CHAPTER XVIWITH CONACHER

CHAPTER XVIWITH CONACHER

Conacher’sspirits rose somewhat with the sun. It was impossible for a healthy man to be altogether miserable under that tender, beaming sky. The lovely, changing prospects of the parklike country through which Blackburn’s River flowed, made the heart swell. Conacher loved, and was loved in return. An apparition of the exquisite Loseis continually swam before his eyes. He was anxious; but he kept saying to himself as a civilized man will: Oh well, nothing serious can happen nowadays.

In the more open places, it was thrilling to see the long, laden train of horses stretching ahead; winding over a ridge; trotting down into the bottoms. The imagination was arrested by the thought of the riches stored in that endless succession of brown packs. It was like a picture to illustrate an old fairy tale. Thoughts of Aladdin and Sindbad flitted through the young man’s mind. Riches!—not represented by a trifling row of figures in a book, but visibly spread before his eyes. Come to think of it, Aladdin married a princess, too. An insipid miss in bloomers according to the pictures; nothing like the darkly vivid Loseis!

Among other directions for the journey, Loseis had warned Conacher not to allow the Slavis to cross the river to loiter in their village. It occurred to the young man that he would not be able to prevent this while he brought up the tail of the procession, so he took advantage of one of the river meadows to urge his horse to the head of the line. By Tatateecha’s crestfallen look at his approach, he judged that he had acted rightly. It was his first good look at the rotund, greasy little head man of the Slavis. Tatateecha was better favored than the run of the Slavis; but that was not saying much. He had a neat, Buster Brown hair-cut, and a red fillet bound around his brow.

Tatateecha edged his horse out of the line, and fell back to consult with the next man. They were like a pair of children conspiring together, with sharp, calculating glances at Conacher. The white man affected not to notice them. Presently Tatateecha came back to him all smiles. Conacher had had no experiences of the Slavis, but he knew something about the Indian nature in general. He’s going to try to put something over on me now, he thought.

Tatateecha by means of animated signs conveyed to Conacher that his village lay a short way ahead; and that it would be the best place to spell. Splendid grass for the horses.

“Not on your life!” said Conacher, with vigorous pantomime of denial. He indicated to Tatateecha that there would be no spell until the sun had traveled a space equal to two hours.

The Slavi broke into speech; but Conacher had him at a disadvantage there, by not understanding a word of it. The white man continued to point to the sun. Tatateecha became aggrieved; almost tearful in his protestations. Then, bringing his horse close to Conacher’s he signified with a winning air, that he himself was perfectly willing to go further; but the rest of the men would refuse to go at all, unless they were permitted to say good-by to their families. Conacher replied by signs that if they refused to go and fetch the grub and ammunition, when the snow covered the ground there would be no grub, no meat, and the people would starve. This argument was unanswerable, and Tatateecha fell back sulking.

Shortly afterwards the village hove in sight across the river. The people lined up on the edge of the bank yelling; and Conacher’s men yelled back. All knew that the white man could not understand their tongue; and Conacher guessed that they were making pretty free with him. It was a trying situation; but he preserved his imperturbable air.

The river issued out of the lake by means of a wide, shallow, brawling rapid. At the present high stage of water, there was but one possible place to ford, and this could not be managed even on horseback without danger of a wetting. At the point where the trail forked, Conacher backed his horse into the arm which ran down the bank, and held him there blocking the way. The Slavis jabbered angrily from one to another; the whole train was brought to a stand.

Tatateecha approached Conacher to expostulate. The white man pointed with his whip down the main trail. Tatateecha attempting to speak again, Conacher suddenly urged his horse forward, and cutting the Indian’s horse smartly across the flank, sent him careering down the main trail, the only way that was open. The train got in motion again. The other Slavis, seeing that Conacher meant what he said, filed past him sullenly. The people across the river fell silent. Conacher fell in at the tail of the procession again. Ten minutes later his feather-headed Slavis were singing and chaffing each other in the best temper imaginable.

But Conacher had to keep a sharp look-out for deserters. Time and again, one or another of the Slavis edged his horse in among the trees with the object of circling around and gaining the trail behind Conacher. The white man found that he could best defeat this maneuver by falling back a quarter of a mile. In that position he would come face to face with the astonished deserter, who thought he had already eluded him. Caught in the act, they made no attempt to resist his commanding voice. When they spelled at last, Conacher, without appearing to, anxiously counted his men. He had lost one. With dinner in prospect there was no danger of their making off. As soon as they had eaten he distributed plugs of tobacco.

Upon reaching the lake the trail turned sharp to the eastward for some miles. In order to provide a firm footing it had to encircle the edge of the wooded country, far back from the water. The vast lake meadows at this season were like a saturated sponge underfoot. For three sleeps, Tatateecha explained, they would be traveling alongside these meadows; and then, climbing through a pass in the hills, would come to the prairie, where they would find the buffalo grass which made horses fat. This bottom grass filled them up, but did not stick to their ribs. Tatateecha was very ingenious in the sign language. When they spelled he was perfectly good-humored again; attaching himself to Conacher like a friendly child.

For two full hours they allowed the horses to feed, before rounding them up again. Conacher would dearly have liked to sleep (as all the Slavis did) but dared not. However, because of the tobacco he had handed out, or because they were getting too far away from home, or for some other reason, the Slavis appeared to have reconciled themselves. There were no further attempts to desert. It was impossible to tell what was going on inside their skulls.

Then for five hours longer they continued on their way. The character of the route never changed. For mile after mile the brown ribbon of earth threaded in and out amongst the trunks of the pines, climbing the little unevenness of ground; crossing small water-courses. On their left hand the vast sea of grass was generally in sight through the trees, with a suggestion of water on the horizon; sometimes for considerable distances the trail followed the actual line between grass and timber.

