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