"WHERE IS MY FLOCK?"
For long years the Indian village of Klassan had lain snugly ensconsed
between the sheltering arms of two towering mountains. Once, beyond
the memory of the oldest native, the lodges had stood close to the
small river Kaslo, which poured its icy waters into the mighty Yukon.
But one mild spring night an ice jam in a deep, narrow gorge, pressed
by the tremendous weight of water, gave way, and, rushing down, carried
destruction to the little Indian town, and to a number of the
inhabitants. Since then the village stood further back at a higher
elevation, secure from the devastating floods which occurred at
frequent intervals. Here the Indians were living their wild life, sunk
in degradation and superstition, when found by Keith Steadman, medical
missionary from Eastern Canada. At the command of his veteran Bishop
of the Mackenzie River, he had forced his way over the Rocky Mountains,
sought out these wandering sheep of the wilderness, and for ten long
years lived in their midst.
It was uphill work to root out old ideas, to plant new seeds, and to
overcome the jealousy of the Medicine Men. Often his life was in great
danger, but in the end he conquered and won the confidence of the
natives.
With his own hands he assisted in erecting a log church and school
room, decorating the interior of the former with beautiful designs and
mottoes, much to the Indians' delight. In addition, there was the
little bell, which arrived some years later, and swung in the small
belfry, constructed of four long poles, by the side of the church.
Since then its sweet tones had called the natives together at the
appointed hour of seven. No matter how busily engaged they might be,
all work was suspended, and they hastened to the sanctuary to offer up
their devotions to the Great Father on high. At times Keith, returning
from visits to outlying bands of Indians, hearing the sound of the bell
some distance off, would know that all was well at the village.
During the summer of his tenth year at Klassan, he was summoned to the
Mackenzie River, to attend a Conference of missionaries which was to be
held there. It was a long journey, and he dreaded to leave his post
for such a length of time. Before departing, however, he called the
band together, committed them to care of the trusty native catechist,
Amos, and received their promises of true allegiance.
Keith had been absent but a few weeks, when a crowd of miners struck
Klassan. Prospectors had been roaming the land for years, and at
length made several good discoveries along the Kaslo.
The white men came, fifty strong, from the Lower Yukon, built their
cabins at Klassan close to the river, and began operations. The work
of mining progressed rapidly, and much gold was secured. During the
long winter evenings little could be done, so the men gathered at Jim
Perdue's place, which was store and saloon combined, to gamble and to
drink bad whiskey.
The latter was a strange concoction, manufactured on the spot, to take
the place of the limited supply of whiskey which had been brought in
from the outside. It was known generally as "hootch," though some
called it "Forty-rod whiskey," from its supposed power of killing at
that distance. It was formed of a large quantity of sugar of molasses,
with a small percentage of dried fruit for flavouring, while ordinary
sourdough was used for fermentation. When ready for use it was poured
into an empty kerosene tin, and served hot or cold according to the
taste of the customer.
This nearness of the miners was a severe test of the Indians' loyalty.
At first they kept much aloof from the newcomers, and remained firm to
their absent teacher and pastor. But at length several weakened and
were enticed into the saloon, where ere-long they were imitating the
pernicious ways of the white men. Most of them, however, held their
ground, especially the older ones, who stood faithfully by Amos in the
time of trial.
The catechist was much grieved to see the young men drifting into such
evil habits. He pleaded earnestly with them and induced a number to
leave for their winter hunting grounds. But with others he had no
influence; he had lost his control entirely.
Every night, however, at the appointed hour the mission bell rang out
its full, clear summons, and the faithful few never failed to meet
together in the little church. Then Amos would read the prayers in the
rhythmical Indian dialect, and give a brief address of exhortation.
One night, before closing his remarks, he said to them, "To-morrow, I
go to visit my traps, and to track a moose which I know is near. I may
be a little late in getting back, so I ask Paul Nitsi to build the
fire, ring the bell, and have everything ready when I come."
This was received with nods of approval, and after a few more words
they separated.
That same night a very different scene was being enacted in Perdue's
store. Cards and drinks formed the order of the evening.
"Ding, dong. Ding, dong. Ding, dong," sounded out the little bell.
"D--n that bell!" cried Bill Pritchen, a stranger, bringing his fist
down upon the table with a bang. "I wonder you men stand it."
"How can we stop it?" asked Tim Murphy, cutting a wad from a plug of
tobacco.
"Stop it? Why, I'd stop it d--n soon," returned Pritchen.
"Anyway, what good would it do?" continued Tim, who was fond of an
argument. "The Indians are quiet and honest, mind their own affairs,
and enjoy their little service."