At about six o’clock they halted for the night. It seemed a pity not to take advantage of the four remaining hours of daylight; but when Conacher looked at the grass-fed horses, sweaty and drooping, he perceived the necessity for camping. The horses were turned out in the grass; the Slavis built their fire at the foot of the bank; while Conacher spread his bed on top in a grove of pines running out to a point, whence he could survey both horses and men.

He spent the early part of the evening fraternizing with his men amidst great laughter when, as frequently happened, the language of signs broke down. About eight o’clock he retired to his own little fire above, and rolled up in a blanket. The sun had not yet sunk out of sight; but it was planned to start at four next morning. As he lay there day-dreaming, he was greatly astonished to see a Slavi Indian quietly approaching between the trees at the back of the point.

He sat up. All the Slavis looked very much alike to him; but he instantly recognized that this was not one of those who had accompanied him all day. There was a suggestion of secrecy in his approach. A rather better physical specimen than the average Slavi, his face bore the childish, deceitful grin that was characteristic of them all. His teeth were blackened and broken; on the whole, an unpleasant-looking individual. He held out an envelope towards Conacher; and the young man leaped to his feet full of a vague alarm.

“Who are you?” he asked involuntarily.

The Indian, grinning, shook his head like a dog, and pointed to his ear; the usual sign for not understanding.

Conacher pointed to himself, and said “Conacher.” He then pointed to the Indian.

“Saltahta,” said the man.

Conacher took the envelope. It bore no superscription. Tearing it open, his heart was filled with warmth at the sight of Loseis’ signature in big round characters. The letter had been written on the typewriter in the stammering style of the beginner. Conacher had had such a letter from Loseis down river. This one was brief.

“There is something wrong here. Gault is plotting mischief. I am afraid. The man who takes this to you is a good man. Let him go with the outfit, and you come back to me.”

As he read, all Conacher’s warmth was chilled. Suspicion leaped into his mind full-grown. There was a vagueness about the letter that was not like Loseis. Moreover he doubted if she would ever confess to being afraid, even if she were afraid. And why should she sign her full name; Laurentia Blackburn. On the other letter it had been simply Laurentia. He remembered the sheets that Gault had made her sign for him, and smiled to himself. Really, the plot was too transparent. He, Conacher, was to be drawn off, and the fur diverted to Gault’s uses under guidance of this Indian. Loseis had told him of a Slavi who was in Gault’s pay.

Suddenly putting his finger on the man’s breast, Conacher said: “Etzooah.”

The Slavi looked at him with perfect, stupid blankness, and shook his head. “Saltahta,” he repeated.

“Tatateecha!” called Conacher.

The little head man came climbing up the bank. Whatever his astonishment at the sight of the newcomer, nothing showed in his face.

“Who is this man?” demanded Conacher, putting his finger on the Slavi.

“Saltahta,” said the newcomer quickly.

“Saltahta,” repeated Tatateecha like a parrot.

Conacher bit his lip. With a jerk of his head he dismissed Tatateecha. The other man made as if to follow.

“You stay where you are!” cried Conacher.

Whether or not the man understood English, the gesture which accompanied the words was amply significant, and he stopped in his tracks. He began to whine pitifully in his own tongue, pointing to his lips and hugging his stomach.

“I don’t give a damn how hungry you are,” said Conacher. “I mean to keep you under my eye until I decide what to do.”

The Indian sat down at the foot of a tree, and pathetically exhibited his empty pipe to the white man. Conacher tossed him the remainder of a plug of tobacco, which he began to shave with an air of philosophic indifference.

There was an agonizing struggle going on in Conacher’s breast. Though he had every reason in the world to believe that letter a trick, he found that hecould not disregard it. There was still one chance in a thousand that it was genuine, and it was a chance he could not take. He had been unwilling enough in the first place to leave Loseis; this little doubt tipped the scale. With that doubt of her safety in his mind he recognized that it would be simply impossible for him to go on day after day always putting a greater distance between them. “Oh, to hell with the fur!” he said to himself; and in that moment his mind was made up.

But he had no notion of swallowing Gault’s bait (if such it was) whole. He lit a pipe to stimulate his mental processes, and puffed at it leaning against a tree, and gazing down at the innocent-eyed Indian speculatively. He thought: I shall take you back with me, my man. Tatateecha is a good way from home now, and he’s been over this route many times. He ought to be able to deliver the fur to Gruber. But in any case I’d sooner trust him than you. Whether you like it or not, you shall come back with me.

It seemed important to Conacher not to allow the newcomer to communicate with the other Slavis. Removing the handkerchief from about his neck, he therefore forced the astonished Indian to put his hands around the tree behind him, and firmly bound his wrists together. The captive loudly and plaintively protested; it was clear that things were not turning out in the way that he expected.

Conacher then went down the bank to consult with Tatateecha. None of the Slavis had rolled up for the night. Their faces were perfectly wooden; but the white man sensed a certain strain in the atmosphere. Evidently Tatateecha had told them of the newcomer’s arrival, and it had excited them. As well as he could, Conacher signified to the head man that he was going back to Blackburn’s Post; and that he wanted two of the least tired horses to be caught.

Pointing up to the top of the bank, Tatateecha asked an eager question.

“He goes with me,” said Conacher, illustrating with signs.

He thought he saw a look of relief appear in the Slavi faces. However they volunteered no information. Again he asked Tatateecha the man’s name, and received the same answer: “Saltahta.” Strange creatures! Apparently they knew of no way of dealing with the strong and terrifying white man except to hide as much as possible from them.

