THE CHIEF OF THE RANGES

A Tale of the Yukon

BY H. A. CODY

AUTHOR OF "THE FRONTIERSMAN," "THE LONG PATROL," ETC.

HODDER & STOUGHTON
LONDON MCMXIII

Copyright, 1913,
By George H. Doran Company

Printed in U. S. of America

TO
MY FATHER AND MOTHER

CONTENTS

THE CHIEF OF THE RANGES

[CHAPTER I]

THE RAIDERS

The crooked river wound its lazy way between gently shelving banks. The pebbles along the shore sparkled like mirrors beneath the sun's bright rays. The whole land stood agleam on this fair summer afternoon in the far Canadian Northland. Only a gentle whisper rose from the dark forest as the drifting breeze stirred the crests of battalions of rugged spruce and fir trees. The wind, floating along the river and rippling the surface of the water, caused the small canoe lying near the shore to chafe fretfully upon the beach.

Owindia, seated well astern, played one small brown hand in the stream. The breeze, touching her loose dark hair, tossed it over her cheeks and forehead in rich confusion. Listlessly she leaned against the side of the canoe, looking down dreamily into the clear depths beneath.

The river, wind and forest were all like herself—creatures of freedom. She knew them in their days of austerity and coldness as well as in times of peace and repose. In winter and summer, in storm and sunshine, they had always been her companions, and she loved them with the deep affection of her ardent nature.

Of what was she thinking as she sat there in the sunshine, idly dabbling in the water? Was it of some bright event in her young life of sixteen summers? Or was it a vision, lying golden in the far-off future? Perhaps she was thinking of her father and wondering when he would return from the chase. Whatever it was the picture was evidently bright which filled her mind, for occasionally her lips parted in a sweet smile. No sense of fear was hers, and no dark forebodings disturbed her quiet repose. So full of joy had been her life that only the outward aspect had been presented to her view. She knew nothing of the many strange, subtle ways within, of darkness, misery, cruelty, and death. The noble forest on her right was brilliant outwardly, but she could not see within its secret depths, nor through its long, sombre arches. Had it been possible the dreamy expression would have faded from her eyes, and the happy smile would have left her lips. What connection had those crouching forms, slinking beneath the outspreading branches, with the peace of that summer day? The venomous serpent crawling through the tall grass can change in an instant the child's joyous laughter to shrieks of terror.

A slight noise among the trees fell upon Owindia's keen ears, causing her to glance quickly around. Seeing nothing unusual she resumed her former position. It was only a rabbit, no doubt, or a squirrel skurrying along the ground. But her interest had become aroused, and once again her eyes searched the dark recesses. As she did so she leaped to her feet, and stood for an instant with the startled expression of a hunted animal. Then from her lips came a wild cry of alarm, as she sprang from the canoe, and darted rapidly along the shore. Occasionally she glanced back over her shoulder, and each time the sight urged her to greater speed. Yes, they were coming with long swinging lopes. Monsters they seemed to the terrified girl, and when she heard their hideous laughter as they steadily gained upon her a sickening dread possessed her. What had become of that bright sunny face? Where were those dreamy eyes? Surely this was not the maiden who had reclined so gracefully in the canoe but a short time before.

Owindia had rounded a bend now, and there ahead appeared a frail rude lodge. Before it stood a woman, who gazed with wonder upon the wild-eyed girl rushing toward her, and screaming in frenzied tones "Chilcats! Chilcats!" Then she caught sight of the pursuers, and with a cry she started forward, reached the maiden, and enfolded her in her arms. Half carrying and half dragging she hurried Owindia toward the lodge, and had only time to thrust her through the opening used as a door when the two braves leaped upon her and endeavoured to hurl her aside. The woman was aroused to the wildest fury. She struggled and fought with her bare-limbed antagonists. She writhed and twisted in their merciless grasp. Her sharp finger nails left streaming red scars wherever she touched their bodies, and her firm white teeth sank deep into the quivering flesh. She was more than a mere woman now; she was a mother fighting for her only child against the overpowering force of brutal passion.

Leaving his companion to contend alone outside with this fury of a woman, the taller Indian freed himself, entered the lodge, caught Owindia in his arms, and started to make his escape by bursting through the rear of the lodge. From the maiden's lips arose shrieks of the wildest terror, and vainly she endeavoured to tear herself away from her captor. But he held her firm, and smothered her cries by placing one big, dirty hand over her mouth.

No sooner did the mother realise what was taking place within the lodge than she loosened her hold upon her adversary, and sprang to the rescue of her daughter. Owindia's captor saw her coming, and, knowing what a close contact would mean, he gave her a brutal kick as she approached. For an instant the woman struggled to maintain her ground, but her brain reeled, a mist rose before her eyes, and she sank to the earth, striking heavily upon a sharp stone as she fell.

The raiders were now free from this turbulent mother, and a harsh laugh of scorn broke from their lips as they looked upon the prostrate form. No sense of pity stirred their hearts, for was not this woman one of the despised Ayana tribe? But with the girl it was different. She was beautiful, and they needed her.

Owindia no longer struggled, but lay like a crushed flower in those gripping arms. She glanced at her mother lying helplessly before her, and then into the faces of her captors. But no sign of mercy could she detect in their greedy, lustful eyes. No hope could she expect from them. They would carry her away beyond the mountains down to the coast, and what then? Had not her father and mother often told her of the raids the Chilcats had made in days past, when wives and daughters had been ruthlessly snatched away, never more to return to their own people? Had she not pictured it all in her mind—the terror, despair and the long years of heart-breaking life among that ferocious tribe? Had she not at times, even as a child, started up in alarm in the dead of night thinking the Chilcats were upon her? And now it had come to pass. It was no longer a dream, but a terrible reality.

With their precious booty thus secured, the Chilcats turned toward the silent forest at their back. They had taken but a few steps forward when out from amid the trees leaped a gigantic native, and with a wild cry of rage and bereavement rushed toward the raiders. The Indian bearing the maiden dropped his burden upon the ground, and endeavoured to seize the small hatchet hanging at his waist. His efforts were in vain, for the next instant he was stretched full length upon the earth, with his thick skull shattered by a blow that would have rent a rock in twain. His companion, by a tremendous sideward bound, escaped a like fate and sped off nimbly into the forest, and escaped from view.

The victor did not attempt to follow the retreating Chilcat, but stood like a statue over his fallen victim. A rage, wild and ungoverned, possessed his soul. His eyes gleamed with the fury of a lioness bereft of her cubs. His great breast lifted and fell, telling plainly of the storm raging within. The muscles of his long tense right arm stood out like cords of thrice-twisted hemp. With a grip of steel his fingers clutched the haft of his hunting axe. At his feet lay the dead Chilcat. What did it matter that life was extinct in that prostrate form? He was of the hated race, the people who for long years had been grinding down the Ayana. It was something to have even one of their dead so near him now. Lifting high his axe he smote again and again that quivering body. His fury increased at every stroke. It was not one Chilcat he was smiting, but the whole race. He paused at length and looked around as if expecting enemies from every quarter. He glanced toward the forest and the shore, and at last beheld his daughter crouched upon the ground a few paces away. In her eyes was a new expression of fear. She could not understand her father's terrible action. Never before had she witnessed a scene like this; death and such boundless fury. It could not be her father, Klitonda, the brave chief of the Ayana. And even as the giant looked upon his daughter his arm relaxed and a somewhat softer light came into his eyes. He crossed to where she was crouching and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She shrank away at the touch, gentle though it was, while a low moan escaped her lips. Presently she looked up. Her father had moved away, and was kneeling by the side of the prostrate woman, scanning her face and speaking to her.

