WARNING
When Klitonda returned to his lodge he kicked off his snow-shoes,
drew back the flap, and entered. He paused abruptly and looked with
astonishment into his daughter's face.
"What's wrong, little one?" he demanded.
But Owindia did not reply. She only sat rigid, upright, and wide-eyed,
staring straight before her.
"Child, child, what is it?" her father insisted, stepping forward and
laying his big right hand upon her shoulder.
The touch aroused her, and brought her somewhat to her senses.
"There, there!" she gasped, pointing with her finger to the deer-skin
hanging.
"What do you mean?" replied her father, following the direction of her
extended arm.
"Didn't you see it?" she queried. "A face, oh, so terrible, looking in
upon me out of the night! You must have seen it, for it disappeared just
before you came."
"You must have been mistaken, little one. You have been dreaming. It was
the wind, and the movement of the flap."
"No, no! It was a face, with horrible greedy eyes--eyes like the ones
which looked at me the night my mother died. I was not mistaken."
Across Klitonda's face swept a dark scowl, and an angry growl escaped
his lips. He knew now that Owindia's fear was real. He thought of what
he had heard that morning about the Chilcat spies. Quickly he wheeled
and left the lodge. He was gone only a short time, when he returned and
shook the snow from his body.
"No use," he muttered. "It is too dark to follow the tracks. It is just
like the Chilcats to choose such a night as this. We are never safe,
little one."
"And you think it was a Chilcat, father? Are you sure now that I was not
mistaken; that my eyes did not deceive me?"
"No, child, you were not mistaken. I heard to-day that Chilcat runners
are in the land spying us out."
A tremor shook the girl's body as she listened, and drawing close to her
father's side she put her hand in his.
"Don't leave me again," she pleaded. "Whenever you go away they come.
Let me always go with you, no matter how hard the trail may be. I shall
go mad if I have to stay alone after what I have endured to-night."
"Very well, little one," was the reply. "Don't worry over it now. A good
sleep will do you much good."
Owindia, however, found it hard to follow her father's advice. The
hours passed, and the fire burned low. But sleep would not come to her
eyes. The storm still raged with unabated fury. Every time the flap
moved she imagined she saw that horrible face looking in upon her. When
toward morning she did sink into a fitful slumber she was beset by cruel
Chilcats, who were leering upon her with merciless eyes. Then a form
bounded to her rescue, drove back her assailants, seized her in his
arms, and bore her away. She caught one fleeting glimpse of her rescuer
ere the vision faded--it was the face of the white stranger.
With the light of day courage returned to Owindia's heart. The fearful
scene of the past night was like a horrible dream. Her face was somewhat
pale, and a certain listlessness possessed her which she could not
overcome. The presence of the white man kept her from brooding over her
fears.
The stranger of the storm, much refreshed after his long sleep,
opened his eyes and looked around the lodge in astonishment. His last
remembrance was of staggering through the forest, battling with the
storm, and trying to urge his weary, over-taxed body forward. How had
he come to this place? he wondered. Who had rescued him? It did not
concern him much, however, for the bed was comfortable, and his eyes
were fixed upon a bright scene on the other side of the fire. It seemed
like fairy-land to lie there listening to the crackling of the fire, and
watching that graceful form now standing erect, and again bending over
something which he could not see. Where had such a beautiful creature
come from? She surely did not belong to the wilderness. A form such
as hers, clad in a neatly fitting dress, soft and clean, he had not
expected to find in this far-off Yukon region. And the poise of her head
held him spellbound by its every movement. Presently she turned, looked
straight toward him, and their eyes met. It was only for an instant, but
that glance was sufficient to stir the stranger's heart to its inmost
depth.
Never before had he been thus affected by such eyes. They were different
from any he had ever seen, so full of tenderness, mingled with sadness
were they. A secret fear, as of a hunted animal lurked within their
clear orbs. They were eyes which roused in the soul a longing for
action, a desire to do something which would cause them to glow with
pleasure and pride. The quick glance which had met the stranger's was
a questioning one. "Are you worthy to be trusted?" it seemed to say.