Men were sent away to catch the required horses, and Conacher took out pencil and note-book to write his letter to Gruber. He wished to do this in the sight of Tatateecha, knowing what a superstitious reverence all the remoter tribes have for the act of writing. And it was quite true that Tatateecha, out of the corners of his eyes, followed every move of the pencil with a look of uneasy awe. Conacher wrote:

“Hector Blackburn was killed on June 3rd by falling over a cliff with his horse. Matthew Gault has come to Blackburn’s Post where he is trying to take advantage of the helpless situation of Blackburn’s daughter. She has written to you, but supposes that the letter has not been allowed to go through. We are sending you the fur in charge of Tatateecha because we have nobody else. If you get this letter send us help quickly. Send the police if possible; at any rate send white men. I have promised Tatateecha a credit of one hundred skins if he places this letter in your hands.”“Paul Conacher, Dominion Geological Survey.”

“Hector Blackburn was killed on June 3rd by falling over a cliff with his horse. Matthew Gault has come to Blackburn’s Post where he is trying to take advantage of the helpless situation of Blackburn’s daughter. She has written to you, but supposes that the letter has not been allowed to go through. We are sending you the fur in charge of Tatateecha because we have nobody else. If you get this letter send us help quickly. Send the police if possible; at any rate send white men. I have promised Tatateecha a credit of one hundred skins if he places this letter in your hands.”

“Paul Conacher, Dominion Geological Survey.”

Conacher inclosed this letter in the torn envelope, since he had no other, and offered it to Tatateecha. The Indian received it gingerly and wrapped it in a fold of the gay worsted sash he wore. Conacher explained whom it was for, and told Tatateecha he should receive goods to the value of a hundred skins when it was delivered. To convey the figure, the white man patiently broke up tiny twigs to the required number. Tatateecha’s eyes widened in delighted cupidity. In that moment he could be depended on; the question was, could his feather-head hold to a resolution long enough to carry it through?

The two horses were driven up on top of the bank. The Slavis jeered and pointed at the predicament of the one who called himself Saltahta. If it had been Tatateecha or Conacher himself, they would have done just the same. By Conacher’s orders, they offered to feed the captive, but he refused it. When his horse, which was found tied to a tree near by, was led in, it was discovered that he had plenty of bread and meat tied to his saddle.

Saddle and bridle were transferred to one of the fresher horses, and the man was bidden to mount. His hands were tied behind him; and his feet tied with a loose thong under the horse’s belly. The Slavis yelled in derision, and slapped their thighs. Conacher would have given a good deal to have understood the epithets they bestowed on the prisoner. A leading rein was improvised out of a piece of tracking line. Tying blanket and food to his own saddle, Conacher mounted, and rode off leading the other horse.

For a long time he could hear the laughter of the Slavis. He wondered if they could make any more of the situation than he could, or if their laughter was as meaningless as it sounded. In the hands of these crack-brained savages, he bitterly reflected, rested not only the fate of that fortune in skins, but also the hope of Loseis and him receiving help from the outside world.

CHAPTER XVIITHE MEETING

Threehours later the two horses were still jogging in the same manner along the forest trail. In the beginning the prisoner had sought to make as much trouble as possible by beating his heels against his horse’s ribs, rendering the animal almost unmanageable. Conacher had then put him in front, telling him to beat away, whereupon the Slavi had become very quiet. The tiring horse hung back more and more, and in order to make any progress at all, Conacher had been obliged to take the lead, and pull the other after.

The moon was now high. Little moonlight penetrated through the trees, but the general brightness made traveling easier. A slow trot was the best that Conacher could get out of the horses. Even that pace was not without danger at night. Had not the trail been freshly cleaned up that day for the passage of the fur train, they could not have done it.

Conacher figured that he was within two or three miles of the Slavi village. In two hours more he would make Blackburn’s Post. His heart leaped at the thought of rousing Loseis up in the middle of the night. How astonished she would be! He would hold her in his arms again! He urged his horse forward, and gave the leading rein a jerk.

Not but what he had certain doubts, too, of his reception. Loseis might blame him for returning; would want to send him away again perhaps. Conacher firmly shook his head in the darkness. No! whatever the truth of the situation, it was better for them to remain together. Nothing should persuade him to leave her again.

As Conacher, dreaming, jogged along between the half-seen pillars of the pines rising into obscurity, his wearied horse threw up his head and whinnied. The rider instinctively drew up to listen. A sound of fear broke from the man behind. Presently, out of the stillness of the forest came a faint, answering whinny from ahead. Clapping heels to his horse, Conacher rode to meet it.

The Slavi moaned in fear. “Stop!” he said. “It is not good. There is nobody here.”

“Ha!” said Conacher. “You have found your English, eh?” He continued to urge his horse forward.

They turned into a natural avenue through the trees where the moonlight came flooding down. At the end of this glade, seen first as a dim gray ghost, and gradually resolving itself into the lineaments of life, they perceived a motionless horse and rider blocking the trail. For a second, such a sight in that awful solitude caused even Conacher’s heart to fail; but he did not pull up. As for the Indian, a strangled squall of terror escaped him, and he fell to gibbering incoherently. He was perfectly helpless. Tied as he was, he could not throw himself off his horse without the certainty of being trampled.

Drawing closer, a wild, joyous suspicion sprang up in Conacher’s breast; then certainty. It was Loseis in her boy’s dress, sitting astride the sorrel mare. Flinging themselves off their horses, they flew to each other’s arms, careless of the on-looker.

“Loseis, my darling!” murmured Conacher. “What are you doing here?”

She was all woman then. “Oh, Paul . . . Oh, Paul . . . !” she faltered. “I came to warn you. Gault is waiting in the trail to kill you!”

“To kill me!” he echoed amazed.

A hasty, confused explanation took place. They lowered their voices that the Indian might not overhear.

“I did not send you that letter,” said Loseis.

“I know it.”

“Why did you come back then?”

“Ihadto come. . . . Do you blame me?”

