AN INDIAN CREMATION
"We're nearly out of sugar and salt," Uncle Will announced a day or two
later.
"The water spoiled a good part of what we had when my sled went through
the ice. Do you feel like taking a walk down to Dalton's, Charles,
while I finish up these sluice-boxes?"
"Yes," replied Mr. Bradford, "and I might take along one of the boys."
So it was decided that Roly and his father should go to the
trading-post with Coffee Jack for guide.
They set out early in the morning to take advantage of the lowest
stage of the river, which, owing to the coolness of the last few days,
had fallen considerably. They were thus enabled to make the fordings
without undue danger, and found themselves in about three hours at the
mouth of the gorge, having stopped but a moment at each of the camps.
Directly opposite them across the valley, which extended, with a
uniform width of about four miles, from Lake Dasar-dee-ash on the east
toward a range of lofty peaks far to the west, loomed a fine cluster
of mountains ribbed with melting snow. By skirting the eastern slopes
of these mountains over a new trail made by prospectors, they would
come upon the Dalton trail at Klukshu Lake, and this was the route
Mr. Bradford preferred, but Coffee Jack was not familiar with it and
desired to follow the old Indian trail to the west of the mountains.
Accordingly, they passed out of the gorge along the great dry gravel
deposit, which they followed in its turn to the right, having first
exchanged their rubber boots, with which they could now dispense, for
the stout shoes which they had slung across their shoulders. The boots
were hung in the forks of a clump of willows, where they could easily
be found on their return.
Mr. Bradford called Roly's attention to the long stretch of treeless
gravel curving to the west.
"It is evident," said he, "that the Kah Sha River once flowed in
this westerly course, but having choked itself up by successive
accumulations of gravel and boulders ejected from the gorge in its
spring floods, it now takes the opposite direction and empties into
Lake Dasar-dee-ash."
"That's something I never should have thought of," said Roly, with
interest, "and it's plain enough, too."
"You can read a good deal of geological history," observed his father,
"by keeping your eyes open and noticing simple things. Every boulder,
cliff, and sand-bank has a story to tell of the forces of ice, flood,
or fire."
At length Coffee Jack left the low ground, which had become swampy,
and followed a line of foot-hills, where the trail could sometimes be
discerned by Mr. Bradford and Roly, but more often not. The young guide
walked silently, with his head bent and his eyes fixed upon the ground.
"No white man would be content with a trail like this," Mr. Bradford
remarked. "The white man blazes the trees and looks up for his signs,
while the Indian relies upon footprints, faint though they may be, and
looks down. I imagine that by their manner of following a trail you
may gain an insight into the characteristics of the two races,--the
one alert, hopeful, business-like, brainy; the other keen of instinct,
easy-going, stealthy, and moody."
"But what signs does Coffee Jack see?" inquired Roly. "There are plenty
of places where I can't see any path, but he goes right along."
"The marks are various," said his father. "It may be that the grass is
matted or less vigorous or of an altered hue where it has been trodden,
or a twig may be broken, or a mouldering tree-trunk rubbed a little,
but I presume that in such a place as this the boy is guided partly by
his knowledge that the trail follows the side of these hills at about
this height."
Coffee Jack discovered footprints of the moose and the caribou
in several places, and took delight in pointing them out to his
companions, whose powers of observation he evidently did not rate very
high. He gave them, too, a glimpse of a large lake to the northwest
which was not on the map.
Late the second afternoon they circled a small lake, swung around the
southern slopes of the mountains on their left, and entered the main
trail on the summit of the great hill above the Stik village. How
changed was the valley of the Alsek since last they looked upon it!
Where before were snow and ice now smiled a landscape of rich green.
Below them clustered the Indian houses in a grassy clearing by the
river. The sound of voices and the barking of dogs came plainly up. It
was difficult to realize that they were not looking on a white man's
village, yet not until they reached the trading-post, now surrounded
with the white tents of incoming prospectors, would they see any
members of their own race.
