Chronicles of the Cariboo

Then raise your glass to Dunlevey
And Moffitt and Old Ira Crow, |

Jim Sellers and Ba’tiste the packer
Who started the whole blinkin’ show.

And to all of the mighty trail biazers
Who sleep ‘neath the paim or the pine,
The sage brush, the caziis or gum tree---
And their sweethearts of auld lang syne.

T ue STORY OPENS on a Fraser River bar at the mouth of the

Chilcotin River in the Spring of 1859, where a party of miners were
so absorbed in the interesting business of washing up their rocker at
the end of the day’s work that they did not notice the approach, on
silent moccasined feet, of a stalwart young Indian, till he accosted
them in Chinook with, “Klahowya, Whitemans! Ikta mika mamook
yawa kcopa ookook?” (“How are you, Whitemans! What do you
do there with that thing?”—indicating the rocker).

The sun had already dipped behind the rocky cliffs to the west,
which were so close and hizgh as to cause an early sunset right there,
although it would be hours yet before sundown on level country.
And that was just the condition that left the bar in such deep shadow
at the moment and probably contributed to the Indian’s unseen
approach.

The startled miners showed their surprise by springing for their
weapons instantly, while the Indian stood calmly, watching them
covertly, his short flintlcck musket resting across the hollow of his
left elbow, his right hand upon the lock. Presently an amused smile
lighted his swarthy ccuntenance as he waited for someone to answer
his question and salutation.

The smile reassured most of the miners, including. a young man
who, from his better clothing and authoritative bearing, the Indian
had already singled out as leader of the party by regarding him
directly. The young miner was Peter Curran Dunlevey, and was
indeed the leader of the party. He now spoke rather bruskly to the
Indian.

“Who the hell are you and where do you come from?” The Indian
laughed as he said—in more English than Chinook DOW BeOing that
they didn’t understand his Chinook.

“Whas matter you Whitemans? No eye, no ear. Me come. No
see! Bad Injins stop yawa up dat river’—indicating with a gesture
the Chilcotin River and country to the West. “You watch goot. Kloonas
bom by Chilcotin kill Whitemans.” Saying this he dropped the butt
of his musket to the gravelly bar, probably in token of good will and
confidence. :

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