“No! No! It is all right. If you had not come they would have ridden after you. I can best take care of you here.”

Conacher laughed half in delight, half sorely. “You take care of me! I like that! . . . How did you know they had sent me a letter?”

“I crept up to them in the woods. I listened.” She gave him the gist of what she had overheard.

“Good God!” cried Conacher in his simplicity. “Think of anybody wanting to killme!” Catching hold of the leading line, he jerked the Indian into the full moonlight. “Who is this man?” he said.

“Etzooah,” said Loseis with half a glance.

“I thought so,” said Conacher grimly. “According to the letter he was to have gone with the outfit; but I thought I had better bring him with me.”

“You did well,” said Loseis.

Tying the horses to trees, they walked away a little in the trail. For awhile they were completely filled with the joy of being together again. The difficulties ahead had to wait.

“Oh, my darling, when I realized that it was you, my heart nearly burst with joy. It was so unexpected, so lovely to find you waiting quietly in the moonlight!”

“Oh, Paul, it makes up for everything to have known you! I don’t care what happens now.”

“You must have been waiting here alone for hours. How could you dare to do it?”

“Why . . . I had to do it. I never thought twice about it.”

“You are the bravest girl in the world!”

“Oh, no! I’m just an ordinary girl who is in love with you.”

“I don’t deserve it!” he murmured.

“Well . . . neither do I!”

When they returned to earth, Conacher said simply: “What shall I do with this Indian now? Put a bullet through his head?”

“Oh, no! no!” said Loseis nervously. “There must be no killing.”

“They started it,” said Conacher.

“I wanted to kill Gault myself,” said Loseis quaintly; “but I struggled against it.”

Conacher laughed. “Little fire-eater!” he said, hugging her close.

“We must be serious now,” she said pushing him away.

“I’ll have to turn the man loose then,” said Conacher. “And let him find his way to his friends on foot.”

“That will be best,” said Loseis. “They are waiting about four miles from here. It will give us time to get out of the way.”

“The horses are so tired,” exclaimed Conacher. “And it must be eighteen miles to the fur-camp. They will die under us before we get there.”

“But we are not going there,” said Loseis. “If I had meant that, I would have ridden right through.”

“Where else can we go?” said Conacher, opening his eyes.

“Gault and his men would be up with us almost as soon as we broke camp in the morning. The Slavis would run away. How could we protect ourselves there in the open? Neither you nor I would ever be seen alive again. How easy for Gault to explain that there had been an accident. There would be no witnesses but his men.”

“What do you propose then?” said Conacher gravely.

“I have been thinking about it all these hours. We will go back to Blackburn’s Post. There we will be on our own ground. There are strong buildings to protect us, and plenty of grub and ammunition. It would be more difficult for Gault to make out that there had been an accident there.”

“Right!” said Conacher. “You have a head on you! Whatever happens we will never be parted again.”

“Never!” she said going to his arms.

“One of us will not be left!”

“I swear it!” she said kissing him.

Conacher felt the strength of ten men coursing through his veins. “Come on!” he said briskly. “How do you propose to get by the men waiting in the trail?”

“We will take a canoe at the Slavi village. Mary-Lou is waiting there. She will stick to us. She is not brave, but her heart is true.”

“Good!” said Conacher. “Now for this red-skinned blackguard. How about taking him with us to the Post? Gault would then ride after the fur at daybreak and we’d gain a day.”

“What good would that do us?” said Loseis. “He would be back at the Post by night. And in the meantime the Slavis would be scattered. Tatateecha is our best hope of getting help from the outside.”

“All right,” said Conacher. “But it goes against the grain to turn the scoundrel loose.”

Taking out his knife, he proceeded to cut the cringing Indian’s bonds. “You filthy wretch!” he cried; “you mangy, verminous coyote! If you got your deserts I would be sticking this knife between your ribs! Go back to your master and tell him . . .”

“Wait!” cried Loseis. “Not a word! Gault won’t know how much we know. Let him guess!”

Conacher swallowed his anger. Etzooah slipped from his horse, and crawled on the ground like a whipped cur.

Loseis and Conacher mounted and rode on, driving the third horse in front of them. Etzooah, cramped from his long confinement in bonds, staggered along slowly behind them.

CHAPTER XVIIICONFUSION

Whenhe came to the Slavi village after his long walk, Etzooah crossed the ford, and sticking his head inside the first tepee, awakened the sleepers with a yell. He demanded to know if Yellow-Head and Blackburn’s daughter had been seen. A grumbling voice replied that they had taken a canoe and gone down river. Searching for a horse, Etzooah perceived that the whites in their haste had turned out their horses without unsaddling them. The sorrel mare eluded him; she disliked the Indian smell; but he caught the horse he had already ridden so far. It would serve for the short distance he had still to go. Refording the river, he proceeded along the trail.

It was not Gault’s habit to confide in his creatures any further than he was forced to. Etzooah’s job had been to steer the fur train east across the prairie and hit the big river at Fisher Point, where the fur could be picked up later by the launch and a scow from Good Hope. Etzooah might have guessed that a short shrift was waiting for Conacher at Blackburn’s Post, but he had been told nothing of the details of the plot, which, indeed, had been concocted after his departure. Etzooah expected to find Gault and his men camped within a mile or so of the Post, where he had left them earlier that day.

Ere he had gone two miles beyond the Slavi village, the miserable Indian rode fairly into the trap set for the white man. He was pounding along at a good rate over this well-traveled part of the trail, one knee hooked around the horn of his saddle, as was his custom. The thin line, stretched as taut as a wire across the trail, caught him under the chin, and lifted his body clear of the saddle. His knee held him; the horse reared; Etzooah’s head was dragged back between his shoulders. As the horse’s forefeet dropped back to the ground, there was a horrible soft crack heard. The man’s body came away from the saddle, and dropped limply in the trail. The terrified horse ran on.

