For a long time that evening he lingered on the docks, in hopes of seeing her put off in one of the numerous canoes that lay about the pilings. But the last of the harsh-voiced gulls had circled off to the tide-flats, and the serried ranks of the firtops grown vague against the gray, when he stepped in his own canoe, disappointed and puzzled, and paddled out upon the purple swell. After this, sometimes he would see her two or three days in succession, and then would miss her half the week; but always she returned, sitting sometimes in one place and sometimes in another, ever with the black tresses shining, with that cleanly gloss that belongs to some of the red man's race; ever with white teeth peeping from smiling lips, ever with the beautiful eyes, black, brilliant, appealing, looking out from under darkly-pencilled brows. Was it any wonder that night after night Indian Joe lay before his wigwam of fir bark and hemlock boughs, dreaming up to the North Coast stars? Any wonder that stranger as she was to him, the maiden's beauty should feel its way ever so gently, ever so surely, into his soul; that watching for her all the day, and dreaming of her all the night, confusing her with the glow of sunsets and the light of stars, thinking of her in the language of his people, likening her to the fall of waters and the flight of clouds-sunsets and waters and clouds and stars as they are in the mystic North; that he should yearn to go to her, and to fold his arms about her forever? For despite the skill, the strength, the rugged manhood, his was but an Indian soul, not yet made fierce by warfare, but simple, poetic, sad with the fettered cravings of his people. One morning, at last, while the dawn was gray, and the first-born gleam of the sunrise crept above the snows of the Cascade Peaks, Indian Joe came down to Seattle. Suddenly he had determined that he must speak to the girl this very day; he wondered that he had not done this before, for he knew now that he had loved her from the first, and that her place was in his wigwam, cooking his fish and game, preparing the roots and berries and weaving his nets. The vigor of exultation, the earnestness of a great purpose, were in the stroke of his paddle, and hope and longing surged strongly within him as he hurried on to Seattle. The great steamers of the Sound ports came and went with their gold and wheat and forest wealth, and the Siwash scarcely saw them. A converted transport, laying the Alaska cable, and manned by Filipinos, bore upon him threateningly, and he was hardly conscious of its course. Wide-winged sea-birds swooped and wheeled and flapped and screamed and circled, and he would not whistle to them, as he always did. Bright rays deflected from the Cascade Range and leaped across the Sound to the Olympics, with their parapets of snow, and flashed from peak to peak until they shone as burnished silver shot with gold; but even these he would not wonder at-he was going to Chemawa (for he had heard her name), to her whom he loved, to speak to her, to draw from her lips the music of the waterfall, and from her eyes the sifted starlight. For him the white man was notnor his works. It was not long before the Indian shot his canoe up to the piling, and leaping out, started across the docks with eagerness in every step. He regarded this occasion as of far more significant import than all the blubber-feasts and potlatches of his tribe. Quickly and stealthily, that he might not miss her in the crowded streets, he made his way towards Pioneer Square. But suddenly he stopped sharply, the black eyes glistened eagerly, the lips moved, as if to call-for there beyond the Totem Pole sat Chemawa, beautiful, captivating, incomparable in her Indian charm. Indian Joe almost ran, not waiting to think what he would say to her; only he felt strangely tempted to go right over to her, pick her up lovingly but relentlessly, and hurrying to his canoe, paddle out on the dark waters, away to his wigwam shore, with its fringe of firs and its silhouette of snow. He rushed towards her impetuously, proudly, magnificentlybut suddenly he halted, astounded, aghast, baffled utterly at what he saw; there was Chemawa indeed, but across her shoudlers were slung two raven-haired papooses! He looked at her in anguish this girl a squaw? he asked himself. Chemawa. whom he had been loving and cherishing as his own, already the sunlight and the starlight of his life, she the chosen of another man, his klootchman — and a mother! She, whom he was to gather, as sometimes he had gathered the wild rose, while it was yet in bud! Aye-that was too much. The rugged heart twitched, as in a death struggle with love, and hope, and longing; the bead-like eyes narrowed, as though to shut things from its vision; and stolidly he turned away. Had it only not been this, had he come upon some gallant buck pleading with her for affection, then there might be many things to do; he, too, could plead, could urge, could match his manhood with his rival's, could fight, if that would do any good; but now-a squaw, a mother! Indian Joe turned away, there was no more. Seattle, today, is a convert to the faith, but it was not always so. The complacent viciousness of the frontier has been hers, and the riffraff of the West, and of the world, has laid bare its votive offerings at her door. Not many years ago, in the dark retreats below the "deadline," a motley crowd held havoc-red-shirted miners and prospectors, blue-shirted loggers and timber-cruisers, Siwashes-decent and indecent-the ubiquitous Jap, and his almond-eyed cousin, the heathen Chinee, ranchmen, fishermen, sailors from the breadths of the globe; English and Irish and Germans and Scots, Greeks in abundance, Latins, Syrians, Russians, Turks, Hebrews, Slavs, Scandinavians, Indians and half-breeds—from Mexico to Alaska; sometimes vicious, often tolerable, always picturesque; some here by choice, some by