THE GOD OF HIS FATHERS

I

On every hand stretched the forest primeval,—­the home of noisy comedy and silent tragedy.  Here the struggle for survival continued to wage with all its ancient brutality.  Briton and Russian were still to overlap in the Land of the Rainbow’s End—­and this was the very heart of it—­nor had Yankee gold yet purchased its vast domain.  The wolf-pack still clung to the flank of the cariboo-herd, singling out the weak and the big with calf, and pulling them down as remorselessly as were it a thousand, thousand generations into the past.  The sparse aborigines still acknowledged the rule of their chiefs and medicine men, drove out bad spirits, burned their witches, fought their neighbors, and ate their enemies with a relish which spoke well of their bellies.  But it was at the moment when the stone age was drawing to a close.  Already, over unknown trails and chartless wildernesses, were the harbingers of the steel arriving,—­fair-faced, blue-eyed, indomitable men, incarnations of the unrest of their race.  By accident or design, single-handed and in twos and threes, they came from no one knew whither, and fought, or died, or passed on, no one knew whence.  The priests raged against them, the chiefs called forth their fighting men, and stone clashed with steel; but to little purpose.  Like water seeping from some mighty reservoir, they trickled through the dark forests and mountain passes, threading the highways in bark canoes, or with their moccasined feet breaking trail for the wolf-dogs.  They came of a great breed, and their mothers were many; but the fur-clad denizens of the Northland had this yet to learn.  So many an unsung wanderer fought his last and died under the cold fire of the aurora, as did his brothers in burning sands and reeking jungles, and as they shall continue to do till in the fulness of time the destiny of their race be achieved.

It was near twelve.  Along the northern horizon a rosy glow, fading to the west and deepening to the east, marked the unseen dip of the midnight sun.  The gloaming and the dawn were so commingled that there was no night,—­simply a wedding of day with day, a scarcely perceptible blending of two circles of the sun.  A kildee timidly chirped good-night; the full, rich throat of a robin proclaimed good-morrow.  From an island on the breast of the Yukon a colony of wild fowl voiced its interminable wrongs, while a loon laughed mockingly back across a still stretch of river.

In the foreground, against the bank of a lazy eddy, birch-bark canoes were lined two and three deep.  Ivory-bladed spears, bone-barbed arrows, buckskin-thonged bows, and simple basket-woven traps bespoke the fact that in the muddy current of the river the salmon-run was on.  In the background, from the tangle of skin tents and drying frames, rose the voices of the fisher folk.  Bucks skylarked with bucks or flirted with the maidens, while the older squaws, shut out from this by virtue of having fulfilled the end of their existence in reproduction, gossiped as they braided rope from the green roots of trailing vines.  At their feet their naked progeny played and squabbled, or rolled in the muck with the tawny wolf-dogs.