There was a loud laugh of bravado amongst the trees. Gault stepped out into the trail. “Worked like a charm!” he said. “I think his neck is broke.”

Moale dropped to one knee beside the huddled body, and struck a match. “God! . . . It’s Etzooah!” he gasped.

“Etzooah! . . . Etzooah . . . !” said Gault stupidly.

The match had dropped from Moale’s nerveless fingers. He fumbled with another. At last the little flame sprang up. “Look!” he said. “Look!”

“God Almighty!” cried Gault. “What’s he doing back here?”

Moale was feeling under the man’s head. “He’ll never tell you,” he said grimly. “His neck is broke.”

Gault said anxiously: “See if he has the letter on him.”

A search revealed that the letter was gone.

“Then he has been to Conacher,” said Gault. “Drag him into the bush, and we’ll go get that white man.”

“If his body should be found . . .” suggested Moale. “Hadn’t we better drop the tree on him as planned for the other?”

“Hell! I’m not going to waste that trick on a redskin! I may want it later. Pitch him in the river. The current will carry him far beyond the sight of mankind.”

But as Moale started to obey, Gault changed his mind again. “Wait,” he said. “I’ll help you to hoist his body out of way of the coyotes. Conacher was the last man who saw Etzooah alive, understand? We will use that later.”

The Indian’s body, still warm, was hung over two spruce branches. The Crees were summoned to fetch the horses from their hiding-place, and Gault and his three men rode south.

It was full day and the Slavis were packing the horses, in the spongy meadow, when the four big men rode violently down the little pine-clad point. Instantly the Slavis jumped on horses and scattered far and wide in the sea of grass.

Gault had his eye on Tatateecha. “Let them go,” he shouted to his men. He caught the plump headman by the collar as he was climbing on a horse, and flung him in the grass. “Now then!” he said with an oath. “Where’s the white man?” It was a simple matter to signify Conacher’s curling yellow hair and blue eyes.

Another discomfiture awaited the furious trader. Tatateecha, delighted to find that Conacher, and not himself, was the object of Gault’s wrath, gave, in signs, a graphic and perfectly truthful account of how Etzooah had arrived the night before and had given Conacher a letter; and how Conacher after reading the letter had put Etzooah on a horse tied hand and foot and had ridden back, leading him. Tatateecha said nothing about the letter Conacher had given him, which was burning a hole in his stomach at that moment.

Gault swore violently, and Tatateecha edged out of reach of his boot. The trader was forced to apply to Moale in his perplexity. “What do you make of it?” he said. “Etzooah was not tied up when we found him?”

Moale shrugged. “One thing is clear,” he said, “We’ve passed Conacher somewhere.”

“Then catch fresh horses and we’ll ride back!” shouted Gault.

“The fur? . . .” suggested Moale, casting desirous eyes on the scattered bales.

“To hell with the fur! I’m going to get that white man first!”

At six o’clock in the morning they were back at the Slavi village. Splashing through the ford, the first native they came upon was a bent crone, too old to get out of the way. Out of her dim eyes she looked at Gault with indifferent scorn. In reply to the usual question about the white man with the curling hair the color of the sun, she told in signs that he had ridden there in the night when the paleness of the sky was in the north (midnight). Etzooah was not with him then. The white man turned out his horse, took a canoe, and paddled down river.

“Gone back to the girl,” growled Gault. “But what in hell could have warned him that we were laying for him in the trail!”

Moale suddenly perceived the well-known sorrel mare grazing amongst the other horses. She was still saddled and bridled. The eyes almost started out of his head. “Look!” he cried pointing.

It was one of the nastiest shocks that Gault had received. He stared at the animal with hanging jaw. “How did that mare get here?” he demanded hoarsely.

The old woman replied by signs that Loseis had come with Conacher in the night.

“What!” shouted Gault. “What!. . . Why in hell didn’t you say so before?”

The very old woman looked at him calmly. Her glance said: You didn’t ask me!

The furious Gault was incapable of dealing with her. Moale, calmer and warier, plied her for further information. She described how Loseis had been up and down in the trail all day. Loseis must have seen Etzooah pass at midday, but she had not come back to the village for her horse until near evening.

“Then in God’s name what was she doing all afternoon?” muttered Gault, a certain fear striking into his rage.

Nothing further was to be learned here. The four men rode on in the direction of Blackburn’s Post. Moale and the two Crees gave their master a good dozen yards’ lead in the trail. The passions of hell were working in the trader’s black face. Moale was gray and the Indians yellowish with fatigue and apprehension. It was a safe guess that all three would have been glad then to get out of this ugly business; but they were bound to their master a hundred times over; there was no possibility of dissociating their fortunes from his. They were not bothered by moral scruples; but they feared that Gault’s passions had mastered him to such an extent that he was no longer capable of listening to the counsels of prudence.

At a point about a mile short from the Post, they turned out of the trail, and followed the summit of one of the gravelly ridges, picking their way slowly through the scrub. Soon the timber and brush became too thick for them to guide their horses through, and they were obliged to dismount and lead them. After a mile and a half of the roughest sort of going, which included the crossing of a gorge-like coulee, they came out on the trail to Fort Good Hope in a little prairie dotted with clumps of poplars. Here they had left their outfit the day before, and had turned out their remaining horses hobbled.

They cooked and ate a meal in sullen silence. Afterwards Gault dispatched Moale into the Post to spy out the situation.

“Tell her,” he said with stiff and bitter lips, “that I couldn’t rest for thinking of her alone there, and I sent back to ask if she was all right.”

Moale, in his impassive way, set off without expressing any opinion as to the usefulness of this errand.

