THE OLD CHIEF'S MESSENGER
The morning of the trial Yukon Jennie stood in the chief's lodge,
girded for a long journey. She was clad in a soft buckskin suit, the
skirt of which reached but a short distance below her knees. Her
leggings were of a bright scarlet material, and her feet encased in a
pair of moccasins of her own handiwork. On her head was a hood of
gray, so capacious that only a small portion of her face was exposed to
view. Around her waist was a leathern belt, pendant from which were a
small hatchet, a sheath knife, and a drinking cup. Altogether, she
presented a picturesque figure, standing there awaiting the old man's
pleasure.
On her face was a look of determination, mingled with a high resolve,
for was she not about to undertake a task of supreme importance,
fraught with hardships and dangers, for the sake of her tribe? She was
only a girl--a waif--and in the eyes of the great hunters counted for
little. They fed, housed, and clothed her, but never considered her as
of any real importance.
After leaving the mission house the night before, she had searched for
Keith in order to deliver Constance's message. Failing in this, she
had gone to the saloon, hoping to find him there. Hearing the talking
within, she feared to enter, and waited for some time outside in the
bleak darkness. At length wearying of this, she returned to the
chief's lodge, and sat quietly in one corner, apparently lost in
thought. After a while she again sallied forth, and had advanced but a
short distance when the Vigilance Committee hurried from the mission
house and started down the hill. Keeping at a safe distance, she
followed them to the saloon, heard the rough, angry words, and saw
violent hands laid upon Keith. She paused only for an instant, and
then with the speed of a deer, sped back to the lodge and told the
chief what she had witnessed. No comment was made as Jennie related
her story, but all through the night the aged man sat and brooded in
deep silence. Early in the morning he aroused the maiden, and in a few
brief words ordered her to prepare for a long journey.
"You must go," he said in the native tongue, "swift as the wind,
straight as the wild goose, and carry this to Amos."
As he spoke he took from his neck four strings of beads fastened
securely together, and handed them to the maiden.
"Guard them well," he commanded, "and come back soon."
Jennie's eyes sparkled with delight as she seized the necklace in her
hand. Never before had she seen the old man part with his treasure.
It was the symbol of his office as chief of his tribe, and well did
Jennie know the meaning when it was entrusted to any one else. She had
heard of it being done once before. Long years ago, so it was said
around the camp fire, had the chief sent the beads by a trusty courier
over leagues and leagues of mountain, forest and plain to summon the
natives to hurl back a marauding band of Indians.
With the beads about her neck, and a small blanket and some food on her
back, Jennie bade the chief good-bye, and sped away from the lodge out
upon the long trail. All day long she fought her way through the
blinding storm with the unerring instinct of a wild animal. The region
was familiar to her, though every trace of a path had been obliterated.
No living thing met her gaze, as hour after hour she plodded on. When
night shut down she sought shelter in a thicket of fir trees, lighted a
fire, ate her scanty meal, and, wrapping her small blanket around her
body, was soon fast asleep.
Towards morning the wind dropped to rest, the snow ceased falling, and
the bright moon smiled forth from banks of drifting clouds. A shy
rabbit, hopping around in search of a meal from some tender cotton-wood
bark, started back at the sight of the curious bundle lying in the
snow; while some distance off a black fox sniffed the air and turned
warily away.
Early in the morning Jennie was up and on again. On the fourth day,
footsore and weary, she dragged her tired body towards the nearest
camp. The sun had gone down and darkness had spread over the land.
There were only a few Indians here, the rest having gone farther
afield. It was the hour of prayer, and, according to their usual
custom, they were all gathered into the largest camp.
It was a quaint structure, this rude abode, which served as the little
sanctuary in the wild. It had the appearance of a log house cut in
two, and pulled apart, leaving a clear passage of about four feet right
through the building. In this space a glowing fire of large logs was
sending out its generous heat, while the smoke ascended through the
opening above. On either side of the fire the Indians were gathered,
reclining on blankets, wolf and bear skins, placed over a liberal
supply of fir boughs.
Amos, the catechist, was reading the lesson for the day when Jennie
glided into the lodge. His noble face was full of earnestness as he
rolled forth the long words in the rythmical Takudh language, pausing
occasionally to explain some passage to the intent listeners.
Though all present had noticed Jennie's entrance, no sign of
recognition was made as she quietly settled down in their midst, and
listened to the reader. With impassive faces, and a stoicism worthy of
the ancient Grecians, they bowed their heads while Amos repeated
several of the prayers of the Church, and then led in the singing of
"Nearer, My God, to Thee," one of their favourite hymns. Intensely
fond of music, their voices rang out sweet and clear upon the night
air. Old and young joined in the hymn, a translation made years before
by that prince of pioneer missionaries, the venerable Archdeacon
McDonald, who did such a great work at Fort Yukon in the early sixties.