"Klota, Klota," he called, "Klitonda has come. He is here."

Quickly Owindia rose to her feet and hurried to where her father was kneeling. So great had been her terror that she had scarcely thought of her mother. But now she realised that something was wrong. Seeing her mother huddled there, so still and death-like, with a gurgling cry she dropped by her side and peered into those staring eyes, and softly stroked the face so dear to her.

"Mother, mother!" she wailed, "speak to Owindia. Don't look that way. Don't!"

Then something arrested her attention, which made her heart almost stop its beating. It was the slow trickle of a tiny red stream, oozing out from the jet black hair of the unconscious woman, and mingling with the sand.

"It's blood! It's blood!" she cried, lifting her startled eyes to her father's face. "The Chilcats have killed her! Oh-o-o-o!"

Klitonda was himself once more. No longer was his rage expressed in outward action. It was like the silent, pent-up force of the concealed mine, only waiting the right moment to burst forth in appalling destruction. Gathering his wife tenderly in his strong arms he carried her swiftly to the lodge, and laid her gently upon a bed of soft furs. Well did he know that she would never look at him again, never speak to him more. Picking up a dressed deer-skin lying near he drew it over Klota's stiffening body. He paused for a moment ere shrouding her face. A slight chain of gold encircled the woman's neck, supporting a small locket concealed beneath her dress. This he unfastened, and handed it to Owindia.

"Wear it, child," he said; "it was your mother's."

The long day waned, and night at length shut down chilly over the land. A fitful breeze rippled the river's surface, and stirred the tops of the pointed trees. It moaned around the lodge wherein lay Owindia upon her bed of skins of wild animals. Her black hair fell around her drawn, tear-stained face. The light from the fire outside illumined the interior of the humble abode. It threw into clear relief the graceful form of the sleeping maiden and the contour of her shrouded mother not far away.

By the burning logs crouched Klitonda. No sleep came to his eyes. He gazed down silently into the red hot embers, as if fascinated by their fiery glow. But hotter and more terrible was the fire surging within the breast of this outraged chief. Once he straightened himself up, turned partly around, and threw out a hard clenched fist toward the great Chilcoot range of mountains lying away to the westward. Such action was more eloquent than many words. It was a symbol, the outward and visible sign of a mighty inward resolve.

[CHAPTER II]

FOILED

Steep wooded banks lined both sides of the Yukon River for many miles. On one of the highest hills stood Klitonda, keenly watching the crooked stream as it wound like a silver thread through its setting of dark green trees. He might have been a stump, for not the slightest movement did he make.

Far away in the distance toward the left his eyes were resting upon two specks gliding steadily up stream. That they were Chilcat traders and plunderers he was well aware. As he looked his right hand closed fiercely upon the stout bow which only his arm could bend to its full capacity. The day was cool, and a keen wind careening over the land presaged a coming storm. But Klitonda heeded it not.

Since that terrible night, over a year before, when he had watched the burning embers in front of the lodge wherein his wife was lying cold in death, the fire raging within his heart had not subsided. Time had only added fuel, and a deeper intensity to the flames. The Chilcats had vowed revenge for the brave who had been slain. "Blood for blood" was their cry, and they had mercilessly hunted Klitonda from place to place. They had threatened to exterminate the whole Ayana tribe if the chief were not delivered into their hands. But this threat had never been carried out, for the Chilcats could not well afford to slaughter the hunters and trappers who supplied them so regularly with an abundance of game and valuable furs.

But Klitonda had not been idle. He had roamed the land like a weird spectre, appearing suddenly in the most unlikely places, and at times when least expected. He had visited every band of his scattered flock by river, lake, and in forest depths. Wherever a camp fire had been lighted there Klitonda's voice had been heard, pleading with his people, and urging them to arouse to action and drive back the haughty, insulting Chilcats beyond the mountain ranges. But his efforts seemed all in vain. A spirit of base fear pervaded the hearts of even the lustiest of the warriors. They had been too terribly crushed and held in subjection so long to be stirred easily to action. The old men and women who had survived that slaughtering carnage had passed away, but not without instilling into the breasts of their children their own overwhelming dread of that cruel coast tribe.

With Klitonda it was different. Fear to him was unknown, and he despised the cringing spirit of his people. Two forces now governed his very being: one, the love he bore to his only child, Owindia; the other, the hatred to the Chilcats, and his determination to free the land from their dominating sway. So on this late fall afternoon as he watched the two canoes out upon the river an almost overpowering passion possessed his soul. This was due to the visit he had just made to his wife's grave near at hand. He had not previously returned to the place since he had borne her body up that steep hill over twelve months before. But the longing had been strong within his heart to look upon the spot where she was lying. And so he had come back, and had stood for a long time by the lonely mound upon the hilltop.

Having watched the advancing canoes until the trees along the shore hid them from view, Klitonda left the summit and glided swiftly down through the forest toward the river. Ere long he moved more cautiously, and at length coming to the brow of the bank he dropped upon his knees, and crept warily forward. Under the shelter of a small thick fir tree he paused and from his place of concealment he was able to obtain an excellent view of all that took place below. He could see that the Chilcats had landed, and were bartering with a number of Ayana Indians encamped at that very place. Klitonda well knew that moose meat and skins were being exchanged for trinkets of little value. In fact the Chilcats set the price, and if they had nothing to give would always take what they wanted as a matter of course.

Klitonda breathed hard, and his dusky face grew darker than ever as he watched the unscrupulous barter. How he longed to leap down the hill and meet those plunderers face to face. He believed he would be a match for all of them, even though they were ten to one. But he well knew that such an act would be useless. Nothing would be gained. Only by the united efforts of the Ayana could anything of a definite nature be accomplished.

Presently an expression of anxiety came into Klitonda's eyes. For a while he remained lost in thought. His mind turned toward his daughter whom he had left that morning in a temporary lodge farther upstream. The Chilcats would pass that way, and he must get there first. It would not do for those human wolves to see Owindia.

Slipping quietly back from the brow of the hill until he had gained the safety of the forest, he sped with nimble feet among the trees. No trail marked the way, and Klitonda needed none. He was as certain of his steps as if he walked on a well-beaten road. Ere long the river appeared to view, and warily approaching the shore he looked carefully up and down the stream. Then drawing a small dug-out canoe from a concealed place he pushed it gently into the water and stepped in. Seizing one of the two paddles lying in the bottom he sent the rocking craft speeding on its way. The wind was in his teeth, blowing strong and keen from the great lake two miles beyond.

Klitonda had gone but a short distance, when, happening to look back, he saw the two canoes of the Chilcats rounding a bend in the river several hundred yards behind. They had evidently caught sight of the craft ahead, and were bending strongly to their paddles in an effort to overtake the lone voyager.

The sight of his pursuers affected Klitonda like magic. With a jerk he settled himself into a better position, and drove the blade of his polished paddle into the cold water with a sudden swish. The canoe responded like a thing of life, and bounded forward as if eager to do its master's bidding. Only occasionally did Klitonda glance back, and each time he noticed that the Chilcats were steadily gaining. There were ten of them, and each wielded a paddle.

The current was now swift and Klitonda was compelled at times to keep close to the shore. Eagerly he looked ahead and at length saw far beyond the faint outline of the lodge he had recently erected. The sight lent new strength to his arms. He must reach the place before his pursuers overtook him. Soon the rain, which had been threatening for some time, met him. It drove lashingly into his face, impelled by the ever increasing wind. But neither rain, wind nor current could stay the onward rush of that trim little craft. The paddle bent beneath Klitonda's tremendous sweep. He felt that the Chilcats were not far behind, but he could not afford to turn around even for one fleeting glance. His eyes were constantly fixed upon the lodge ahead, which was now becoming quite distinct. He watched for Owindia as he approached. Would she be near the shore, waiting his return, or had she strolled off into the forest a short distance as was sometimes her custom?

Nearer and nearer swept the canoe. He could see the opening of the lodge, but no one was in sight; all was in silence about the place. A few more mighty strokes, and then a wild, piercing whoop broke from his lips. It was answered by yells of derision from the pursuing Chilcats. They knew the man now as the outcast chief whom they longed to capture. He could not escape them they felt sure, and what could one man do, armed only with bow and arrows, against their fire-vomiting guns? They would take him alive, if possible, in triumph back to the coast. And his daughter—they saw her emerge from the lodge—would be theirs, too. There was not a Chilcat but had heard of her remarkable beauty, and longed to possess her as his own.

Owindia comprehended the whole situation at a glance. With her to think was to act, so hurrying forward she reached the shore just as Klitonda ran the canoe alongside. Words were unnecessary, and as Owindia stepped lightly and quickly aboard, she seized the unused paddle, dropped upon her knees, and began to assist her father. They were now close to the large lake, and the swells rolling in through the narrow channel ahead gave evidence of the roughness of the water beyond. But not for an instant did Klitonda hesitate. Pointing the canoe for the opening it bounded forward as if anxious to do battle with the tempest outside. The white-capped waves rushed to meet it; the spray dashed over the bow at each headlong plunge, and the racing wind strove to turn it from its course.

Klitonda steered straight for the open. Owindia's lithe form bent and swayed at each dip of her paddle. No word was spoken, for father and daughter realised the seriousness of their position. Both knew what fearful odds they were facing. It seemed the wildest folly to attempt to run over that lake in such a frail craft. But better far to brave the fury of the elements than to fall into the hands of their pursuers. With the former there was the possible chance of mercy and escape; with the latter none.

Klitonda did not believe that the Chilcats would attempt the pursuit across the lake. Great was his surprise, therefore, when glancing back he saw that they were holding firmly to their course. So set were they upon making the capture that their inborn discretion was for the time overcome by the spirit of rashness. Where such a small canoe could go they could follow, so they fondly imagined. But they forgot how heavily their crafts were freighted, not only with the men, but also with the large supply of moose meat they had obtained down the river. At first the canoes were able to stem the waves which beat against their bows. They rent them asunder and threw them easily aside. At length, however, the waves became larger and as the curling whitecaps reared up angrily in front, the canoes plunged heavily and began to ship water. Seeing this the Chilcats realised their imminent danger, and in a moment of panic swung the canoes to the left as if to make for the shore. It proved a fatal mistake, for the next oncoming wave broke right over them, completely swamping both canoes. In an instant the ten Chilcats were struggling desperately in the icy water. They were all good swimmers, and at once struck out for the land. But their efforts were in vain, and soon the last had disappeared beneath the surface of that rough inland lake.

When Klitonda saw what had happened, a grim triumph shone in his clear dark eyes. He spoke a few words to Owindia, who drawing in her paddle turned herself deftly about in the canoe. Klitonda did the same, and soon they were driving before the wind back over the very course they had just taken. Night had shut down dark and cold by the time they reached smoother water, and passed down the narrow channel. Soon they were before their own lodge, and the canoe drawn well up on the shore. Then a fire was lighted, and supper prepared.

Klitonda sat that evening by the fire, while Owindia lay on several skins just within the door of the lodge. The bright light fell upon her strongly moulded face, and played with her dark hair. Her eyes were gazing dreamily before her, out upon the leaping flames. Occasionally Klitonda looked in her direction and his eyes were full of tenderness.

"I nearly lost you to-night, little one," he began. "Things looked very bad for a time."

"Oh, it was terrible!" and Owindia clasped her hands before her as she replied, while a slight shiver shook her body. "When will we be safe from the cruel Chilcats? Why do they hunt us all the time? Why can't they leave us alone?"

"They will never do that, child, until our people make up their minds to drive them back beyond the mountains of the setting sun, and I fear that will not be for some time. I am dreading the outcome of the death of those ten men to-night."

"In what way, father?"

"The Chilcats will think that the Ayana killed them, and they may come in great numbers to seek revenge. Anyway no matter what happens we are never safe. They hate me because I have always opposed them, and have been trying to stir up our people against them. And they want you because you are so beautiful. I understand there is great rivalry among the coast Indians over you. The chief's son, a very determined man, has made up his mind to have you as his wife. Oh, little one, my heart is sore all the time. I am ever thinking how those wolves are trying to steal you away. How could I live without you? Since your dear mother died you have been my only comfort."

"But why should the chief's son want me, father?" Owindia replied. "There must be many women along the coast more pleasing than I am."

"But you are different from them, child. You know that yourself. There is white blood in your veins, and your mother taught you many things which the coast women do not know."

"Yes, father, my mother taught me much, and I have forgotten nothing. I think over everything day and night. I would die rather than be the wife of a Chilcat brave, even though he were the chief's son. There is something here, father," and she placed her hand upon her breast, "which gives me no peace. It is like a voice telling me of a life different from this such as we are living. My mother often told me about the wonderful things beyond the great mountains of the rising sun, where there are no cruel Chilcats; where people live in lodges so different from ours, and know, oh, so many things. And she told me something else, father."

"What is it, little one?"

"She said that there were no medicine men out there; that the white people believed in the Great Father who cares for each one. She told me many beautiful stories about Him, and I remember them all."

For a time Klitonda did not speak, but gazed thoughtfully into the fire. This noted hunter and dreaded warrior was now as quiet as a little child. Years before the tiny seed of a new power had entered his heart. It had been slowly growing, and was steadily contending with his wild savage nature.

"Your mother often told me about the wonderful ways of the white people," he after a while began. "She taught me many things, and I have always wanted our own race to understand the feeling that is in my heart. Why do we ever remain the same? We are no better than our fathers and forefathers. They hunted, fished, trapped and fought. We are doing the same. This land is ours, and has been ours for ages. Shall we let the Chilcats have it, or shall we drive them back, and learn the secret of the ways of the white people? I cannot tell all that's in my heart and mind, but I see and hear things, and when I try to tell them to my people they shake their heads, and think there is something wrong with me."