accident, and some by the grim arbitrariness of compulsion; in the darker quarters drinking, lounging, swearing, starving. fighting, gambling. Hither, then, among these reckless ones, came Indian Joe, or, as he was also known among the tribes-Nes-sa-quah, not to drink, not to gamble, but only to existfor the deadline's toll was small, here where food, such as it was, was cheap, and he need fish only enough to procure the most wretched sustenance. His canoe, abandoned, lay tugging idly at the piling by the docks; and all day, when he was not wandering in the slums, Indian Joe sat near the tide-flats, an exile almost, to, existence, sometimes brooding, more often staring vapidly at the mountains. At first he had relapsed into his old indifference; it was as though, for a few seconds, lightning had flashed upon the blackness of the night, and then as quickly vanished, leaving all in darkness as before. But the disappointment sank deeper day by day, and with it sank Nes-sa-quah's interest in life, until at last he had not wish or energy to work at all. Then, in the vilest streets, where the world had gathered its waste and life poured out its dregs, he passed among the garbage barrels, picking out the unclean morsels of meat, and fish, and fruits. He kept no company with those about him; he did not wish to drink or swear or gamble; it was only that here men left him alone, for their measure of a life was slight. Therefore he did no wrong, simply existing, tolerated, untroubled. Once or twice he had ventured near the Totem Pole, and had seen Chemawa, as at first, sitting in unconscious beauty, among her baskets; and once with the papooses on her back, she had almost brushed against him in a crowded street, and Indian Joe had rushed back to his habitat of misery, fearful that she had seen him. As he was living now, it could not be long before Nes-sa-quah would be failing, faltering, like an old man, for already he was starving; and some night he would totter out to the tide-flats, where he could be absolutely alone, and fall asleep, thankfully and in peace. As he was stumbling along a dimlylighted street one night, he heard a cry, as of pain, issuing from the black depths of a dismal, squalid-looking alley. Indian Joe stopped, listened a moment, and again hearing the piteous groaning, turned into the alley, groping in the darkness in the direction of the sound. Several yards back from the street, he stumbled against a prostrate form, which proved to be that of a feeble old Siwash buck. Nes-sa-quah questioned him and found that two drunken loggers had wanted to buy some fish from him, and when he refused to sell at their price, had grabbed his stick, and beating him into helplessness, run off. The old man, whose name was Chetz-atux, besought Nes-sa-quah to help him to his canoe, which lay close to one of the Alaska steamers. Half carrying him, Indian Joe passed beyond the deadline and down to the docks. Here they had to descend a floating gangway, as the canoe lay back under the piling, in such a position. that they could not see it in the darkness until they were close enough to get in. Indian Joe had already stepped in, and was lifting Chetz-a-tux from the gang way, when a little cry of pain and fright in the stern of the boat startled him, and, peering through the gloom. Chemawa leaped across the old buck, with outstretched arms. "Ai-yah, ai-yah," she cried piteously. "Ickta mi-ka pet? What has happened to you, my father?” Indian Joe stood astounded, and for an instant a strange trembling possessed him, as he found himself thus brought face to face with Chemawa, and realized that Chetz-a-tux was indeed her father. "I will take him to my wigwam," said Nes-sa-quah, in his solemn Indian tones. It was a pitiable and a joyless journey to the opposite shore, but for Indian Joe, who, man-like, did not think the assailants had injured their victim very seriously, and that he had succumbed to the shock merely because of his great age, it was the strangest experience he had ever had. After all his effort to avoid the girl, now that she could not belong to him, here he was practically alone with her, out on those midnight waters where, sometimes, he had pictured they would paddle together, when the stars were bright. But now, not happiness, but pain, was in his heart, and anguish that he was brought so violently to face his disappointment. Even the papooses were there in the canoe, and sometimes they seemed to roll their little black beads of eyes up at him in unconscious mockery. Then he would turn away, and force his paddle through the phosphorescent water. desperately, recklessly, with redoubled. redoubled strength, striving always to shut out the thought of Chemawa, and the consciousness of her presence. In this way they came at last, shortly after midnight, to the beach where his wigwam stood, abandoned, now, and uncared for. Together they lifted Chetz-a-tux from the canoe, and laid him on a bed of spruce and hemlock boughs. It was better, they thought, that he should sleep outside. Indian Joe soon made a strong tea of stimulating herbs, and after drinking this, the old man fell again into unconsciousness, while they bathed and wrapped the wounds in his head. Nes-sa-quah then insisted Nes-sa-quah then insisted that Chemawa should go to sleep in the wigwam, with the papooses, while he sat up. Not many nights ago, under these self same cedars, he had dreamed longingly of Chemawa, yearned for her to share his lodge with him; and now actually she lay upon his own soft couch of fragrant spruce needles, lay within whisper, almost, and he could not tell her of his passion, his hunger for her love and tenderness. length, when the earliest dawn-light broke from the Eastern peaks, and the snowy summits of the Olympics took vague, uncertain shape, like spectral forms beyond the darkness, Chemawa rose and came out. At Nes-sa-quah was seated on a fallen tree, where he