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Updated: June 6, 2025
Although three years of hard, frugal life had made his muscles like iron, they had only mellowed his temper, increased his flesh, and rounded his face; nor did he look an hour older than on the day when he had won Wingo for his willing slave and devoted friend.
The bitter winds of an angry spring, the sleet and wet snow of a belated winter, the floating blocks of ice crushing against the side of the boat, the black water swishing over man and boy, the harsh, inclement world near and far.... The passage made at last to the nets; the brave Wingo steadying the canoe a skilful hand sufficing where the strength of a Samson would not have availed; the nets half full, and the breaking cry of joy from the lips of the waif-a cry that pierced the storm and brought back an answering cry from the crowd of Indians on the far shore... The quarter-hour of danger in the tossing canoe; the nets too heavy to be dragged, and fastened to the thwarts instead; the canoe going shoreward jerkily, a cork on the waves with an anchor behind; heavier seas and winds roaring down on them as they slowly near the shore; and at last, in one awful moment, the canoe upset, and the man and the boy in the water. ... Then both clinging to the upturned canoe as it is driven nearer and nearer shore.... The boy washed off once, twice, and the man with his arm round clinging-clinging, as the shrieking storm answers to the calling of the Athabascas on the shore, and drives craft and fish and man and boy down upon the banks; no savage bold enough to plunge in to their rescue. ... At last a rope thrown, a drowning man's wrists wound round it, his teeth set in it and now, at last, a man and a heathen boy, both insensible, being carried to the mikonaree's but and laid upon two beds, one on either side of the small room, as the red sun goes slowly down. ... The two still bodies on bearskins in the hut, and a hundred superstitious Indians flying from the face of death.... The two alone in the light of the flickering fire; the many gone to feast on fish, the price of lives.
Then came the struggle for Wingo of the Cree tribe, a waif among the Athabascas, whose father had been slain as they travelled, by a wandering tribe of Blackfeet. Never was there a braver rivalry, although the odds were with the Indian in lightness, in brutal strength.
We soon got sight of Wingo Beacon, a high pyramidal monument, built on a rock at one of the entrances of the fiord on which the city of Gottenburg is situated, and procured a pilot, who took us through a narrow, winding channel among the rocks, into a snug haven surrounded by barren islets, and brought the brig to anchor.
A figure shot forward from a corner. "I will go with Oshondonto," came the voice of Wingo, the waif of the Crees. The eye of the mikonaree flashed round in contempt on the tribe. Then suddenly it softened, and he said to the lad, "We will go together, Wingo."
And the dead boy there, Wingo, who had risked his life, also dead how long? His heart leaped ah! not hours, only minutes maybe. It was sundown as unconsciousness came on him Indians would not stay with the dead after sundown. Maybe it was only ten minutes-five minutes one minute ago since they left him!. . . His watch! Shaking fingers drew it out, wild eyes scanned it. It was not stopped.
Silver Tassel was gaining on him, they were both overhauling the boy; it was now to see which should reach Wingo first, which should take him to shore.
Silver Tassel was gaining on him; they were both overhauling the boy; it was now to see which should reach Wingo first, which should take him to shore.
Billy Rufus the cricketer had won the game, and somehow the Reverend William Rufus Holly the missionary never repented the strong language he used against the Athabascas as he was bringing Wingo back to life, though it was not what is called "strictly canonical." He had conquered the Athabascas forever.
The rapids are known to-day as the Mikonaree Rapids. The end of this beginning of the young man's career was that Silver Tassel gave him the word of eternal friendship, Knife-in-the-Wind took him into the tribe, and the boy Wingo became his very own, to share his home, and his travels, no longer a waif among the Athabascas.
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