"You'll see how honest they are, Tim Murphy. I never saw an honest
Injun yet. Only dead Injuns are honest. Then look at their d--n
superstition. Such psalm singing would be stopped in some camps as
quick as h--l."
To this conversation Jim Perdue, the saloon-keeper, was the most
interested listener. He hated Amos and the loyal members of the band,
who kept aloof from his store and filthy poison. He determined,
therefore, to use Pritchen as an instrument to further his evil designs
upon the natives.
"So you think you can stop that bell from ringing, do you?" he asked.
"Well, then, I'll bet a drink all around that you can't do it."
"I'll do it for one night," answered Pritchen guardedly.
"Oh, ye might fix the bell so it wouldn't ring fer one night, that'd be
no trouble. But ye can't make them leave their service, and come here
fer a drink. If ye kin I'll supply the stuff free."
"Free poison," laughed one of the men. "Say, Jim, ye'd better go easy.
The ground's too mighty tough, and we don't want to spend a month
digging graves."
"Never ye fear, Dick," replied Perdue good naturedly. "You've stood
the stuff all right, so I guess the Injuns are safe."
During this conversation Pritchen was thinking hard. When the laugh
which followed the saloon-keeper's retort had subsided, he turned to
him and said:
"Jim, I'll take your bet."
"What, to stop the bell, and to bring the Injuns here fer a drink?"
"Yes, but only for to-morrow night, remember."
"Oh, that'll do," replied Perdue. "I'll do the rest."
The next day Pritchen was unusually busy. Having obtained the aid of a
native interpreter, he visited the Indians and set before them the plan
he had carefully concocted during the night. The Great White Chief at
Ottawa, so he told them, had heard of the Takudhs, and how they
attended the services of his Church. So pleased was he with their
faithfulness that he had sent him, Pritchen, all the way to Klassan to
carry his message of good will, and to give a present to each one. He
had only lately arrived, and would like as soon as possible to carry
out the Great White Chief's command. If the Indians would come over to
the store in the evening he would be pleased to distribute the presents.
This harangue was received with evident approval by most of the
natives, and bright visions danced before their eyes. There were
others who were not so easily persuaded, of whom was the aged,
wrinkled, and gray-haired chief of the band. He wished to know more,
and asked for some token to show that the white man was telling the
truth.
Pritchen was prepared for this, and at once brought forth a fair-sized
poke of gold and held it up in his hand.
"Look," he said. "Much gold; the White Chief's gold. With this I will
buy the presents in yonder store."
The various "ah, ah's" which passed from one to another revealed the
effect his words produced. But still the old man was not convinced.
Any miner might have that much gold, he told him. What else could he
show?
Pritchen did not expect this, and felt somewhat confused. He fumbled
in his pockets for some trinket to appease the suspicious chief. He
was about to abandon the search when his hand struck a note book, in a
pocket he had overlooked, on the inside of his rough jacket. He
quickly drew it forth, and from its pages produced a small photograph.
That it was the face of a young man, handsome and fair, did not
signify. It would serve his purpose, Pritchen felt sure of that.
"See," he said, holding it in his hand. "The white chief sends his
picture to the chief of the Takudhs."
This was enough. All doubt was at once removed, and as the old man
stretched out a scrawny hand for the treasure, a smile of triumph
passed over Pritchen's hard face.
"I caught the rascal at last," he said to himself as he left the lodge.
"It was mighty lucky for me that I had that photo. I had forgotten all
about it. But I must get it back some way or else there may be
trouble."
At the appointed hour of six the simple-minded Indians emerged from
their various lodges and filed silently toward Perdue's store. Here
they squatted on the floor, with their backs to the wall, awaiting
proceedings.
A number of miners entered and stood or sat chatting with one another,
apparently unconscious of the dusky figures in their midst. At length
Pritchen arrived, and after conversing for a while in a low tone with
Perdue he turned to the Indians. He told them again, through the same
interpreter, of the great chief's love for them, and his interest in
their welfare. He lengthened his speech as much as possible before
distributing the presents. These were cheap articles he had purchased
from the store during the day; bright pieces of cloth for the women,
pipes, tobacco, and knives for the men, while sugar was doled out to
the children. This performance took some time, and a triumphant light
gleamed in Pritchen's eye as he glanced at the small clock in the room.
"Now for the stuff," he cried.
At once, cups brimming with vile hootch were placed upon the rough bar.
Seizing one in his hand Pritchen held it before the old chief's eyes.
"Drink," he said. "Good."
As the Indian looked in silence at the mixture, without offering to
touch it, a stern voice rang out near the door. Some one was speaking
in sharp, quick words in the Indian tongue, which produced an immediate
effect. In an instant every eye was turned toward the speaker, when
they beheld standing there the sturdy form of Amos, the catechist.
