THE WHITE WORLD 



tied to the boy's neck, and the boy-witch or evil spirit 

 had gone to the long, long home, whence slave boys and 

 witches never return. These were fair examples of the 

 better class of Indians, or Indians belonging to the regu- 

 lar tribes that surrounded us, and from this description 

 may be had a fair conception of what the renegades at 

 Hell Gate were like. 



Winter passed, the first of April came, and I decided 

 to travel once more to Hell Gate, where my stores were 

 cached, and superintend the building of my boat, as the 

 river ice would go out about a month later. There were 

 yet two sled loads of stuff to go, and the only available 

 help was Powder and his wife and dogs. So with this 

 interesting Christian couple, who knew nothing worse 

 than murder, I was to make my final trip of one hundred 

 and twenty-five miles over the ice with dog sleds to my 

 cache below Hell Gate, where I expected to find the two 

 white men in camp, waiting to help me in building the boat. 



Skipping entirely every incident of the trip, I was horri- 

 fied, on turning a bend in the river about two miles above 

 my cache, to find camps of the renegade Hell Gate Indians. 

 Powder became very much excited, and as the Indians 

 came running down from their camps he stopped his sled 

 and indulged in a " powwow " of considerable length. I 

 could not understand a single word, but I knew by their 

 manner and gestures that much of the conversation was 

 concerning myself. All in all, the situation was not pleas- 

 ing, for I knew what these Indians were. I had been 

 repeatedly warned by whites and Indians never to be 

 caught alone among them, and I thought a meaner lot of 

 murderous faces I had never seen. I was full of misgiv- 

 ings, and from there almost to the cache I found a 

 continuous string of camps, all occupied by this band of 

 renegades. On reaching the cache I found it yet intact, 

 but the two white men had disappeared with all their 

 belongings, and there was every indication that they had 

 abandoned the camp weeks previous. 



My dilemma was apparent at a glance. I was in a trap, 

 and there was no help for it. When I left the little fur- 

 trading place to go down the river, my only helper and 

 friend, Mr. Simpson, went away, going up the river, and 



3H 