Klitonda rose slowly to his feet, and stood erect before the fire. His gaunt face was drawn and tense, and in his eyes dwelt a wistful, yearning expression.

"Little one," and he looked down earnestly upon his daughter as he spoke, "I have a strange feeling to-night. Something tells me that we are soon to break the influence of the Chilcats over this land. I see a new power coming to our aid, though I cannot tell what it is. My heart is much lighter than it has been for months. We must get away from here, for we are never safe so close to the coast. Sleep now, Owindia, for we must leave very early in the morning."

[CHAPTER III]

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.

[CHAPTER IV]

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?

[CHAPTER V]

SECRET DEPTHS

Natsatt opened his eyes and looked around the lodge. Yes, he had been asleep, and it was only a dream after all. But the singing continued. Was it the echo of that strange invisible world following him still into the world of reality? The refrain was familiar, an old tune he had heard years before. He glanced toward Owindia, and then all became clear. Her head was bent, her cheeks were flushed, and she was singing as she worked. For a time Natsatt made no movement. He was content to watch and listen. That was happiness enough.

Klitonda sat in his former position, with his knees drawn up close to his chin, gazing thoughtfully into the fire. He seemed to be paying no heed to what was taking place around him. Ere long Natsatt ran his hand beneath his own buck-skin jacket, and drew forth a small shining mouth-organ. Placing this to his lips he began to play softly the tune he had just heard. The effect was magical. Owindia started, dropped her work, and let her hands fall into her lap. Her eyes, filled with wonder, turned upon the player. The only musical instrument she knew was the doleful Indian drum. But this! Her heart beat wildly, and a new sensation thrilled her entire being. When the music ceased Natsatt smiled as he noted the expression upon the maiden's face.

"You like it?" he asked.

"Ah, ah. Wonderful! Wonderful!" she sighed. "I didn't know there was anything like it in the whole world. My mother often tried to tell me about such things, but she said I would have to hear for myself before I could really know."

"But where did you learn that song?" Natsatt questioned, speaking for the first time in English. "I didn't know you understood the white man's language."

"My mother taught it to me. She often sang it. She had such a nice voice."

"And did your mother speak English?"

"Ah, ah. There was white blood in her veins."

"And she taught you the white man's tongue?"

"Ah, ah. Even when I was a baby she would talk to me in English, but since she died I have not heard anyone speak it until you came."

"Do you know any other song?" Natsatt asked. "Did your mother teach you anything else?"

"Ah, ah. But I have forgotten most of them. There is one I remember quite well; it is so pretty."

"Will you sing it for me, please?"

Natsatt wished to hear her voice again, it was so perfectly natural. His soul had always been stirred by the sighing of the wind, the ripple of the brooks, or the spontaneous outpourings of the little feathered songsters. And now this sweet, clear voice was thrilling him in a similar manner.

"Our Northern skies are fresh and fair,
Our woodland trails are green;
I love the rock-ribbed mountains hoar,
And streams that race between.
For there upon a happy day,
When shadows danced and played,
There came a lover true and bold,
And found a dusky maid."

Placing the mouth-organ to his lips Natsatt accompanied her as she sang. Never before had the little companion of his wandering life sounded so sweet. How often had that frail instrument cheered his loneliness; what solitudes had reverberated its voice down long sombre arches; and how many trail-worn men, sitting around their camp fires at night had been stirred by thoughts of other and happier days. It had done wonderful things, that little mouth-organ, not because of any intrinsic value, but by reason of the soul which poured forth its deep longings through the simple mechanism. And Natsatt always played with much expression. But now his instrument seemed to be a living thing, and when Owindia had ceased singing the player drifted off upon various airs one after another in rapid succession. It was the one way in which he could give vent to his feelings. He could tell it exactly what was in his heart, whether of joy or sorrow. It was all the outpouring of joy now, the ecstasy of discovery, the feeling that another life of love had blended with his.

"Do all of the white race play like that?" asked Klitonda when Natsatt had ceased. "Can all make such wonderful sounds?"

"Not all," was the reply. "But you should hear some of them. They would laugh at this," and Natsatt pointed to the mouth-organ. "There are as many kinds of things upon which they make music as there are different animals in the woods. There is one bigger than this lodge, which can growl like a bear, roar like thunder, and warble like all the birds. There is hardly any sound it cannot make."

"It must be wonderful," Klitonda sighed. "The white man can do so many things, and you have seen them all. Klota used to tell me about them, but somehow I did not believe her. I thought she must have dreamed them."

"I have not seen all the strange things myself," Natsatt responded, "but I have listened to men who have. At first I did not believe all they said, but now I know that they spoke true."

So sitting there in that quiet lodge he poured into the ears of his eager listeners some of the marvels of the strange world beyond the eastern mountains. He told them of cities, where houses stood closer together than the trees of the thickest forest; of canoes as big as hills; of railroads, horses, carriages; of other lands beyond the great water, where people were as many as the snow flakes falling outside. He told about the Queen mother, of her battle ships, her soldiers, how she ruled such a large part of the world, and no one could conquer her.

To all this Klitonda listened with marked interest. But when Natsatt spoke about the Queen's navy and army his eyes glowed with an intense light.

"And is the Queen mother stronger than the Chilcats?" he asked. "Could she conquer them?"

"Bah! The Chilcats are only rabbits to her," was the contemptuous reply.

"And will her warriors come to help the Ayana drive back the Chilcats, and keep them beyond the Coast Range?" Klitonda eagerly questioned.

Natsatt looked thoughtfully at this worried chief for a while ere replying. He knew what changes would take place in this northern region if the white men came pouring in. Did he not know something of the history of the Indians in other parts of Canada; how step by step they were being forced from their ancestral hunting grounds, to find their game slaughtered by white men, and they themselves treated as babies, cooped up on reserves or falling a prey to the deadly fire-water. Should he tell Klitonda how the Indians in Eastern Canada, and in the United States had been treated by the white men until they had risen in their fury in a vain attempt to drive the invaders back, and of the fearful horrors which followed the bloody battles which had been fought? How could he relate such things to this confiding chief? What would be the use?

"Do you wish the white men to help you against the Chilcats?" he asked.

"Ah, ah. See," and Klitonda stretched out his arm to the left as he spoke, "all this land belonged to the Ayana people. They hunted and trapped in the forest, and fished in the streams as did their fathers before them. They were strong, and their warriors feared no foe. But the Chilcats beat them in a great battle, and the hearts of the Ayana became weak. They run away; they hide in the woods, and mountains. They hear the wolves of the coast coming, and they tremble. They trade their furs and get little or nothing for them. The Chilcats steal the wives and daughters of the Ayana. They tried to steal Owindia. Klota fought them, and she died. Klitonda came suddenly from the forest. He killed one Chilcat, and the other escaped."

The chief had risen to his feet, and was standing erect as he uttered these words. The memory of that outrage was stirring his soul. His eyes glowed, and his hands were hard-clenched by his side. Natsatt had caught Klitonda's spirit. His heart beat in sympathy with the Indian's.

"And are the Chilcats such wolves?" he demanded.

