The Trail of the Golden Horn/Chapter 23
CHAPTER 23
Rejected
EARLY the next morning Tom left the encampment and headed eastward. He was greatly encouraged at the reception he had received from this first group of Indians, and he hoped that all the others would be of the same mind. He had some doubt, however, concerning a large band about fifteen miles away. Numerous young people were there, who more than the rest had become completely infatuated with the ways of Belial. They, like a certain class in modern society of white folks, looked with contempt upon the old-fashioned ways of their parents. They scoffed at the Gikhi and his teaching as out of date, or suitable only for women and children. Their chief delight was to visit the nearest town, array themselves in the finest clothes they could buy, strut up and down the streets, displaying their cheap and gaudy jewelry. Had they stopped at that it would not have been so bad. But they did far worse, both young men and women alike.
Tom knew of all this, yet he hoped that out in the mountains, away from such contaminating influences, they would more readily listen to his message, and that their hearts would be touched by the condition of their once beloved Gikhi. He believed that they had not wandered so far but that they could be induced to return to the right way. Anyway, he considered it his duty to speak to them. So much in earnest was this old Indian, and advancing years had increased his intensity, that he did not feel at peace while so many of his people were wandering from the fold. So long as a little strength remained, he was determined to do what he could.
Twice during the day he met several Indians along the trail. To them he gave his message, telling of the willingness of the ones he had met the night before to go back to The Gap and renew their allegiance. These listened with great interest, and all expressed themselves ready to join in the return to the fold. They asked many questions about the Gikhi, and Tom told them all he knew, and also about Zell and the miserable white man who had injured her.
Tom was thus more encouraged than ever. He was meeting with unexpected success, and he sped on his way with renewed energy. As the afternoon waned, and the sun went down, he became very weary. The excitement of the day, and the toilsome journey, were telling upon him. Every hill he faced seemed harder than the last, and his snow-shoes were becoming very heavy. But still he struggled forward, knowing that the encampment for which he was heading was not far away. There he would receive a hearty welcome, and obtain the needed rest and food.
At length the sound of voices fell upon his ears, and a light winged its way among the trees. Tom stopped abruptly, for what he heard filled him with apprehension. It was a confused babel of voices, telling plainly of serious trouble. Stepping quickly forward, he soon came in sight of the encampment, and in the shelter of the trees he stood for a few minutes and watched all that was taking place. He knew the meaning of the disorder only too well. Hootch was the cause, and he saw two white men mingling with the crowd. Some of the Indians were quarrelling, others were shouting and singing, while several were lying in a helpless condition a short distance from the fire. Old and young were giving themselves up to this wild carousal which was making the night hideous. The white men alone seemed to be sober, and were exulting in the debauch for which they were responsible.
All this Tom noticed with disgust and burning indignation. At first he was tempted to turn away and leave the miserable creatures alone. But upon second thought he changed his mind. He needed refuge for the night, and he might be able to quell the revel, and bring the Indians to their senses. Surely the story he had to tell about the Gikhi would affect them.
As Tom stepped forward, beat off several snapping dogs, and made his way into the midst of the Indians, he was greeted with shouts of welcome. No one seemed to be surprised at the sight of the old man. Had they been sober, their curiosity would have been great. They crowded around him, offering him hootch, and when he refused to drink, they laughed and called him an old fool. Freeing himself, he entered the lodge and squatted down upon some blankets spread over fir boughs. He wanted to rest and to consider what he should do. But even here he was allowed no peace. Again and again he was urged to drink, and when each time he refused, the Indians became more insistent, and some quite angry. The white men, too, were determined in their efforts, and it was all that Tom could do to keep calm. He contrasted this wild confusion with the quiet and peaceful scene of the previous evening. What a difference, and how little chance was there for him to deliver his great message. He knew that these excited people would not listen, and if they did, it would be only to ridicule him and the Gikhi. This was no place for him, so he concluded. He would leave them, build a fire some distance away, and there spend the night. Perhaps in the morning he would get a hearing.
Acting upon this impulse, he rose to his feet, and started to move away. But the natives had other views. They pulled him back with shouts of laughter. The embarrassment of the old man was affording them considerable sport. They would not let him go until they were through with him. But Tom’s fighting blood was now aroused. In his younger days he had been a stern opponent, and although his body was weak through age, his spirit was just as strong as ever. His anger flared up at the sight of the two leering and amused white men. Why had his people been so deluded? Why did they not drive those foreigners from their midst?