And in fact the young man wanted to feel that he could be trusted. He
could not describe the sensation which came to him now; he had never
experienced the like before. To a man whose life had been a roving one
full of adventure, it was certainly new to be captivated by a pair of
eyes. But in that brief space of time, with not even a word spoken he
knew that, for him, life would never be the same again. There was
something more to live for than the chase, and no matter where he went
those sad dark eyes would ever be with him.
For some time he remained in his recumbent position satisfied to watch
her helping her father. The latter was skinning the game he had taken
from his traps the day before and Owindia was assisting. There were
various animals, fox, lynx, wolverine, and marten, for Klitonda had made
a good catch. Owindia was stretching the pelts, and the stranger noticed
how deftly she did the work. His eyes roamed from the skins near the
fire to the many hanging upon the walls of the lodge. There were fine
beaver pelts, and black fox skins, too, of rare quality. With the eyes
of a connoisseur he noted them all, and conjectured their various values
when laid down in London. And this was only one lodge. There must be
hundreds more, he felt confident, each with as rich a supply as this.
What prizes he had found here in the wilderness, furs to satisfy the
heart of the keenest trader, and a maiden, whose presence stirred his
very soul. His weariness and lassitude had left him now. He sat bolt
upright that he might obtain a better view of the skins hanging around
him. How much would the Indian ask for them? he wondered, or were they
already spoken for by some native trader? He did not believe that there
were other white men in the country, but he had heard that the coast
Indians crossed the mountains, and did considerable bartering. He knew
next to nothing about the Chilcats, and had yet to learn the history
of that rapacious tribe. He was the trader once more. Keenness mingled
with caution, and a smile of satisfaction lurked about the corners of
his mouth as he thought of the favourable report he would make upon his
return down river.
Owindia, seeing the stranger sitting up, went to the fire, lifted the
cover from a kettle, and taking a spoon, artistically made from the
horn of a mountain sheep, began to dip out some of the rich broth into
a small wooden vessel. This done, she brought it to the white man's
side, and without a word held it out for him to take. The stranger was
hungry, and he drank eagerly, at the same time noticing how small were
the nut-brown hands of the maiden standing before him. Next she brought
him a piece of well-cooked moose meat, and the relish with which he ate
brought an expression of satisfaction to her face.
"Is the white man better now?"
They were the first words she had uttered, and the stranger was
surprised at the soft tone of her voice. He was delighted, too, to find
that he could understand her language, which was little different from
that he was in the habit of speaking.
"I feel quite well," he replied. "You are very kind to me. But please
tell me how I came here. I was battling through the storm, I fell and
knew no more until I awoke and found myself in this lodge."
"It was my father who saved you," Owindia replied, while a smile
illumined her face.
"And is that your father over there?"
"Ah, ah."
"And what is his name?"
"Klitonda."
"What! Klitonda, chief of the Ayana?"
"Ah, ah."
"And your name?"
"Owindia."
"Owindia; how pretty. I like it. Do you wish to know mine?"
"Ah, ah."
"Natsatt is my name."
"I like it," was the shy reply. "It is different from any I ever heard."
Klitonda in the meantime had finished his work, and had taken his place
near where the white man was sitting. His face brightened as he listened
to the conversation, for it always pleased him to see Owindia happy.
Something about the stranger attracted him. He liked his face; it was
candid and open. Klitonda was a good judge of character. He could read
men like an open book, and had a name for each. He could detect the
wolf, bear, or fox nature in a short time.
"I want to thank you for your kindness to me," and Natsatt turned toward
the chief as he spoke. "But for you I should have perished out there in
the storm."
"The white man is welcome to Klitonda's lodge," was the quiet reply.
"Klitonda's heart is always warm to the great race beyond the mountains
of the rising sun."
"You have traded with them, then?" Natsatt somewhat anxiously queried.
"They have been here buying your skins?"
"Klitonda's wife was born there. Klota's father was a white man."