"Ah, ah, much worse," the chief replied. "Wolves are sometimes satisfied, but the Chilcats never. They are always hunting Klitonda. They never stop. They would kill him, and steal Owindia. The son of the Chilcat chief wants her. She is never safe."

Natsatt's heart now beat faster than ever, and he glanced toward Owindia sitting quietly before him. She had been looking full into his face as he talked with her father. She was leaning somewhat forward, her eyes sparkling with animation, with her lips slightly parted. She had been drinking in every word that had been said about the great world of the white race. Her eyes dropped as they encountered those of the young man, and a flush mantled her cheeks. Into Natsatt's heart shot a sudden feeling of dread. He understood why the son of the Chilcat chief should seek to obtain this maiden. Such beauty of features, and perfection of form would be fatal gifts even in the world of civilisation. But here in the wilderness where might was right, how hardly could she escape. The thought of her danger grew stronger upon him. But what could he do to save her? He must make an effort at any rate. He must not lose her now. And yet his own position was as precarious as hers. If the Chilcats were as ferocious as Klitonda had described they would not long endure the presence of the white traders in the country. Even now, no doubt, they knew about the Post, and were planning for its speedy destruction. It would therefore be necessary for him to leave Owindia, hurry down the river, and warn his companions of the danger to which they were exposed. But how could he go away from this maiden, who all unconsciously was exerting such a strong influence upon his restless spirit? So impetuous was his nature that he did not stop to consider what Owindia's feelings might be toward him. He thought merely of his own happiness and what it meant to be near her, and to look upon her face. In her presence there was fulness of life, such as he had never known before. And to think that she was in danger from the Chilcats! A flood of anger suddenly rushed upon him. Why did the Ayana allow such tyrants to oppress them? They were strong enough to hurl back the invaders, and why did they not do it?

"Have the Ayana no hearts?" he asked, turning toward Klitonda. "Can nothing be done to arouse them to fight the Chilcats, and to drive them back?"

"Nothing," was the sad reply. "Klitonda has gone from camp to camp, and has said much. The Ayana talk, but do nothing."

"Are they all weak-hearted?" Natsatt demanded. "Are there none who will stand by their chief?"

"There are some who are not cowards, but they are only a few. They would follow Klitonda to the death if he called them."

Thus Natsatt learned that little help could be expected from the Ayana Indians. The white traders had come into the country, and were they to be driven back, probably killed, when spring came? No, such a thing must not happen. As soon as the storm abated he would hurry back to the Post. It would be necessary for him to leave Owindia for a while. To remain would be worse than useless.

And thus throughout the short winter day the three sat quietly in the lodge and talked of many things. The conversation was mostly between Klitonda and Natsatt, but occasionally Owindia spoke, and her words were always like the sweetest of music to the ardent young lover.

[CHAPTER VI]

REJECTED

The next morning the sky was clear, the tempest having beaten out its fury during the night. It had been the heaviest storm of the season, and in fact for several years. The snow was piled high around the lodge, and it was with difficulty that Klitonda forced his way through the yielding mass to gain the outer world. It was necessary for him to hasten forth as the last stick had been thrown upon the fire, and he must seek for more dry fuel amidst the forest. Not a breath of wind stirred the trees. They stood shrouded and heavily laden with their white burden. Not a sound broke the intense silence, and no track of man, beast or bird marred the snow.

Within the lodge stood Natsatt and Owindia. The former was girt for a long journey, and a pair of snow-shoes, borrowed from Klitonda, leaned against the wall. He was holding Owindia's hands in his, and his eyes were looking lovingly into her blushing downcast face. There was not the slightest doubt as to the attitude of the two. A love deep and tender burned within their hearts. They had waited years for such a meeting. Natsatt had wandered far and wide, but not until he had reached this spot in the forest did he find the one to whom his heart responded.

"And you will come back—some day?" Owindia was asking. "You will not forget?"

"Forget? How can I ever forget?" was the passionate reply. "And you will be waiting for me, will you not, little one? You will be glad to see me?"

"Ah, ah. The days will be like years while you are away. But sometimes I fear you might never return. Since you came life has been so different. There is much to live for now. And yet—"

Here she hesitated, and paused.

"What is it?" questioned Natsatt.

"I have been wondering how you, a white man, can love Owindia. There must be so many maidens of your own race beyond the mountains of the rising sun. I know so little, while they must be so wise and beautiful."

"Oh, that's what's troubling you," Natsatt laughed, pressing her hands more firmly in his. "But I am as much an Indian, nay more so, than you are. I speak several Indian languages better than the English; I was born in the wilderness, and have spent most of my life there. And I am going to tell you something now which may astonish you. My father was a white man, but my mother was an Indian woman. So you see I am what is called a 'half-breed.'"

Owindia started at these words, and looked keenly into Natsatt's eyes to make sure that he was speaking the truth.

"But you seem like a white man," she replied. "Maybe you are laughing at Owindia in your heart."

"No, no, I am not," protested the young man. "What I tell you is true. People at times will not believe me because I look so much like a full-blooded white man. But surely you will believe me. Why should I lie to you?"

"I know now you tell me true when you look at me that way," and Owindia glanced shyly at him as she spoke. "My heart is, oh, so happy. It sings all the time."

In response to this Natsatt stooped, and imprinted a fervent kiss upon her lips. It was the first time that she had known a lover's kiss, and it thrilled her whole being. Owindia did nothing by halves. She was a creature of the wild. Her likes and dislikes were strong. When her heart was stirred it was intense, overwhelming. Lifting her long slender arms she twined them suddenly around Natsatt's neck, and laid her cheek against his. Never had she known such real happiness, not even in the days when her mother had enfolded her in her loving embrace.

And thus all through that day she lived in a world of dreams. Her mind was ever with Natsatt, and she pictured him speeding over the snow on his way down to the trading Post.

Her father did not notice her far away look, nor her abstracted manner, for he himself was lost in a world of deep thought. He sat hour after hour before the fire with his knees close up to his chin, staring straight before him. He only bestirred himself to replenish the fire or to eat his frugal meal which Owindia prepared. He sat in this position until midnight. Then he rolled himself up in his blanket and slept till morning. When he awoke his every movement spoke of definite action. Owindia was surprised to see him set to work to take down the numerous pelts from the walls and arrange them in two piles. Sometimes he would stand for a while as if debating with himself into which pile he would put certain valuable furs. When at last all the skins had been taken down he tied the two bundles together with stout moose-hide thongs.

Owindia asked no questions. She understood her father's peculiar moods and knew when to be silent. He would tell her his plans at the proper time, she felt sure.

Putting on his snow-shoes, and swinging the larger bundle upon his shoulder, Klitonda left the lodge and strode rapidly across the open until he came to a place where three trees stood quite close together. Up among the branches was his cache, where he kept his supply of moose meat safe from prowling dogs and wolves. Tying a long moose-hide cord to the bundle, and taking the other end in his hand he climbed one of the trees to the scaffold of poles above. Then drawing up the heavy bundle he placed it in the centre of the cache, and with a grunt of satisfaction returned by the way he had come. Once back in the lodge his tongue became unloosened.