He was back by the time the sun had completed a quarter of its journey across the sky. Gault was sitting hunched up in the grass almost precisely as he had left him. In twenty-four hours the trader had not slept. He sprang up at the sight of Moale.

“Well?” he demanded with cruel eagerness.

“I found the two girls in the Women’s House . . .” Moale began.

“Alone?” snarled Gault.

“Alone. Everything looked as usual. When I delivered your message, Loseis listened politely, but her eyes were full of hard laughter. She did not believe me.”

“What did she say?”

“She told me to thank you, and to tell you that there was nothing she required.”

“What then?”

“Conacher, having seen me come, came hurrying across from the men’s house.”

“Without concealment?”

“Why should there be any concealment? They cannot know that Etzooah is dead. They think Etzooah has told us all.”

“Damnation!” muttered the trader. “I am all in the dark! . . . Go on!”

“Conacher had a gun over his arm. . . .”

“A gun?” echoed Gault in angry alarm.

“A gun. I did not have any talk with Conacher. He left it to the girl.”

“What else did she say?”

“She asked me where we were camped. I replied that we had made but a short stage yesterday, because you were anxious about her. It amused her to hear me lie. She didn’t say anything; but only looked at the three-bar brand on my horse’s flank.”

Gault broke out in furious cursing. “You fool! Why didn’t you change to one of the horses we left here?”

“Those horses are not broke for riding.”

“You could have managed.”

“What difference does it make?” said Moale impassively. “They know all.”

“Howcanthey know?” cried Gault. “Go on!”

“I told her that we had come upon a bunch of her horses, and I had borrowed one to ride back, so I could save my own. She knew I was lying, of course. Her horses do not range on this side of the coulee. But she said nothing. She asked me politely if I would eat before riding back. I had just eaten, but I said I would, thinking I might learn something by staying.”

“The Beaver girl served me in the kitchen. While I was eating Loseis and Conacher were talking together outside the house. They talked low, but my ears are very sharp. I caught enough of the words to be able to piece together the sense of the whole. Conacher wanted to tell me everything, and try to win me to their side. I heard him say: ‘Insane with jealousy.’ He meant you. His idea was that there was no reason why I should risk my neck for you. But the girl would not agree. She said you had only sent me over there to get information, and if they told me anything it would be playing right into your hand. So nothing was told me. When I had eaten, some more polite speeches were made, and I rode away.”

“You think . . . ?” said Gault, knitting his brows.

“I am sure that they know all,” said Moale. “The girl must have been skulking in the woods yesterday afternoon. She has doubtless learned the Slavi tricks of hiding and moving softly. The way Conacher snatched up his gun shows what they expect of us.”

Gault revealed the big teeth in an ugly smile. “Well . . .” he said slowly, “we won’t disappoint them. We’re in so deep now, we’ve got to go the whole way. . . .”

“You mean . . . ?” asked Moale with his enigmatic eyes fixed intently on Gault’s face.

Gault nodded somberly. “The girlandthe man,” he said. “Before anybody comes in.”

Moale shrugged acquiescently.

CHAPTER XIXPREPARING FOR DANGER

Assoon as Moale rode away Loseis, Conacher and Mary-Lou held a council. The sense of common danger drew them very close together; their hearts were soft towards each other. The whites treated the Indian girl exactly as one of themselves. But poor Mary-Lou was not of much help to them. Terror had her in its grip again.

The sunshine drew them outside the door of the Women’s House. Loseis cast her eyes about the scene. “Ah! how beautiful the world is!” she murmured. “Only men spoil it!”

“Cheer up!” said Conacher stoutly. “They haven’t got us yet!”

“I do not mind danger!” said Loseis quickly. “But such wickedness hurts my breast. It spoils life!”

“I know,” said Conacher. “You cannot believe in it.”

“Well, never mind our feelings,” said Loseis with a shake of her black mane. “What have we got to expect now?”

“We’ve got the time it will take Moale to ride to his master and report,” said Conacher.

“But he’s waiting close by, of course,” said Loseis. “He may even be watching us from the top of the hill.”

“The simplest thing would be for Gault to ride down and break in the door with an ax,” said Conacher. “If he does, I’ll blow the top of his head off,” he added grimly.

Loseis shook her head. “Gault never does the simple thing.”

“He may lose his head.”

“Moale is there to remind him to be cautious. . . . No! Gault will never attack us in the open. Not while we stick together. I feel that from the inside. He doesn’t care what you would think; but he is too conceited to let meseewhat a beast he can be.”

“When it came to the final point,” said Conacher, “I don’t believe he could harm you.”

“He’sgotto kill me now,” said Loseis simply. “I know too much.”

Conacher walked around the Women’s House, studying it. When he returned he said: “I think we had better make this our fortress. There are no windows in the back; it will be the easiest building to defend. And more comfortable for you girls. I’ll bring over my bed and bunk in the kitchen. You two take the inner room. . . . That is, if you agree.”

“You are the captain,” said Loseis with a warm glance.

“Well, we won’t quarrel over who’s the boss,” said Conacher. “Our first job must be to stock up with food, water, ammunition and firewood.”

They scattered to these tasks, glad to have something to occupy their hands. Expecting momentarily to be interrupted, they worked hard and swiftly, always keeping their ears sharpened for hoof-beats on the trail. But there were no alarms. Midday came; they finished their work; and Blackburn’s Post still basked undisturbed in the sunshine.

While Mary-Lou cooked the dinner, Conacher took stock of their supplies. There was ample food, firewood and ammunition—they had taken care to transfer the entire stock of ammunition from the store; but the water supply gave him cause for anxiety. The entire stock of vessels capable of holding water consisted of three small kegs, half a dozen pails and some small pots. The Slavis carried water in birch-bark receptacles.

“Barely a week’s supply,” said Conacher ruefully.