Ike Martin received them cordially, and after the sugar and salt had
been weighed out he suddenly exclaimed, "By the way, here's something
more for you!" and took from the drawer of an old desk a batch of
letters, which he handed to Mr. Bradford, remarking that an Indian had
brought them in with mail for the Thirty-six.
To say that these were received with delight would be putting it
mildly. The wanderers repaired in haste to their tent, where the
missives from home were eagerly read; and although the latest letter
was just a month old, yet so long had they been exiled that all this
news seemed fresh and recent. At home all were well and in good
spirits. Knowing how anxious her husband and sons would be for accounts
of the war, Mrs. Bradford had sent many clippings from newspapers,
which Mr. Bradford and Roly devoured with hungry eyes, reading and
re-reading them far into the night.
Early next morning, before his father was awake, Roly, acting on a hint
from Ike, stole over to the Klukshu River where it joins the Alsek, and
with red salmon-roe supplied by the obliging storekeeper coaxed forth
half a dozen handsome brook trout. These he supplemented with some of
the fresh dandelion leaves which grew abundantly near the storehouse,
and the three had a most enjoyable breakfast.
"Better stop at the Stik village," advised Ike, as they were preparing
to return. "There's going to be a cremation, and it'll be worth seeing."
So Mr. Bradford, Roly, and Coffee Jack, with their light packs on
their backs, walked leisurely down the trail in company with several
prospectors. Among their companions were the two nephews of Mrs.
Shirley, whom they had assisted at the fords in March.
"So the ladies gave it up, did they?" said Mr. Bradford, in the course
of the conversation.
"Yes," answered one of the young men. "They came as far as Pleasant
Camp, but found it best to stop there while we two went in and located
claims. We've just been out to the coast with them, and now we're going
back to work the claims."
At the village Ike joined them, and others came at intervals until the
entire white population of the trading-post was present. The body to be
burned was that of a young Indian who had died of consumption. Before
the house in which he lay, the natives and the white men assembled and
awaited the appearance of the family, while dogs of all ages, sizes,
and degrees, attracted by the concourse, ran restlessly about the
place, barking or quarrelling as their dispositions prompted.
At length the door opened, and the female relatives of the deceased
issued, both young and old, all bareheaded, and attired in their best,
though faded, calico dresses. They grouped themselves before the door,
and were followed by the men, also evidently dressed in their best.
Some of them had wound bright blue or red ribbons around their dark
felt hats.
The body was borne out of the house on a rude litter covered with a
blanket, and its appearance was the signal for an unearthly chorus of
wails and lamentations from the women, who continued to howl until the
procession was well on its way to the graveyard, the men, meanwhile,
preserving countenances of the most unruffled indifference.
The graveyard was a grassy level containing a row of miniature wooden
houses with glass windows and sloping roofs, which looked for all the
world like children's playhouses. They were raised about three feet
above the ground on stout wooden supports. The storekeeper informed Mr.
Bradford and Roly that the ashes of the dead were deposited in boxes in
these houses.
As the procession reached the cemetery, four rifle-shots were fired
into the air by those about the corpse, which was then placed within a
pyre of dry spruce logs, made ready to receive it. Fire was applied to
the pile, and soon the logs were blazing fiercely.
And now into the midst of the flames, to Roly's great surprise, was
thrown all the property of the dead Indian, including a good rifle and
a watch. However wasteful this custom might appear to the white men,
they could not but respect the feelings which led these poor children
of the wilderness to part with treasures to them so valuable. The dead
man would need his blankets, his rifle, and his watch in the happy
hunting-grounds, and some morsels of food for the journey were not
forgotten.
Meanwhile the women wailed and moaned with the tears streaming down
their dark faces, as they sat upon the turf and watched the curling
smoke and leaping flames. When Mr. Bradford turned away toward the
hill, it was with a feeling that grief is very much the same thing all
the world over.