"Little one," he began, "my heart is much stirred by what the stranger told us. The white men have come, and have built the trading Post. They will help us to drive back the Chilcats. As I sat by the fire last night I saw a strange sight. Klota, your mother, seemed to be standing by my side, and she was pointing toward the mountains of the rising sun. And as I looked I saw the passes filled with people of the white race coming toward me. I am sure now that they are on their way into this country, and will help us."

"Perhaps you were dreaming, father," Owindia replied.

"No, no, it was no dream. I was awake, and know it was real. So, little one, we must hurry away from here, and bear the great news to our people. They will not refuse to rouse to action when I tell them about the white men, and what they will do for us. I shall take these furs as gifts to the scattered bands. You must come with me. We shall hasten away at once, for there is no time to lose."

Owindia knew how useless it would be to argue with her father when once his mind was settled upon some definite line of action. With a sigh she gathered up her few belongings, tied them in a small bundle, and took down her light snow-shoes from two pegs driven into the wall. She did not cherish the idea of leaving the snug cabin for the long marches over the dreary wastes of a snow-shrouded land. She wished to remain where she was, for the hope was strong within her heart that Natsatt would shortly return, and what would he think when he found the place deserted? She kept these thoughts to herself, however, and obediently followed her father out of the cabin, with her small pack suspended over her shoulders.

Once outside the lodge Klitonda paused and stood for a few moments lost in thought. Then lifting up his face, he uttered words such as Owindia had never heard him speak before.

"Great Spirit," he began, "and Klota's Great Father, listen to Klitonda. Give the Ayana people hearts of fire, and strength of grizzlies of the mountains, that they may rise and drive back the Chilcats. Send the white people into this land like the wild geese when the ice leaves the rivers, and the snow disappears, that they may help us."

He ceased, and stood for a few moments looking straight before him. Then without another word he strode forward into the sombre forest, with Owindia following silently after.

For days they threaded their way over the great silent land. Spectres they seemed gliding through forests, climbing steep hills, winding along sloping mountain sides, and dotting here and there large inland lakes. Occasionally they stayed their steps where a few lone hunters and trappers had their camp. At each place Klitonda would spend the whole night talking to the eager few gathered about the camp fire. Formerly one topic, and only one, was the theme of vital importance, and that was the hated Chilcats. Now the interest was greatly intensified by the story of the advent of the white men. Deeply interested in his subject, and a natural orator of much repute among the tribes of the North, Klitonda as a rule succeeded in imparting to his hearers some of his own enthusiasm. But, alas, after he left, the fire generally burned low, and sometimes went out altogether. In the presence of their chief the Ayana people could be stirred for a time, but the fear of the Chilcats was too strong for the impression to last.

Klitonda's stay at such places was always short. Miles beyond he knew there was a large band of Indians, and thither he and Owindia turned their faces. It was a cold late afternoon as weary with their long march, they reached the encampment, and here that night Klitonda related again the marvellous tale he had come so far to tell. For this moment he had been longing since the day he had started forth from his lonely lodge in the wilderness. Surely now these hunters would respond as they listened to the story of the white man, the opportunity for better trade, and the assistance they would receive in driving back the Chilcats. But as he talked his keen eyes noted the apathy upon the faces of those before him. He even detected signs of hostility, which was different from anything he had ever experienced in their midst. They had always treated him with marked respect even though they did not carry out his wishes. When at length he ceased the usual exclamations of assent were wanting. A deep silence prevailed, which to Klitonda was most ominous. He could not understand the meaning of such action. When, however, old Nagu, the crafty medicine man, rose slowly to his feet, light dawned upon the chief's mind. In this man he saw his bitter opponent, his violent enemy. He recalled the day, over a year ago, when he had mortally offended this wily impostor. He had refused to pay the customary tribute, or "medicine," of valuable furs and skins to this man. He had told him that his incantations were all a farce, and that he himself was a useless humbug. For years Klitonda had despised the vain pretensions of this creature. He had kept his thoughts to himself, however, and had paid the required tribute, until that day, when roused by the insolence of the man, he had expressed his feelings in no moderate terms. Klitonda had yet to learn that the way of the reformer is hard, and that people held in thrall by the ingrained superstition of ages, are not easily taught to open their eyes to the bright light of a new and an ampler day. Such a task at any time is difficult, but it is increased tenfold when the acknowledged leaders, whether they be prophets, priests or medicine men are themselves debased, and are seeking for material gain and personal influence.

And such was Nagu. Those who honoured him, he favoured; but woe betide the man or woman daring enough to offer any opposition. So standing there in the midst of his people, he hurled his pent-up anger at Klitonda. Subtly concealing his own personal injury he upbraided the chief as the cause of all their present trouble. He had been stirring up strife, had killed the Chilcat brave, and thus brought upon the Ayana people the extra vengeance of the coast tribe. And what were they now to do? The Chilcats were coming in full force, and if Klitonda were not delivered up terrible would be the consequences.

During his harangue the medicine man had worked himself up to the highest pitch of fury. He foamed, raved, and gesticulated like a madman, while all the time his eyes glared upon Klitonda with the most intense hatred.

During this attack the chief stood like a statue, with Owindia crouching near at his feet. The latter was terrified by the scene before her. But not a movement of her father's face betrayed the state of his feelings. It was only when the medicine man had ceased and the murmurs of approval had subsided, that he took a step forward, and looked around upon the assembled natives. A sadness, mingled with pity might have been detected in his eyes as he stood there. Then he lifted his right arm and pointed to the medicine man.

"Will the Ayana people listen to such words as that creature has just uttered?" he asked. "They know it is not Klitonda who is to blame for all their trouble; it is their own cowardly hearts. Where is the spirit of our ancestors? Where is the power of our once famous Ayana tribe? There was a time when the call to battle was like the sweetest of music to our people. They gloried in war. Klitonda would rouse the Ayana to action. But they would rather be slaves. They wish to crawl like dogs at the feet of the Chilcat wolves. Klitonda is your chief. He has never failed his people yet. He stands here to-night; his daughter is there," and he partly turned as he spoke and pointed to the pathetic figure of Owindia crouching upon the snow. "Take your chief; take his daughter, and give them to the Chilcats that you may be safe. Then go and tell your little ones, and when they are grown let them tell their children that you were afraid to fight; that your hearts were like water, and your arms like straw, and you gave up your chief and his daughter to those wolves of the coast. How will it sound? You hunters and trappers, answer me that. Klitonda is willing to give himself, nay to die for his people. Here he stands, come and take him."

He paused, and waited for some one to advance. But none moved. What hunter would dare to lay hands upon that chief, of whose courage and prowess they were well aware? They did not even look upon his face, but sat or stood with downcast averted eyes. Their chiefs words had cut deep, for they knew that they were true. Only the medicine man glared like a wild beast, but to him Klitonda gave no heed.

The latter waited to see what the people would do. But finding that they remained silent and inactive, he turned to Owindia and took her by the hand.

"Come, little one," he said. "Let us get back to the wilderness. Our people do not want us."

Not a word was uttered, and not a hand was raised as father and daughter left the camp, and turned their faces toward the black, silent forest. The chief had come to his own, to help, to uplift them; but his own received him not. They preferred the flesh pots of serfdom to the freedom of a larger and a fuller life.