“If the worst comes to the worst we’ll have to cut out washing,” said Loseis smiling. “The Slavis get along without washing.”

After dinner they lounged in front of the house again. This was the hardest time to put in. The uncertainty of what to expect kept them keyed up to a painful pitch. Conacher wished to creep up to the top of the hill to reconnoiter; but Loseis would not hear of it.

“Would you take me with you?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No, of course not!” said Loseis. “You know very well we might walk smack into a trap.”

They endlessly discussed their chances.

“If Tatateecha makes thirty miles again to-day,” said Conacher; “that will complete one-fifth of the whole distance. . . .”

“Better not count too much on Tatateecha,” warned Loseis. “He is as reliable as water.”

“I know,” said Conacher. “But there’s no harm in figuring. . . . Say he makes the warehouse in eight more days. If Gruber started back instantly—and of course he would on getting my letter; he could make the return journey in five days, or even four if he had plenty of horses. In twelve days then, we may begin to look for relief. After all twelve days is not so much. . . .”

“But Gault will be counting those twelve days, too,” said Loseis in a low tone. “He will not let them pass without acting.”

Seeing how the Indian girl’s head was hanging down, and her face twitching, Loseis said kindly: “Mary-Lou, why don’t you take a horse, and ride to the Slavi village? You can stay with the other Marys. You would be quite safe there. And you can’t do us any good by staying here.”

Mary-Lou, without looking up, slowly shook her head. “I not like live in tepee,” she murmured. “Please, I want stay with you.”

Loseis gave her a hug. “Surely!” she said. “But I hate to see you so broken up.”

“I all right,” said Mary-Lou in a strangled voice. She hastened into the house.

Conacher and Loseis came together. They walked in the grass with linked arms.

“Sweetheart,” murmured Conacher; “you hide it well, but you are suffering too!”

“You mustn’t feel sorry for me,” said Loseis, “or I’ll feel sorry for myself then. . . . It’s only not knowing what to expect! When I see what I have to do, I’ll be all right.”

“If I could only get you away from it all!”

“I have been through it alone,” said Loseis. “Now I have you!”

Later in the afternoon Conacher was sitting by himself at the door, still revolving their chances of receiving help from the outside, when suddenly he perceived a bark canoe with two figures in it coming down the river.

“By God! here’s something to break the suspense!” he cried, leaping up.

Loseis ran to the door. But when she saw the canoe her face showed no relief nor gladness. She suspected who was in it.

And when the canoe landed in the creek mouth, presently an all-too-familiar little rotund figure rose over the top of the bank.

“Tatateecha,” said Loseis in a listless voice.

Conacher’s face fell like a child’s. He groaned aloud in his anger and disappointment. “Oh, the miserable cur!” he cried.

“What would you expect of a Slavi?” said Loseis, shrugging.

They waited for him in a bitter silence. Tatateecha came plodding up the grassy rise with the air of a guilty schoolboy. His companion remained in the canoe. Reaching the top, Tatateecha, with an absurd pretense of not seeing Conacher and Loseis, headed straight across towards the store. Loseis summoned him peremptorily. He came like a dog to get his whipping, twisting his body, and grinning in sickening fear. Still trying to make out that nothing was the matter, he said something to Loseis that caused her to laugh a single bitter note.

“What is it?” demanded Conacher.

“He is out of tobacco,” said Loseis.

“Oh, my God!” cried Conacher. “Tobacco! When we were counting on him to bring us help!”

Loseis held up a restraining hand. “You will only frighten him stupid,” she said. “Let me find out what happened.”

The miserable Tatateecha told his story to Loseis, who translated it for Conacher. “He says, early this morning when they were packing up for the start, Gault, and his three big men suddenly rode into their camp, and the Slavis jumped on horses and spread in every direction. Gault, when he found you were gone, turned right back, but Tatateecha couldn’t round up the Slavis by himself, he says. One by one they gained the trail and galloped home; and there was nothing for it but for him to come home too. . . . It may be true. It has the sound of truth.”

“Leaving all the fur and the pack-horses where they were, I suppose,” said Conacher.

Loseis shrugged. “I expect that was bound to be lost,” she said.

“And he calls himself their head man . . . !”

Loseis concealed her bitter disappointment under a mask of indifference. “He isn’t worth swearing at,” she said. “Give him a plug of tobacco, and let him go.”

Tatateecha began to argue for two plugs of tobacco; Conacher with a threatening gesture, sent him flying down the hill.

Supper time was approaching when all further uncertainty was put to an end by the sound of many hoofs pounding down the trail above the Post. Loseis and Conacher prudently retired within the house, and barring the door, each took up a position at one of the little windows looking out on the square. Mary-Lou declined to come to the window. Conacher was in the kitchen; Loseis in her room, and the door open between. Conacher opened his window. Between his feet rested the butt of his express rifle; and he grasped the barrel in one hand.

Presently a numerous cavalcade rode into the grassy square. It seemed to the watchers as if they would never stop coming. Besides Gault and Moale they counted sixteen well-mounted Indians; big, able-looking fellows; mostly having a claim to a distant white ancestor in all probability. There were also several laden horses, and a number of spare ones.

“He’s brought his army against us!” said Conacher with scornful laughter.

“They don’t know what they’re going to be used for,” answered Loseis.

“Might be a good thing for me to tell them,” suggested Conacher.

“Useless,” said Loseis. “There’s never been any police stationed at Fort Good Hope, and they can conceive of no authority higher than Gault’s.”

Reining in, Gault pointed down to the river flat where the Slavi village had lately stood. The Indians rode on down the grassy rise with their pack-horses and spares; and began forthwith to make camp. Gault and Moale were left sitting their horses side by side. Gault, well aware that he was being watched, never looked towards the Women’s House. To all appearances he was as ever, the elegant gentleman; perfectly turned out; his face smooth and bland. He had allowed the rein to fall on his horse’s neck. One hand rested on his hip; and with the other he gesticulated gracefully towards the camp below, as he issued his instructions to the deferential Moale.