He had returned from his hunting trip, and, finding the church and the
lodges deserted, suspected trouble. He made his way to the saloon,
feeling quite certain that there he would find an explanation of it
all. Neither was he mistaken. When he beheld the presents, and the
cup of whiskey held so temptingly before the face of his revered chief,
his wrath flared forth in righteous indignation. He lashed the Indians
with a few stinging words of rebuke, and, springing forward, with
blazing eyes confronted Pritchen.
The latter, seeing the catechist's anger, realized the purport of his
words. He saw that his scheme was likely to be frustrated simply
through this one man.
"You dog of an Injun," he cried. "You vile psalm singer, get out of
this and go to h--l," at the same time giving him a sharp slap in the
face.
Stung to the quick by the double insult of word and blow, in the
presence of his own people, and upon his ancestral domain, with a yell
Amos leaped for his insulter. Pritchen was prepared for this, and with
a well-directed blow sent the Indian reeling backwards. Recovering
himself, however, with great agility, the catechist again rushed
forward, dodged a second blow, and grappled with his opponent. But
Pritchen was too much for him, and with a powerful effort partly
disengaged himself from the native's grasp, and seized him by the
throat with a death-like grip. Amos endeavored to free himself, but
the more he writhed and struggled, the tighter pressed those terrible
fingers.
So quickly had all this taken place, that for a while the squatting
Indians stared in amazement. Then they realized the whole situation.
Their leader, their chosen guide, was in danger, and had been grossly
insulted by the white man. They leaped to their feet, bore down upon
the struggling pair, and tore away the fingers from the catechist's
throat.
Pritchen had over-stepped the mark, and had brought the storm upon his
own head. He fought hard to free himself from the violent hands which
were laid upon him. The women tore his face and hair, the men dealt
him savage blows, and he staggered to and fro in an effort to keep his
feet and to escape from the human wildcats.
During this performance the miners had remained stolidly silent, and
when they beheld the tables turned upon Pritchen smiles of satisfaction
flitted across their faces. They had little use for the big,
blustering bully. He was not one of them, anyway, only an intruder,
and whence he came or what his business no one seemed to know. But
when they saw him in real danger they bestirred themselves, went to his
assistance, and everything pointed to a free and general fight.
At that instant the saloon door was flung open, and a tall, stalwart
figure sprang into the room. A subtle influence spread over the
contestants, and, pausing in their struggle, turned to look upon the
new arrival.
"Lord! who is it?" gasped Tim Murphy, shrinking back a step or two.
The stranger's eyes swept the room with one swift glance. In an
instant he comprehended much.
"Comrades!" he cried in a voice of terrible intensity, "what does this
mean?"
Receiving no answer to his passionate appeal, he turned to Perdue, who
was watching the proceedings with the keenest interest.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded. "What are you doing with
my Indians? Where is my flock which I left in peace and quietness?"
"Who in h--l are you, and what business is it of yours what we do with
the Injuns?" replied Perdue in a surly manner, at the same time
shrinking back from those searching blue eyes, which seemed to pierce
his very soul.
"Man," came the response, as a yearning arm reached out toward the
natives, "they are mine. Through long years of travail I have borne
with them, and I love them. I am Keith Steadman, the missionary."
At these words Pritchen started. A look of fear came into his eyes,
and he glanced round as if seeking some avenue of escape. Then his
appearance changed. His face darkened like a stormy sky. He reached
forward, seized a cup of whiskey from the bar, and strode up to Amos,
who was quiet in the presence of his master.
"D--n the missionaries, and their flocks!" he cried. "As I offer this
to your chosen cur, before long we will give it to every one of your
Bible suckers, and they will drink."
Keith turned quickly at these insulting words, saw the outstretched
hand, and with one blow of his clenched fist he struck the cup, and
dashed its contents into Pritchen's leering face.
With an oath of rage the latter sprang for the missionary. But he was
not dealing with Amos now, nor any common man. It was one hundred and
seventy pounds of trained flesh, iron nerve, and sinewy muscle that he
encountered.
The missionary sprang to meet his adversary like a charger rushing to
battle. For an instant only they grappled, when Keith, seizing
Pritchen by the throat, hurled him back over the bar with a sickening
thud. The boaster was pinned as in a vise. He struggled in vain to
free himself from that terrible grip. In his frantic clutches to
release the hand from his throat he ripped away the coarse shirt from
his neck and bosom, while his face became livid. Keith's hand was
lifted; he was about to strike. Suddenly he paused, his fingers
relaxed, and with the words, "The Lord judge thee, thou wretched man,"
he flung Pritchen from him as if he were a viper, then turned and left
the building.