"Ndo nyet nyakkwun Ttia
Ndo nyet nyakkwun,
Kwizyik nititae,
Guselshit chi.
Tthui sih chilig telya
Ndo nyet nyakkwun Ttia,
Ndo nyet nyakkwun."[1]
Not until the hymn had been sung, and the beautiful "Grace of Our Lord
Jesus Christ" said, did the Indians turn their attention to Jennie.
Then all reserve was thrown off, and they surrounded her, plying
question after question as to the cause of her visit. To none of
these, however, did the maiden reply, but unfastening the buckskin
jacket, she drew forth the necklace, and, without a word, handed it to
Amos.
At once all talking ceased, and a deep silence pervaded the place,
broken only by the crackling of the fire or the snarl of a dog outside.
Every eye was fixed upon the badge, the symbol of so much power, as the
catechist held it in his hand and examined it carefully.
Curious though they were to know the meaning of it all, they no longer
questioned the messenger. That it was of supreme importance, they were
well aware, but it was a custom of long standing that when the chief
sent his badge of office, summoning his people together, the courier
must be as silent as the grave. Only from the head of the tribe must
the information be imparted, and then in solemn council.
For some time Amos sat in deep thought, still holding the necklace in
his hand. At length he arose, and addressing a few words to the
hunters who were present, passed with them out of the lodge. Going to
the catechist's temporary shack, the men conversed long and earnestly
together, and finally decided upon a definite line of action.
Early next morning, long before the sun had reddened the eastern
horizon, four stalwart natives, including Amos, left the camp and set
out upon different trails. Days passed by, and then bands of Indians
began to straggle in. The nearest came first, erected their brush
houses, and awaited the rest. At last the most remote arrived, and
with them came Amos. Well had the couriers performed their task of
gathering the hundreds of natives together for their march to Klassan.
It was a quaint, motley crowd, which one day broke up camp and filed
out upon the narrow, winding trail. Sturdy hunters were there; buxom
women, with bright-eyed pappooses strapped upon their broad backs;
little children, youths and maidens, all with their burdens, according
to their strength. Even the dogs, and they were almost numberless,
carried their packs--from ten to thirty pounds. Little wonder that
Amos looked upon the procession with a feeling of pride as it wound its
way along sweeping valleys, through deep gorges and thick forests.
Were they not his own people, and he their chosen leader? Since the
day of the wild storm, when Jennie had set forth from Klassan on her
important errand, the weather had undergone a marked change. A soft
wind blew in from the south, laden with messages of Spring. The sun no
longer skimmed the horizon for an hour or two and then disappeared. It
now rode high, and poured its hot beams upon the great snowy waste.
The trees, touched by wind and sun, dropped their white mantle and
aroused from their long slumber. The brooks and rivulets, locked for
months in an icy embrace, babbled once again, as they poured their icy
waters down to the lordly Yukon. The River Kaslo began to struggle in
the throes of a mighty upheaval. As a rule, the ice wore gradually
away, and passed off too much decayed to cause any serious damage. But
now it was different. The torrents of water hurled down from countless
tributaries, large and small, lifted the solid mass and broke it into a
million fragments. These, carried forward by the sheer force of the
current, crashed and roared, tearing away thousands of tons of earth
from the banks, and scraping the scarred rocks as clean as a bone.
Some were piled up in the wildest confusion on point or headland,
others rushing down became jammed in the Black Canyon, the most dreaded
spot in the river. Day by day the mass rose higher, straining and
groaning to free itself from its narrow prison and the weight of ice
and water behind. But still it held firm in the terrible, vise-like
grip of those flinty walls, and might hold for days, flooding the
valleys for miles back, and threatening all before it with certain
destruction. Never in the memory of the oldest native had Spring
leaped forward so early with unsheathed sword to deal such a sudden
blow to its stern adversary, Winter.
The Indians marching to Klassan felt the change most keenly as they
plodded wearily onward, wading in water to their knees, or sinking at
every step into the soft snow. It was a weary and dispirited band
which one night drew near the village. Silently they came--this army
of the mountains--like grim spectres out of the darkness. The foremost
reached the mission house, and paused in amazement at beholding nothing
there except a heap of ruins. Others came up and crowded around in
silent wonder. Was this all that remained of their supplies, the
mission house filled with goodly treasures, the pride of the band?
Then the truth flashed upon them--the white men had done it, had
inflicted this base insult! From hundreds of lips at once arose a wild
cry of sorrow and rage, which winging through the darkness, startled
the miners from their sleep, and paled the cheeks of those gambling
late in Perdue's store.
[1] Literal translation:
"Close to Thee, my Father,
Close to Thee.
Even the cross
Raiseth me if
Still my song shall be
Close to Thee, my Father,
Close to Thee."