“Quite the beau ideal,” said Loseis dryly at her little window.

“So that’s my would-be murderer!” said Conacher at his. “Gives you a funny feeling to set eyes on him when you know.”

Moale dismounted and went to the door of the Men’s House, where he knocked.

“Feeling his way,” said Conacher.

“It will be amusing to hear what excuse he gives for coming back here,” said Loseis.

Conacher raised his gun. “Loseis,” he said soberly, “the quickest way to end this matter would be for me to shoot him off his horse as he sits there.”

Loseis ran to his side. “No, Paul, no!” she cried agitatedly.

“It would be the best way,” he insisted. “He means to kill us if he can. Suppose he gets one of us and the other is left. I’m a pretty good shot. I could get him easily now. It would end it. These other men have nothing against us.”

“No! No! No!” she cried. “Not until he attacks us! I couldn’t bear it!”

Conacher allowed the butt of his gun to thump on the floor again. “Very well,” he said a little sullenly. “Still, I think it would be the best way.”

Receiving no answer at the door of the men’s house, Moale faced about, and came towards them. Conacher and Loseis watched him with heads close together. Moale’s comely olive face was, as always, perfectly expressionless.

“What sort of man is this?” asked Conacher grimly.

“Who can tell?” said Loseis. “He is neither white nor red.”

They opened the door, and stood side by side within the frame to receive him, Conacher with his gun across his arm. At sight of the gun Moale’s eyes narrowed, but he made no reference to it in speech. Bowing to Loseis, he said in his gentle voice:

“Mr. Gault wishes to know if he may speak with you?”

“But why not?” said Loseis coolly. “Speech is free.”

“If he comes unarmed,” added Conacher grimly.

Moale stabbed him with a lightning glance of his strange eyes, but did not speak. Bowing to Loseis again, he turned and went back to Gault.

Loseis and Conacher remained standing in the doorway. The girl said earnestly:

“Paul dear, when he comes, you must hold your anger in.”

“I’m not going to truckle to him,” said Conacher, angry already.

“Of course not! If we showed fear we would be lost. But if we become angry they will use it as an excuse to attack us, and we will be lost, too. We must show neither fear nor anger, but only coldness. My heart tells me that.”

“Oh, you’re right, of course,” groaned Conacher; “but you’re asking almost too much of flesh and blood!”

After a brief colloquy with Moale, Gault dismounted, and came striding towards them with measured steps. He had retained the lordly air of the old-time trader. His self-control was marvelous; he kept his head up, and looked from Loseis to Conacher with brazen coolness. But there was a sort of glassy guard over his eyes. You could not see into them.

“He has his nerve with him,” grumbled Conacher in unwilling admiration. “Marching up to the gun like this, with empty hands.”

“He may have a pistol,” suggested Loseis.

“He’d have to draw it,” said Conacher coolly. “And my gun is in my hands.”

As he drew close, Gault’s eyes flickered once. It must have been like a knife in his breast to see Conacher and Loseis pressed together companionably in the door of their house like a little family. But this was the only sign of feeling he gave.

“Good evening,” he said to Loseis.

“Good evening,” returned Loseis.

Gault went on: “I was somewhat surprised to learn from Moale, when he returned to me to-day, that Conacher was with you.”

“Were you?” said Loseis dryly.

“You told me that he had gone with the fur.”

This was too much for Conacher’s honest simplicity. “You know damned well what brought me back!” he cried.

Loseis laid a restraining hand on his arm. Gault continued to look at Loseis as if Conacher had not spoken. There was a silence which seemed to bristle with pointing knives.

“Of course it was clear to me that the Slavis would never be able to carry through alone,” Gault resumed. “And as I happened to meet the men I had sent for from Fort Good Hope just then, I turned around and brought them back with me, to offer them to you to take out your fur. They are experienced and intelligent men, and can travel anywhere.”

Loseis took thought before answering. Why does he trouble to give me all this palaver when he knows he has only to go and get the fur? It occurred to her that candor on her part would be the best means of disconcerting him. She said coolly:

“The Slavis have already returned. The fur has been abandoned at the spot about thirty miles from here, where you saw it early this morning. . . .”

Gault changed color slightly. He could not guess how she had learned this so soon.

“Well, there it lies,” Loseis went on. “I do not mean to give you permission to go and get it. On the other hand I cannot prevent you from doing so.”

Gault appeared to be debating the question with himself. He finally said: “It is clearly my duty to save this valuable property. I shall therefore send the Crees after it to-morrow.”

“As you will,” said Loseis.

Gault made to go; and then turned back as if struck by a new thought. “I shall be returning to my own post,” he said. “My first thought was to send Moale out with the fur; but your situation cannot be very comfortable here. If you and Conacher would like to accompany the fur train, Moale may remain here to guard your property until you return.”

Loseis smiled coldly. So this was what he had been leading up to!

Conacher’s blue eyes widened with indignation. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he cried. “If this doesn’t. . . .”

Loseis touched him warningly. “I thank you,” she said to Gault with hard sweetness. “Mr. Conacher and I both thank you. We offer you all the thanks that is due to your most generous offer. Butunder the circumstances, we prefer to remain here.”

Gault’s face was like a wall. He bowed to Loseis, and left them.

“By God . . . !” began Conacher.

“Hush!” said Loseis. “Anger just gives him an opening to get angry too. But coldness mixes him all up.”

“What a fool he must be to think . . .”

“He is not a fool,” interrupted Loseis. “He knew exactly what he was doing. You see he was not sure if we knew that he meant murder. His object was to find that out. Well, he did find out.”

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