Part 18 (1/2)
”You bet yer life she's a beauty, an' don't ye forget it. She's no Injun, that. She's got queer tastes to be the wife o' an Injun, but he's a smart un, none o' yer common prairie Injuns.”
Such at all events was Dutch Fred's opinion. A day or two before two travellers, an Indian and a young woman of fair complexion, had arrived at the ranch and been treated with more than the usual hospitality by the head man. They had not been very communicative, and after resting for two days had ridden away north in the direction of the line of white settlements. This and the superior appearance of the pair had excited a good deal of curiosity, and called forth the above expression of opinion.
Dutch Fred was right. Isota and Alahcasla were no common Indians.
Namukta's story of how Isota had been brought to his lodge had sunk into the girl's heart, and as Alahcasla loved her better than himself, he was helping her to solve the mystery, although he knew that every day which brought her nearer to her own people took her farther from him and his love.
They had travelled many weary miles before they reached the Thunder Bay district. When Isota stood upon the sh.o.r.e of the great lake some memory was stirred within her, and a word long forgotten seemed to leap once more into life.
She knew that she had before stood beside a great sheet of water like this. Where was it? She could not tell. In vain she sought to recall something more definite than the vague sense of having seen broad sparkling waters such as this. She could not, but the train was set alight and here a word was to supply the needed clue--Huron!
They stayed that night with a band of Chippewa Indians who were camped on the sh.o.r.es, and as Isota lay in the wigwam weary and sad she heard the story of an old chief whom his people loved; how he had grieved for and sought a pale-faced child that had been stolen. She had been entrusted to his keeping by the chief of another band, and while he was absent on a hunting expedition she had been carried away by a marauding band of Blackfeet.
Isota could not understand at first, but a long illness and the care bestowed upon her by the wife of the Chippewa chief gave her time to learn their language. It seemed to come back to her as a forgotten tongue.
When the sickness left her, Alahcasla, who had waited and watched beside her faithfully, brought the horses to the lodge door, and together they set out once more to reach the Huron country.
After many days of weary travel the s.h.i.+ning waters of the lake lay before them. They had pa.s.sed few settlements, but now the country was more cleared, and as the tall Indian and the beautiful Isota entered the long, straggling street of the pioneer towns they attracted considerable attention. Unused to the prying eyes and rude stare of ill-bred curiosity, Isota held herself more erect and Alahcasla drew closer to her side. During their stay in one of these frontier towns Isota's horse had sickened and died, and Alahcasla had put the girl upon his and walked by her side.
They were often faint for food and from weariness; they were not familiar with the ways of the white people, and did not know that they must ask for what they needed. It was not the Indian custom to ask for the hospitality that it was considered a privilege to be allowed to offer to the stranger within their lodges.
But the talk of the people in the streets had revived another link in the chain of Isota's memory of the past.
She heard the children call ”Mother!” and immediately she knew the word had once been familiar to her lips. With these words ”Huron” and ”Mother” as talismans, the pair went on their way.
In one of the larger towns on the sh.o.r.e of Lake Huron, a crowd had gathered around two figures whose appearance was evidently causing considerable interest. Travel-stained, their once handsome dress of finely tanned and handsomely embroidered deerskin with beaded ornaments worn and discolored, Alahcasla stood, resentment in his eye and indignation expressed in every line of his tall, commanding figure, sternly eyeing the gaping crowd, while Isota leaned against the wall of the house, her whole att.i.tude telling of weariness and despair. Her lips were parched and dry, yet they still could utter the words, ”Huron,” ”Mother!”
Was there no one to respond; none to answer her?
Presently a woman better dressed than the majority among the crowd drew near, and with the kindliness of a heart long softened by sorrow, and one which found relief only in thought for others, she stayed to ask the cause of the gathering there.
”Poor things,” she said, as the crowd parted and her eyes fell on the strange group; ”they are surely strangers here, and their proud bearing in such surroundings would lead one to suppose they are no common people.”
Isota looked into the kind grey eyes, and though despair of ever being understood had filled her heart, she uttered once again the words, ”Huron,” ”Mother!”
A woman's sympathy and love for another had led her to stay her steps and ask the cause of the gathering crowd, and now an answering echo in her heart, a sorrow long borne, a wound made and never healed, replied.
Isota and Alahcasla were taken home, the one to her mother's arms, the other to seal with his death the sacrifice of his love.
The long strain, the hards.h.i.+ps of the journey from which he had s.h.i.+elded Isota, and the confinement of living in a house and amid crowded streets where his free spirit could not breathe, was more than the child of the mountains and plain could bear.
Isota tended him faithfully and closed his eyes in death. Loving hands laid him to rest in the beautiful cemetery just outside the town. A simple stone was set up, bearing the names ”Alahcasla and Isota,” thus linking the living with the dead, and keeping alive the memory of the one who had sacrificed his own happiness that the woman he loved might be restored to her people.
THE HIDDEN TREASURE.
Snow had fallen thick and fast during the night, and as we looked out over the prairie and saw it still being driven in long rolling drifts by the strong western wind, we shuddered and turned again gratefully to the fire within the house.
The cold was so intense on that winter morning that we were slow in getting out to our daily duties, a dilatoriness which we shared with our fellow-citizens of the frontier town. When late during the day we strolled down the street, we were struck by a change in the appearance of what had been one of the dreariest, most desolate and dilapidated houses in the place. The house had been vacant for some time, but there was on the morning of which we speak unmistakable evidence of life within its roughly built walls.
In the early spring three young men had paid our town a visit. They did not remain long; apparently they were not favorably impressed with its appearance or with the manner of its citizens. Our people were certainly not of a style to attract, nor did they on their part care for the presence of strangers. This peculiarity probably arose from the fact that respectable strangers seldom found their way there, and the townsmen had lost all desire to cultivate the acquaintance of any but those who belonged to the community. Being, as we have said, a frontier town, situated not far from the international boundary line, many fugitives from justice had sought refuge among us, and the presence of such an element was not conducive to the growth of the town, either socially or commercially. The shanties which these rough characters had made their homes were, during the long winter nights, veritable pandemoniums, and the looks and behavior of their occupants were sufficient to deter any honest young man from taking up residence among us. Many of the houses, like that we have described, had fallen into a dilapidated condition; log buildings were falling to pieces, while in many of them factory cotton stretched over the sashes was the subst.i.tute for gla.s.s long since broken, or possibly never inserted.