Klitonda was accustomed to discouragements. He could meet death without a tremor. When face to face with avowed enemies his heart thrilled with the joy of conflict. But when it came to downright opposition and repulsion by his own people it was different. Next to Owindia they were nearest his heart in affection. For them he had toiled and suffered, and for them he was willing to die. Their pitiable downtrodden condition moved him deeply. Though he had often lashed the men with stinging words in the hope of stirring the spirit of manhood within them, there was really no anger in his heart. He had looked upon their strong, lithe forms; he had studied them at their games, in which they rivalled with one another in feats of endurance. Oh, if he could only utilise such strength in a more worthy cause, how much might be accomplished. He had watched the bright-eyed comely maidens, and a sadness always filled his heart, for he knew that the more beautiful they were the sooner would they be likely to fall captives to the wily Chilcats. Even the little babes in their moose-skin bags touched him. What trials and sorrows they had ahead of them—the same life of serfdom as their parents. For the cowardice of their forefathers the little ones must tread the cruel trail of affliction.

So on this night of the rejection as he and Owindia pushed speedily on their way, there was no feeling of bitterness within his heart except for the medicine man. He knew that that wretched creature had much to do with his present failure. He himself was free from his dominating power. But not so the rest of the tribe.

Owindia uttered not a word as she followed her father through the shadowy forest. She was tired not only in body but also in mind. The trying ordeal through which they had just passed had almost overcome her. She knew that now they were exposed to two dangers, one from the Chilcats; the other, from their own people. Surely no outcasts were ever placed in a more lamentable position than were these two waifs of the night.

No word of complaint, no outcry at the injustice done to him, broke from Klitonda's lips. He was not like the cur, which rushes away at a kick it has received. He was rather like some lordly monarch of the forest, which deeply wounded seeks some quiet spot to be alone in its great agony. No sleep came to his eyes that night. Amid a friendly thicket of fir trees he made their camp, and while Owindia slept, he either sat before the fire, or paced restlessly up and down among the trees. He was most alert, and at every sound he listened intently, partly expecting an attack from his own people. That they were contemplating handing him and Owindia over to the Chilcats he had not the slightest doubt. When he was present with them he knew they had not the courage to seize him. But under cover of night they might make the attack, expecting to find him asleep.

All the next day they continued on their journey, back to the lodge in the wilderness. Owindia was well accustomed to the trail, and did not find it difficult to keep up with her father. Although grieving over what had recently taken place, a sweet peace dwelt in her heart. Natsatt was constantly in her mind, and the thought of him cheered her through the long hours of the day, and she fell asleep at night thinking of her lover. Could Natsatt have seen the graceful swing of her lithe form, and beheld the rich colour of perfect health mantling cheeks and brow, he would have been more enamoured than ever. Owindia confided none of her happy thoughts to her father. He was too much engrossed with his own cares at present. She was content to keep them hidden away within her own breast, like dew-kissed flowers nestling in some secret dell.

The second night Klitonda was too weary to keep watch. He felt safer now, and believed that they would not be followed so far into the forest. He remained for a while, however, after Owindia had fallen asleep, watching the dying embers. Then he rolled himself up in his warm wolf-skin blanket, and was soon in slumber deep.

[CHAPTER VII]

TOKENS

Silence prevailed for a few minutes in the Indian encampment after Klitonda and Owindia had left. All sat or stood with bent heads, each waiting for some one else to speak first. Nagu alone cast his eyes furtively around. He was pleased at the defeat of the chief, but somewhat disturbed by the stillness which reigned. He partly divined the cause, and believed that the Indians were ashamed of their own cowardice, and the way they had treated Klitonda. He knew how his own influence even now hung in the balance, and it needed only a few to make a decided stand, and all would join them.

And while this unnatural quietness brooded over the place a score of hunters glided into their midst. Their arrival at this moment was most opportune. The tension was relieved, and all began to talk at once. The subject was Klitonda, and the message he had delivered. Nothing was said about the medicine man or the part that he had played in defeating the object of their chief's visit. But the returned hunters at length learned the whole story when Nagu had betaken himself to his own lodge. They were a score of strapping braves, and had travelled far that day. But all sense of weariness disappeared as they drew aside and earnestly consulted with one another. Out in the wild during the long nights around their camp fires they had discussed many things concerning their own land, and the dominant sway of the Chilcats. For their chief they had the most profound respect. They believed that with a band of men to support him the invaders could be driven back. This idea had been gripping them hard for some time, and had drawn them together more than formerly. Kindred spirits they were who had now emerged from the forest at this critical moment.

The medicine man was not satisfied with their presence. He watched them from his lodge, and endeavoured to hear what they were saying, but all in vain, for the young men spoke low, and kept their counsel to themselves. Had Nagu drawn near just then it would not have been well with him, for these braves were in no mood for interference from this creature whom they were beginning to despise.

Next morning, bright and early, they glided away from camp, and followed the tracks made by Klitonda and his daughter in the pure white snow. Their eyes were keenly alert, and they moved forward with scarcely a sound. They were evidently watching for something besides the chief and Owindia. It was almost dark, when, about to emerge from the forest to cross a small lake, they paused abruptly, and crouched back among the trees. Out in the open their eyes had caught sight of a lone lank timber wolf. He had stopped and was sniffing the tracks he had found upon the snow. Presently he lifted his head and threw his nose into the air. The hated man smell had drifted to his sensitive nostrils, and that spelled danger. But ere he had time to beat a retreat a half dozen bow strings twanged among the trees, and as many pointed arrows hurtled through the air, and sank deep into the brute's lean side. With a wild yell of agony the wolf gave a tremendous bound into the air and then rolled over in the snow, its body quivering in the throes of death.

It did not take the hunters long to rush from the forest, and examine their victim. Soon a sharp knife was produced, and with much deftness the heart was removed from the animal's body. It was apparent that the wolf was needed neither for its skin, nor for food. There was another motive for its death. With the heart warm and bleeding thus procured, the braves formed themselves in a circle about the grewsome object. Then each hunter drew forth an arrow, and inserted its point deep into the soft flesh. No word was spoken during this performance, which had the appearance of a religious ceremony, bloody though it was. Then facing the forest to their left they held aloft their dripping arrows, and as one their voices rang out:

"As the heart blood of this wolf dyes the points of these arrows, so twenty Ayana hunters will never cease until these same points are stained with the heart blood of their enemies. Let these blood-marked arrows be tokens of their resolve, and let the Great Spirit bear witness."

This done they sped on their way, leaving behind them the body of the wolf, its blood flowing forth, and turning the white snow to a crimson hue. By this time darkness had settled over the land, but the hunters heeded it not. With never a single hesitation they followed the tracks which stretched out far ahead. Ere long the moon rose full and bright above the tops of the pointed trees. It rode high in the heavens, and dimly illuminated the long cathedral-like aisles of the silent forest. The trees threw out straight trailing shadows like sharp pointed lances. It was a scene of surpassing beauty; light and shade, peace and grandeur; the full triumphant moon above, the gem-besprinkled carpet of snow below. And through this magic palace sped the feet of the Ayana braves. Their hearts were not stirred by the splendour which surrounded them. To them this fairy world held no fascination. Their hearts were not enthralled by Nature's alluring witchery.

