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Page 14 text:
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A big snow-covered log loomed up before her, offering a resting-place at its side. With a tired sigh she sank into the wsnow, clasping the child close, as though she would impart to it the warmth of her body. The babe awoke, stroked its mother's face tenderly with its tiny hand, and settled back into its nest. V II. They found 'them there, half covered by fallen snow, the babe clasped close in the mother's arms, its tiny blue lips close against her cheek. One man in the party, choking back a sob, turned abruptly away. He alone could have explained the tragedy, but he did not. Blindly he made his way back to Arcata. And the next day George Haskings, gentleman adventurer, left for parts unknown. ELLA ERICSON. AN INDIAN TRAGEDY On the brow of the Trinity a man stood solhouetted against the western skyg a tall bronze figure, lithe and muscular, glistening with oil and paint, and be- decked with beads. ln one hand he held a repeating rifle. The other was tightly clenched by his side. His strong brown face was seared with pain. His eyes. brightly alert, held at times a look pathetic in its sadness. but oftener they gleamed with a baleful fire. For Walama, chief of the Chocatins. outcast and fugitive, had at last reached the end of his rope. And he realized the fact. His enemies the Pale-faces, guided by Indian spies, were surrounding him. He could flee no further. Before him raged a majestic mountain torrent, which fell a frothing, foaming mass, sheer down over the edge of the precipice. Behind him, unseen but seeing,'crouched his pursuers. Walania experienced no fear as he stood there, straight and silent-a fine target for any rifleman. He knew that they were trying to capture him alive-that they might the better torment and persecute him. He would not be shot but as a last resort. ' Deep down in his heart a plan formed. which soon became a fixed resolve. Strong and brave, death held no fear for him. 'The thought of it caused neither heart nor pulse to beat the faster. Dispassionately, he reviewed the past. Scarcely a week ago, young, hopeful, the idol of his people, he had been happy. But now- His quick ears detected the crackling of brush a short distance away. But he did not move. Again came the crackling of a twig, this time nearer. Walama with a quick gesture threw his arms toward heaven. Then, still tight- ly grasping his rifle, with a war-cry whose martial strains echoed over the moun- tains, he plunged headlong into the torrent. A cry of surprise and horror broke from his pursuers. With one accord they rushed to the precipice. Nothing could be seen. The turbulent stream, gleaming and flashing in the sun's rays, rushed onward. Once, far down below, a black speck appeared for a moment, but it quickly disappeared- The deep roar of falling water, like a solemn requiem alone broke the silence. Walama, Chief of the Chocatins, had been gathered home to his fathers. ' VERNA HANSON.
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Page 13 text:
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er's pride and joy. I-le showed no traces of his Indian blood save in his big, black eyes, and his black hair- As she looked, a sharp pain clutched the mother's heart, and she turned abruptly into the cabin. IV. It was a dark cold night. The air was white with falling snow. The thunder rumbled loudly, and the lightning flashed incessantly. A wild night for a drive, yet apparently some one was going on a journey- A covered wagon drew up be- fore George Hasking's cabin. A Figure muffled in furs carrying a bundle covered in like manner, stepped into the vehicle and was whirled away into the night. It was very dark in the cabin--very dark, and cold, and silent. Suddenly came a low moan, and then a slight movement, as if someone were searching for some- one. Later a light gleamed forth in the darkness. Then a sobbing terrified cry rang out. That was all. A moment later the light disappeared and a figure stepped out into the storm, and crept stealthily toward the stables- A soft whin- ney of a horse, a low muttered command,-and a horse and rider appeared, and faded wraith-like, into the night. Two days had passed, when a tired traveller applied for shelter at the little village of Arcata. Shortly after his arrival, a horse and rider swept into the town, and made their way, through the mist and rain, to an Indian village on the out- skirts. V- Again it was night. and still it was dark and cold, and an unusual thing for Arcata, a heavy snow was falling. About ten o'clock, when all places, save the lighted saloons, were dark, a Hgure clad in Indian garments made its way to a home where the hanging latch law prevailed, noiselessly opened the door, and en- tered the cabin. It did not stay long, but soon emerged, carrying a bundle en- veloped in furs. After satisfying itself that it was unobserved, it made its way softly down the street, and fled swiftly away toward the forest. The next morning a great hue and cry was raised. A white child had been stolen during the night. The village was in the wildest state of excitement. Search parties were organized, and every available man joined them. But no trace could be found. The soft, moccasined feet of the midnight intruder had left no clue. YI. Meanwhile, in the heart of the snow-covered forest. an Indian maid. clasping a child close to her breast, was struggling on. For hours she had tramped through the snow. At first-Ah! how bitter had been the cold,-but now. a drowsy numbness, a strange, sweet warmth was stealing over her. How soft and warm the snow was-a white bed, inviting and tempting! NVhy should she not lie down and rest, and then continue her journey? Surely she was far enough into the forest to elude all possible pursuers! She would lie down and rest, and-- The benumbed brain awoke, and with a low sob of horror. she elapsed the child close and struggled on. How very tired she was. She could gn no further. Surely it would not matter if she sat down. just for one little minute. She would not go to sleep
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