had spent the slowly passing night, not far from the bed of fir boughs. He made no sound or motion, and Chemawa came to him, asking quietly but anxiously if Chetz-a-tux had rested well. "Ai," answered Nes-sa-quah, "he still sleeps, and it is well. He has not moved at all-he will wake strong." The girl went over to her father, and caressed him lovingly. "Een-a-qua-satlah," she called to Nes-sa-quah. "Light a fire, and I will prepare food for him." Suddenly she jumped back horrified. "Me-me-lose, me-me-lose," she screamed, "it is cold, ai-yah," and she fell on her father's corpse. Dumbfounded, Indian Joe leaped to her side. The old man was indeed dead; he had suffered too serious injury, and being so feeble, he was already too near death to survive such a severe wound, and he had not again recovered consciousness. Chemawa's sensitive nature had given away utterly before this unexpected grief, and she lay, now, motionless, not seeing or hearing. Nes-sa-quah sat beside her, waiting; he, too, was sorry in a way, but he had come to view death lightly, to long for it himself, so that the supreme emotion in his heart was a strange compassion for the girl, and an inexpressible yearning to comfort her. It is better, he thought, that it should be her father than her husband, or her children; for their life had just begun, and this old man had already lived beyond his time. He would not speak, or profane the presence of the dead. After the habit of her people, all that day and night Chemawa remained moaning and bewailing her loss; refusing to eat or to be comforted. Nes-sa-quah joined in her reverence to the spirit of the "me-me-lose." The following morning, in a secluded thicket of willow and young evergreens, where the bearberry and fern and salal were matted in almost impenetrable undergrowth, they buried him quietly and in silence; without those rude honors of sepulture which his people were once wont to bestow upon the dead, when they were placed in their canoes propped above the ground, and food and clothing entombed with the corpse, that the spirit might have all possible comfort in its journey to the hereafter. When they had returned to the wigwam, Indian Joe asked the girl where her people lived, that he might take her to them. "Take me to the Puyallups," answered Chemawa, "to the Reservation." "It is well," he replied, and soon they were again in the canoe, on their way up the Sound. It was a long journey to the home of the Puyallups, and evening was already drawing about them when they entered Commencement Bay. Only once had Indian Joe looked at Chemawa. It was when she had turned to speak to the pappooses, which lay in the bottom of the boat, in front of him. That one glimpse at the dark eyes, with their fringe of heavy lashes, and the sunset-tinted cheeks, brought the old passion to his breast again, and he longed to reach the Reservation quickly, that he might leave her there, and go back to Seattle, for such peace as it could give. Towering far, far upwards, Mt. Rainier, burst upon them in its evening glory. Mantled in unmelting snows, with stainless ice-streams glaciering from its summit, fifteen thousand feet above the sea, it is the most beautiful mountain in the world"Tacoma," the Indians call it. "Mount of the Flowing Breasts." Now the sunset bathed it in crimson, and washed the glaciers in its glow, until great red streams of blood seemd to flow as from a wound, and trickle down the spotless breasts of snow. . And while the great peak was still enveloped in the sunset, beyond its summits the moon rose into view. Then the crimson died away, and left the mountain in her bridal veil of white. Indian Joe's was but an Indian heart, and in its simplicity he loved these things yearningly; and when Chemawa turned to him in a reaction of delight, a great, crushing weight seemed to fall upon his heart, his love, his life, and blot it from his breast; he wanted her soul to unite itself to him before this awful spectacle of grandeur and beauty-he wanted to dream with her, to love, to die. Why did he allow himself to picture that again, to dream of her so, to think of her as his own? It was so wonderfully sweet to dream of that, aye-but the papooses, they lay before him, staring mockingly; she was not his! The girl turned to him, pointing to a clump of fir trees on the shore."This day was sad, a year ago," she said, again grown serious. "My sister and her husband were buried there then, dying together from smallpox." He paid no heed. Absent-mindedly she bent down to the papooses. "They have never known the difference. I am as much a mother to them as she was." Indian Joe's eyes shot to her own like fire. "These are your sister's children?" he cried. "Ai," she said simply, wondering at his excitement. "Oh, Chemawa, you are not a squaw?" She looked at him in surprise. "Chemawa, Chemawa, and I have loved you all this time. I love you now, I loved you from the first day you came to Seattle.” "Ai," she answered him. "I knew." "How you knew?" "I saw your eyes when you passed me in Seattle." "Oh, Chemawa, I came one day to tell you, and I saw these"-he pointed to the papooses. Then for several moments he looked close into her face. "Why do you go to the Reservation?" he asked. "Because my people are among the meme-lose; all of them are dead now." "Chemawa, would you come with me, to share my wigwam, always?" "My She looked at him earnestly. heart is heavy, Nes-sa-quah. I am the last of my tribe." "Your heart is heavy, and you are lonely. Give it to me, Chemawa, that I may make it brighter than the sunset." For a long time she did not reply, but only gazed intently at the great peak that glistened, milk-white, in the moonlight. Then she rose in the canoe and stepping forward, seated herself close to him, and the rich Indian words came low and soft, like the breaking of a ripple on the beach. "Ni-ka qui me-si-ka-I am yours, Nessa-quah. We will go back." |