With difficulty he struggled to his feet, and impatiently thrust away the ones who were crowding around him. His eyes were now blazing with indignation. He drew himself to his full height, and his stern, commanding figure somewhat awed the excited men and women. They stepped back, ceased their noise, and listened. In fiery language Tom told them of the days of old, and of their happy condition at The Gap before the coming of the demoralizing hootch. He turned his wrath upon the two white men. He told them what one of their number had done to the Gikhi and Zell, the half-breed girl. He thought that this would bring the Indians to their senses, and his eyes noted keenly the expressions upon the faces of those around him. In fact, he did detect signs of sympathy in several eyes. But it was merely a passing emotion, for the liquor had too strong a hold upon them. Owing to the silence, he believed that he was really exerting some influence upon these people. But the entire effect of his oration was counteracted by a sneering laugh from one of the white men, followed by the words, “What is the old fool trying to say?” At this the young men burst into uproars of laughter in which most of the women joined. Tumult again broke forth, and when Tom tried once more to speak, he was jeered at, told to go back home and attend to his prayers. Stung to the quick by such taunts, Tom leaped forward and faced the nearest white man. Thinking that the Indian was going to attack him, the villain lifted his clenched fist and struck him a savage blow on the face.
“Take that, you d crazy fool and mind your own business,” he cried.
Tom staggered back, stunned by the blow, tripped over a stick and fell heavily to the ground. He struck the side of his forehead against a stick, and in another minute blood was streaming down his right cheek. Picking himself up with difficulty, he wiped away the blood and gazed around in a dazed manner. Nothing but shouts of merriment greeted his woeful appearance, and no one came to his assistance. He was in the midst of his own people, but they had returned to the ways of the wild where sympathy is unknown, and where on the slightest pretext they would have rent him asunder.
Knowing now that further efforts would be all in vain, and wishing to be by himself, Tom moved slowly from the encampment. He was the dignified Indian once more, walking as erect as possible, paying no attention to the laughter and jibes which followed his departure. His forehead was sore, but much more so was his heart. His bright hopes had all vanished, and he was an outcast. His own people would not listen to his message, preferring the ways of evil.
When some distance from the encampment, and beyond the sound of the revellers, he stopped, built a fire, spread a supply of fir boughs, and passed the night alone. No sleep came to his eyes as he squatted there thinking of all that had taken place. He knew how useless it would be to go back to those Indians in the morning. They would be either asleep, or more quarrelsome than ever owing to the effects of the liquor. They would not listen to him, anyway, so he believed. But he must have food, and the nearest place where this could be obtained was the police patrol-house miles away. He would go there, rest, and then make his way to the one more Indian encampment which he knew was beyond. Perhaps the Indians there might be willing to listen to him. He would try, anyway, even though they should reject his message.
Long before daylight he was once more on his way. He had eaten the last of his small supply of dried meat he had brought with him, and this strengthened him for the journey. He hoped to reach the patrol-house some time during the day, and there he would find rest and food. He thought little, however, about himself. It was his own people that worried him, and the condition of the Gikhi at The Gap.
Hour after hour he plodded steadily onward, up hill and down, through thick forests, across lakes, and long, sweeping wild meadows. He had travelled miles by the time the dawn of a new day dispelled the darkness of night, and the sun rose above the tops of the pointed trees. He followed no trail, and he needed none, for the region was familiar to him, and he was perfectly at home in the trackless wild. He passed places where he had often camped in former days, and where he had set his traps. The old longing for the chase came upon him, and his eyes kindled when he came to a spot where he had killed a lordly moose or battled with a fierce grizzly. But he was on a greater quest now, so he could not afford to delay.
As the morning drew on to midday, Tom’s steps began to lag. He was growing weary, and ere long he was forced at times to stop to rest. Lack of food and the excitement of the previous night were telling upon him. He knew that he had only a few miles more to go, so by carefully conserving his strength he should be able to reach the patrol-house. His indomitable spirit stood him in good stead now, so bravely he pressed forward.
The last mile proved the hardest of all, and his progress was exceptionally slow as he climbed another hill and paused on the summit. Down in the valley below was the police trail with the patrol-house nestling in the midst of a thicket of firs and jack-pines. Toward this he slowly moved, and at length the squat log shack appeared in sight. To his surprise he saw smoke issuing from the pipe stuck through the roof, telling him that there was someone ahead of him, and occupying the place. Perhaps the Police were there, and he hoped such was the case, as they would be of great service to him now.
Reaching at length the building, he kicked off his snow-shoes, pushed open the door and entered. The room was warm, and for a few seconds it seemed very dark. As he stood there, peering keenly around, a groan arrested his attention. Then a muttering sound came from the corner to the right of the stove. Tom stepped quickly forward, and with his eyes now accustomed to the dimness of the room, he was enabled to see a form huddled in a bunk, covered with a single blanket. Bending low, he looked upon the man’s face, and as he did so, he gave a start of surprise, and straightened himself quickly up. It was Bill, the Slugger!