It was midnight when at length their steps grew slower, and they moved more cautiously. Through the keen night air drifted the scent of smouldering wood. Presently a rough "lean-to" was faintly discerned several rods ahead. They peered keenly forward, but no one was visible, and not a sound disturbed the intense silence. The hunters did not approach any nearer now, but remained crouched upon the snow in a watchful attitude. It was a keen night, but the young men did not seem to mind it.

For about two hours they kept watch over the little camp. Then they noticed Klitonda rise to his feet and rekindle the fire from a few hot coals. At once the young men stepped quickly forward and stood before the chief. Turning, the latter saw them, and leaped for his bow and arrows. Then standing defiantly before the place where Owindia was lying, he faced the young men. He believed that they had come to attack him and to take him back as captive. He was, therefore, much surprised when one of the braves advanced and lifted his hand as a sign of peace. Still Klitonda was not satisfied, and remained ready for any emergency. Perhaps this was only a ruse on the part of these braves. Why had they followed him so far into the forest unless they had some sinister motive in view? And thus standing there in the light of the moon he appeared a most formidable antagonist. A man of powerful build, and of great stature, he seemed now a veritable giant. His aspect at this moment was enough to cause even the stoutest heart to shrink. The advancing brave hesitated, and then spoke.

"Great Chief," he began, "the Ayana braves are no enemies to Klitonda. They bring peace. They come to serve their chief, not to harm him. They followed hard upon his tracks until they found him. They bring tokens of their allegiance. Will the Great Chief receive them?"

He paused, and Klitonda lowered his bow.

"Why do the Ayana braves come here?" he replied. "Do they wish to mock their chief? But, stay, Klitonda is their chief no longer; they have rejected him. He is an outcast. His own people would give him over to the Chilcats. His plans have failed, they are like this," and Klitonda seized a handful of snow, and let it fall slowly downward.

"The Great Chiefs words are only partly true," the young brave quietly returned. "There are twenty braves standing here, whose hearts are true to their chief. They would follow him to death on behalf of their country. They bring these tokens of their faith—tokens stained with blood. As they are red from a wolf's bleeding heart, so may they be more deeply stained by the heart blood of the Chilcat wolves."

Saying which the brave stepped forward, and handed Klitonda the blood-marked arrow. One by one his companions did the same. Not a word was spoken during this performance. Klitonda received them all, and held the arrows in his right hand. He looked at the tokens, and then at the young men standing before him.

"What will Klitonda do with these?" he asked, holding forth the score of arrows.

"Keep them," was the reply, "and when the Great Chief wants the twenty Ayana braves, let him send the tokens, and they will come swift as the wind."

To these words Klitonda said nothing. He stood looking beyond the braves far off into the forest. The unexpected appearance of these young men was affecting him deeply. The great weight which had been pressing upon his heart was somewhat removed. All of his own people had not rejected him. There were twenty braves who were ready to stand by his side. There was comfort in the thought. He wished to speak, to tell all that was in his heart. But words refused to come. He was like a dumb man. The braves saw the struggle which was taking place in their chief's mind, and his silence impressed them more than a long oration.

Presently Klitonda turned as if to place several sticks upon the fire. As he did so he saw Owindia standing quietly near. Upon her face was an expression of joy. She had been a silent witness of all that had taken place. The braves had seen her when first she appeared, but they gave no sign that they were aware of her presence. But twenty hearts thrilled as they saw her standing near her father. Klitonda held out the arrows to Owindia.

"Take them, little one," he said. "They will be safe in your keeping. Is it the will of the Ayana braves," he continued, turning to the young man, "that their chief's daughter should guard these tokens which they have brought?"

"Ah, ah," burst at once from a score of lips. "Let the chief's daughter keep the blood-marked tokens."

Thus in the depth of that great forest twenty resolute braves gave their allegiance to Klitonda their chief. Indians they were, in the rough, untouched by any of the refining influences of civilisation. And yet they were real sons of Mother Nature. Their word was their bond, and having once made their vow of allegiance nothing could induce them to break it.

[CHAPTER VIII]

THE VANGUARD

To enter a region never before trodden by white men, and to erect a fur trading Post where the sole inhabitants are uncouth Indians, means courage of no ordinary degree. And, yet, when "Ranger" Dan forced his way beyond the Rocky Mountains, with his ten companions, and built the trading Post Fort-O-Venture at the confluence of the Yukon and the Segas Rivers, the thought that he had done anything out of the ordinary never entered his mind. So accustomed had he been for long years to the perils of the wilderness that the dangers he and his men encountered in their hazardous journey were of but passing notice.

His companions did not fully understand their leader. Months before when Ranger Dan had searched long and diligently for a number of determined men to accompany him to the great river west of the Rockies, many people believed that he was taking leave of his senses. "Why," they asked one another, "should a man at his advanced age wish to undertake such a journey? Surely it was not for gain, as Dan had acquired more than ordinary of this world's goods in his years of trading with the Indians. What, then, was the object of the expedition?"

Often the traders east of the mountains had turned their eyes wistfully westward, and longed to know what lay beyond those towering snow-capped peaks. Stray rumours at times had drifted to their ears of the extent of that unknown region, with its abundance of fur-bearing animals. But hitherto no one had dared to cross those northern ranges and solve the mystery. Indians told weird tales of the wildness of the land, of treacherous rivers, foaming rapids, and natives, numerous and blood-thirsty. Little wonder, then, that Ranger Dan found it difficult to obtain enough men to accompany him on his apparently mad venture. When asked as to the purpose of the undertaking he would always give a quiet smile, and stroke his long beard before replying.

"I've something lost beyond those mountains," he would say. "It's been lost for years, and I must try to find it. I've a treasure over yon, and doesn't the Great Book say that 'where your treasure is there will your heart be also'? I guess those words apply to this world as well as to the next."

And so Dan's "treasure" story passed from mouth to mouth. "He's after furs," said some. "No, it's gold the fool's seeking," replied others. "That's the treasure he thinks he'll get over yon."

After much difficulty Dan was able to find ten men who were willing to undertake the journey. Liberal pay induced several to join the expedition; while others were lured by the spirit of adventure. All had led a roving life for years, and here was an opportunity for new and further excitement.

As the days passed Ranger Dan was enabled to learn much about his companions. Amid the dangers of the way, the hard tracking, and packing over the long portages their real natures stood out clearly defined. They were men unaccustomed to discipline, of unbridled passion, and ready to desert their leader at any critical moment. Only upon Natsatt, the reserved young half-breed, did he feel that he could fully depend.

Ranger Dan was a stern man, and during his long experience in the wilderness had ruled with a firm hand. When in charge his word was law, and he would brook no opposition. Of large build and great stature he was a man to command immediate respect. Many an offender had reason to remember the flashing gleam of his wrathful eyes, and the sledge-hammer blows of his tense knuckles. "When I'm in command," he had often said, "I'm going to be obeyed, else what's the use of having a leader." He talked but little, and at times he would stand facing the west, with a far away look in his faded grey eyes.