"Oh, I see," and a surprised look came into Natsatt's eyes. Then he
looked at Owindia and light began to dawn upon his mind. Here was the
reason why she was so different from other Indian women he had met.
There was white blood in her veins.
"And your wife is dead?" he questioned.
"Ah, ah. Dead."
The pathos in Klitonda's voice, and the pained expression upon his face,
deterred Natsatt from inquiring further.
"Do the white traders come here now?" he asked.
The chief shook his head.
"No, the white men have never traded here."
"But where do you sell your furs?"
"To the Chilcat wolves," and Klitonda's voice hardened. "They come here;
they rob the Ayana. They are bad, ugh!"
"But why do you trade with them?"
"Where else can the Ayana trade? What can they do with their skins?"
"Will the Chilcats get all these?" and Natsatt pointed to the furs
hanging on the walls.
"No!" Klitonda replied, clenching his hands fiercely together. "No
Chilcat gets these skins."
"But what will you do with them?"
"Klitonda will cross the great mountains. He will find the white
traders."
"Did you ever go there before?"
"No."
"And will other hunters take their skins there, too?"
"No; they fear the Chilcats."
"But would they trade with the white men if they came into your country?
Would they bring their furs to the white man's store?"
To this Klitonda did not at once reply. He seemed to be thinking deeply.
A new idea had entered his mind. Would the white traders come? Would
they buy the furs, and would they help to drive back the Chilcats beyond
the coast range? Then he thought of the anger of the Chilcats should the
white men enter the land, and begin trading with the Ayana. There would
be trouble, he felt sure of that.
"It would not be safe for the white men to come," he at length remarked.
"The Chilcat wolves would be angry; they would come in great force, and
kill them."
"You think so?" Natsatt questioned.
"Ah, ah. Klitonda knows what the Chilcats would do."
"But the white men have come. They have built a Post at the mouth of the
Segas River. They have goods, and will trade with the Ayana. They will
give fair prices for their skins."
Klitonda started at these words, and looked keenly into Natsatt's face.
"Does the white man speak true?" he demanded. "Does he mean all he says?"
"Yes, yes; it is true. The Post has been built, and the white men are
there. I was sent out with another trader to visit some of the Indian
camps, to invite them to bring their furs to the Post. My companion went
more to the right, while I followed the river and got lost in the storm.
I hope nothing has happened to him."
Slowly Klitonda shook his head.
"Let the white men beware," he replied. "The Chilcats are fierce."
And yet within his own heart Klitonda rejoiced at what he had just
heard. He himself could take his furs to the white men, and he
determined to get as many as possible of his own people to do the same.
He would let them know of the new Post, and he felt quite sure that they
would visit the place out of mere curiosity at least as soon as the ice
moved out of the river.
Natsatt pondered carefully what Klitonda had told him. The news was
disturbing. He thought of the trading Post down the river, devoid of
defence, should the Chilcats make trouble. It was his duty to return as
speedily as possible, and report what he had heard. And yet he did not
wish to leave the lodge. He longed to stay, to be near this beautiful
maiden. He leaned comfortably back against a pile of skins, and watched
her busy fingers as they ran the beads upon the slender sinew thread.
The storm still roared outside, the fire crackled, and the heat made him
drowsy. Yes, he must hasten away; he must not delay. But those hands
fascinated him. How little they were, and yet how strong. And that
thread upon which the beads were slipping brought to his mind a quaint
fancy. It was his life, bare and lonely, stretching out through more
than a score of years. But how changed it had become of late. What a
transformation had taken place. Various colours, red and blue, green and
orange, all blending so naturally. And it was she who did it. Yes, his
life was like that thread, and she was working the change, transforming
bareness into beauty, sweet peace and harmony for the spirit of
restlessness. He wished to stay there forever, to be close to her side,
to look into her eyes, and to watch those wonderful fingers. Far away
now she seemed--fading from his sight--and as she moved there floated
upon his ears the sound of singing, sweeter than the song of a bird, and
more entrancing than any thing he had ever heard. Was it a dream?