter use. It
was stoutly made and had the appearance of having been pulled apart,
leaving an open scope several feet wide in the middle. This latter was
the place for the fire, the smoke escaping through the large opening
overhead. At the sides, where the logs were parted, were deer-skin
hangings which kept out the wind and the cold. The space on each side
of the fire was as cozy and comfortable as fir boughs and skins could
make it. From a kettle, resting close to the red hot embers, drifted the
appetising smell of cooking meat. The interior was bright and warm, a
pleasing contrast to the raging of the elements outside.
But brighter than all else within that lodge was Owindia, as she sat
on a large soft bear skin, her fingers busily engaged upon a piece of
beaded-work. Her black hair was smoothed back over her broad though not
high forehead. Her dress of the softest and finest of native tanned deer
skin fitted perfectly her lithe form. Around her neck hung the slender
chain, with locket attached, which had once belonged to her mother.
Something, however, had been disturbing Owindia's peace of mind this
evening. In her eyes dwelt an expression of anxiety, and at every
violent gust of wind she would pause and listen intently. When the
deer-skin flaps shook more than usual she always gave a distinct start.
Why was her father so long in coming? she wondered. Had something
happened to him? Since the day of her mother's death she had never felt
safe when left alone. She imagined that the Chilcats were prowling
around, trying to steal her away. This feeling was greatly intensified
whenever a storm was sweeping over the land.
A bright smile illumined her face, and the anxious look faded from her
eyes when at last she heard her father approach, draw back the flap to
the right, and enter. But when she saw the limp form in his arms she
gave a slight cry of surprise, sprang lightly to her feet, and hastened
to his side.
Carefully Klitonda laid the unconscious man near the fire, and in a few
words explained to his daughter his experience that afternoon.
"He is a white man, little one," he said in conclusion, "and for your
mother's sake we must take good care of him."
Owindia needed no urging to arouse her to action. The sight of the quiet
man lying before her with closed eyes and drawn white face, touched her
heart with the deepest pity. He was a young man, tall and powerfully
built, she could tell at a glance. Removing his fur-lined parka she
at once began to chafe his cold numb hands. Then going to the kettle
steaming near the fire, she brought a hot drink in a small cup, and
with her father's aid forced some of the nourishing broth between the
firmly-set teeth. Ere long the warmth of the fire and the drink he had
taken revived the stranger. Opening his eyes he looked about him in a
vacant manner. Then with a deep sigh he closed them again, and drifted
off into a natural slumber.
After Klitonda had eaten his supper he donned his cap and mittens.
"I am going back for my sled, little one," he said. "I left it only a
short distance away, so it will not take me long. It is not safe to
leave it out there."
He did not notice the look of fear which leaped into his daughter's face
at these words. She said nothing, however, but having watched her father
leave the lodge she went back to her beaded-work. But her fingers were
not busy now. She picked up the jacket, only to let it drop again into
her lap. She found it impossible to keep her eyes away from the sleeping
man. Who was he? she wondered, and what was he doing so far on this
side of the mountains? His face was different from any she had ever
seen, and his hair was not long, black and straight, but dark brown, and
curling over his forehead. She had caught one glimpse of his eyes when
he had opened them and looked vacantly around. She should like to see
them again, to notice their colour. Then she drifted off into a world of
fancy. Were all white people beyond the mountains of the rising sun like
this one? How much he must know. Had he a home, and if so why did he
leave it? Was someone waiting for him to return? How long would he stay
at the lodge, and would he go away again, and she would never see him
more?
Although the most beautiful flower of all the maidens in the Yukon
region Owindia had never been wooed. There was not a brave in the
whole land but longed to take her to his lodge as wife, and would have
fought and even died for her sake. Her presence in any camp always
caused a flutter of excitement, and a stirring of dusky hearts. How the
striplings vied with one another in waiting upon her every want. And
in their various games of wrestling, running and jumping, the victors
always turned to the chief's daughter for signs of special favour.
But Owindia favoured none of them. Although kind and friendly to all
there was a barrier, a certain reserve, which always checked the most
impetuous, and love-smitten braves, and kept them at a respectable
distance.
Combined with her father's strong and independent spirit, there were
her mother's powerful influence and careful teaching. Klitonda's
dissatisfaction with the life of his people, and his yearning for nobler
things sank deep in his daughter's soul. She knew what it meant to be an
Ayana Indian wife. Had she not too often seen the life the women led?
It was to be a mere drudge, to bear children, and to be an abject slave
to her imperious lord and master. So much had her mother told her about
the wonderful things beyond the great mountains of the rising sun that
Owindia held the white race to be little less than divine. Was not her
mother part white? she oftened reasoned with herself, and if she knew
so much, and was so good what must the people be like who had all white
blood in their veins?
Once her mother had playfully told her that a white brave would come for
her, take her away, and she would see the marvellous things for herself.
These words spoken so lightly had remained in Owindia's mind. How real
the world of fancy and romance had become to her, and often she pictured
her hero coming to meet her just as her mother had said.
For a while she forgot the storm and the dark night as she sat before
the fire. Her eyes were looking straight before her, but they dwelt upon
nothing near; they only saw things far off and rosy. A movement of the
lodge flap to the right attracted her attention. How hard the wind was
blowing, she thought, and she glanced around to be sure that the hanging
was well secured at the top. It sometimes got loose if neglected.
To-night no such thing must happen. The lodge must be kept warm on
account of the sleeping man.
As she looked her face underwent a marvellous transformation. Terror
filled her eyes; wild fear blanched her cheeks; a numbing sensation
almost paralysed her body. She could neither speak nor move. She could
only look with eyes that never winked upon that horrible face peering
in through the partly withdrawn flap. Great glaring greedy eyes gloated
over her; they roved around the interior of the lodge, and rested
at last upon the sleeping man. To Owindia it seemed an age that the
terrible visage confronted her, ere at length it was withdrawn, and the
flap dropped back into its place. Then silence reigned, save for the
roaring of the wind, the crackling of the fire, and the wild beating of
Owindia's heart.