The Cincinnati Daily Star

THE GAUNTLET OF FIRE.

It is now several years since I was in the service of the Hudson Bay Company, at their trading station of Hemlock Bend, on the banks of the Great Snake River. A wild, desolate spot it was, surrounded by dreary pine forests and yet more dreary swamps, and with its double cordon of a tall stockade and a long swivel-gun surrounding its central warehouse, more resembling a military post than a commercial depot.

Most lonely was our life in that distant factory, with the fierce blasts from the great bay sweeping down upon us in almost polar cold, and furious snow-storms during more than half the year; while our brief summer was cheered by no more pleasant visitants than the rugged navigators of the vessels which brought our merchandise, and the grave Indian hunters, who came to barter their winter's take of furs for our powder, cloth, and brazen ornaments.

My range of society, however, was somewhat greater; for, as assistant factor, it was my duty during the summer months to visit our different out-door stations; and not only smugglers were the characters with which I thus made acquaintance, but wild, and sometimes perilous, the adventures I encountered.

On one occasion I remember being bound to Sandy's Bluff, beyond Loon Lake, one of my most distant charges. In those thickly-wooded regions the rivers and creeks form the only highway; and with the usual farewell cheer given and returned, my Indian crew and I, in our large nor'west canoe, started on our expedition. A pleasant summer voyage it promised to be, leading along gentle rivers, bordered by young, green foliage, across bright, breezy lakes, and through the windings of narrow creeks fringed with many-colored blossoms.

When night stole on us we drew our light boat to land, and, wrapped in our blankets, slept soundly until daylight called us to resume our journey.

Two and a half days had been thus occupied, and the afternoon of the third saw us entering the right fork, Kaskong-shadi, a stream noted even in that wild country for its rugged gorges of arrowy rapid. But, the ready philosophy of the Indians was equal to every exigency as it appeared; the light, graceful action with which their ten easily-wielded paddles sent our canoe skimming along the stream, gradually changing as the adverse current quickened into a fierce, rapid movement, capable of making head against the wild, leaping, foaming torrent which surged down on us; or if the rush of the steep incline defied the power of paddles, the dauntless rowers leaped out into the foaming flood, and girding themselves with ropes, took their canoe in tow, pressing on from rock to rock along the shallow margin of the river, but still waist-deep in the roaring, raging, tumultuous race of waters, which almost swept them from their feet. But, with yells and whoops, as against a human enemy, the brave fellows battled on, until at last, breathless and well-nigh exhausted, they emerged from the watery ordeal with a shout of triumph.

At length but one more rapid rolled between us and Loon Lake, and a murmur of pleasure broke from the Indians' lips as they saw the broad expanse of water in the distance. But this race was the worst on the route, a veritable hill of surging waves, and the water too deep for even Indian intrepidity.

The men, however, had done the task before, and they doubted not doing the work again. So, dashing their paddles into the foaming flood, they plied their blades, almost burying their slight vessel in the white sea of the breakers.

Ten anxious, arduous minutes, and the topmost wave alone remained for us, and every hand took a firmer hold, every paddle a longer sweep, for that final, mighty effort.

At last the steep ascent was gained and as the shallop swayed upon its crest the well-known whoop of victory re-sounded through the wilds. But a cry of blank despair quickly followed, as the steersman's paddle, strained by the pressure, snapped off above the blade; while the unguided canoe, yielding to the rushing current, broached to on the watery brink, and ere any could control her, swayed completely round, and passing the intervening point of land, shot like an arrow into the left fork of the Kaskongshadi, and began to leap down the surging breakers and steep cascades.

Suddenly a new and fearful horror came over us as we swept into the wild descent; scarce a rood below us there flashed upon our eyes a great glare of fire, while a sharp, crackling noise broke upon the silence; and at once we comprehended the fearful truth that one of those conflagrations, which, lit by a spark from a hunter's rifle, an unextinguished Indian fire, or some other trifling cause, occasionally devastated the American wilds, was raging in our front.

The canoe plunged madly on a fearful sea, the scene to which she brought us. Fire on either side, as the fierce element wrapped the lofty forest trees in sheets of flame firing above; as the overhanging branches joined together in a burning arch; nay, it seemed even fire below, as the boiling waves which raged around us caught the red reflection.

Never shall I forget what we endured as, with wet blankets our only shield, we swept along that fearful avenue of flames.

Hopeless, helpless, we sped on to apparently certain death, which each prepared to meet as best he might. It was an interval of unutterable misery. I closed my bleared and aching eyes, as I believed forever, with a murmured prayer for speedy death. But when hope was gone and life had almost passed, an overruling Providence guided us to safety. Within an hour the narrow gorge widened into a lake-like region, among whose placid waters our canoe at length found rest, and at last we reached our destination.

But neither time nor changes can ever banish from my mind the haunting memory of that fearful night when my Indians and I ran that gauntlet of fire.