coach rocks and swings as it dashes through a trail rough-hewn from the heart of the forest; at times the angles are so abrupt that you cannot see the heads of the leaders as they swing around the grey crags that almost scrape the tires on the left, while within a foot of the rim of the trail the right wheels whirl along the edge of a yawning canyon.  The rhythm of the hoof-beats, the recurrent low whistle and crack of the whiplash, the occasional rattle of pebbles showering down to the depths, loosened by rioting wheels, have broken the sacred silence.  Yet, above all those nearby sounds, there seems to be an indistinct murmur, which grows sweeter, more musical, as you gain the base of the mountains, where it rises above all harsher notes.  It is the voice of the restless Tulameen as it dances and laughs through the rocky throat of the canyon, three hundred feet below.  Then, following the song, comes a glimpse of the river itself—­white-garmented in the film of its countless rapids, its showers of waterfalls.  It is as beautiful to look at as to listen to, and it is here, where the trail winds about and above it for leagues, that the Indians say it caught the spirit of the maiden that is still interlaced in its loveliness.

It was in one of the terrible battles that raged between the valley tribes before the white man’s footprints were seen along these trails.  None can now tell the cause of this warfare, but the supposition is that it was merely for tribal supremacy—­that primeval instinct that assails the savage in both man and beast, that drives the hill-men to bloodshed and the leaders of buffalo herds to conflict.  It is the greed to rule; the one barbarous instinct that civilization has never yet been able to eradicate from armed nations.  This war of the tribes of the valley lands was of years in duration; men fought, and women mourned, and children wept, as all have done since time began.  It seemed an unequal battle, for the old, experienced, war-tried chief and his two astute sons were pitted against a single young Tulameen brave.  Both factors had their loyal followers, both were indomitable as to courage and bravery, both were determined and ambitious, both were skilled fighters.

But on the older man’s side were experience and two other wary, strategic brains to help him, while on the younger was but the advantage of splendid youth and unconquerable persistence.  But at every pitched battle, at every skirmish, at every single-handed conflict the younger man gained little by little, the older man lost step by step.  The experience of age was gradually but inevitably giving way to the strength and enthusiasm of youth.  Then, one day, they met face to face and alone—­the old, war-scarred chief, the young battle-inspired brave.  It was an unequal combat, and at the close of a brief but violent struggle the younger had brought the older to his knees.  Standing over him with up-poised knife the Tulameen brave laughed sneeringly, and said: