[1]Eskimo sledge dogs.
[1]Eskimo sledge dogs.
The mass bell's solemn chime pealed forth from the squat tower of the Mission House, echoed against a thousand different rock peaks of the shoreline and rolled resonantly over Oxford's bosom till distance killed the sound and the tone was lost in the splash of whitecaps jumping like silvery salmon beyond the Bay.
Since Carman, the Church of England missionary, had perished in the winter's last blizzard on Lone Wolf Lake and the Company had failed as yet to get a minister in his place, the spiritual welfare of Oxford House was entirely in the hands of Father Brochet. Protestant and Catholic, disciple and pagan, zealot and scorner alike attended the kindly priest's services and sought his generous aid in many private matters.
With the bell's summons they came singly, in twos or threes, and in groups of varying size to take part in, or view the morning mass as well as to see the christening of Flora Macleod's child.
Bruce Dunvegan left his business in the trading room of the Hudson's Bay Store and stepped out into the dewy sunshine. The auroral flame which had licked the waters of Oxford Lake was gone. He saw the horizon as a sheet of molten gold floating the coppery disc of the sun. From wet rocks the writhing mists twisted and uncoiled, while the breeze which crooned over the outer reach of the lake and raised the crested swells beat in with little darts and lanceolate charges, puffing the fog-smoke like the muzzle-jets of rifles.
As the chief trader contemplated the magnificent splendor of the watery vista before him, he thrilled with the indefinable magic of the outland. He inhaled a huge breath and threw his arms wide, the action nearly upsetting the balance of Edwin Glyndon, the new clerk, who had emerged at his side.
"Ha! Your pardon!" exclaimed Dunvegan, laughing. "These northern sunrises get into my blood like wine. You'll feel it before you are very long here. Going over to the Mission?"
"I wouldn't mind," returned Glyndon. "It's all so new to me, and I wasn't at Norway long enough to see much. Do you attend?"
"We all drop in," the chief trader informed him. "Brochet's faith has many adherents, but of course you don't have to take part unless your inclinations run that way. You are a Church of England man, I suppose!"
"Oh, yes—quite an orthodox one," laughed Glyndon bitterly. "Didn't you know I drank myself and parents into disgrace at home? That's why they sent me out here—away from the evil ruts, you understand! And I fancy it might not be so hard to be a good Churchman in this wilderness. At any rate the chances are increased."
"This is the best opportunity that you will ever find," Dunvegan declared. "If you want to go straight and live clean, the way is easy. It seems to me these lake breezes, these pine woods, these outdoor days are a long way removed from temptation."
He swung his hands illustratively from the sheen of Oxford's surface to the dark green of the Black Forest, which loomed in somber mystery on Caribou Point, and looked into the clerk's soft eyes. But Edwin Glyndon was staring over the chief trader's shoulder at someone coming up the path to the store.
"Good Lord!" was his amazed exclamation. "Who in all the angels' category is that?"
Dunvegan turned to see Lazard's niece hurrying toward the building.
"That? Oh, Desirée Lazard!" he answered, striving ineffectually to keep his stirring blood from crimsoning his tan. "She's a ward of old Pierre since her father died. Pierre is her uncle."
"My word!" Glyndon gasped, and could say no more; although his chin went nervously up and down while Desirée Lazard approached.
She walked without perceptible effort in that easy rhythm of movement peculiar to wilderness-born women. Her hair, dun-gold as the morning sky behind, was pinned in a loose knot and parted in the center, letting the shimmer and wave of the tresses play upon either side like shallow-water ripples over sun-browned gravel. Forehead, cheeks, nose and mouth held serene beauty in their perfect chiselling, while her eyes shone like twin lakes of the north, sapphire-blue beneath the morning sun.
So sincere were the men in the unconscious homage they paid to her fairness that they did not move aside to let her enter the door. She stopped and gazed inquiringly at the stranger. And the pair gazed at her. They marvelled at the luxurious development of throat, bosom, and arms, clearly revealed by a tight-fitting chamois waist with open neck and rolled-up sleeves, and at the trim, full contour of her healthy body from the tops of her shoulders to the hem of her doeskin skirt and on down the well-filled leggins to moccasined feet which would hardly have covered a man's palm.
"Good morning, Bruce," she said demurely. "Good morning, monsieur——"
"Glyndon—Edwin Glyndon," supplemented the clerk, eagerly. He was delighted to find that ceremony was an unknown thing in the posts and that each greeted a neighbor whether formally acquainted or not.
"I have told Glyndon you are Pierre's niece," Dunvegan interposed. "He has been drafted from Norway House as our clerk and will henceforth be one of us."
"Ah! Monsieur will find the society of Oxford House limited after living in London," laughed Desirée.
"More limited, but assuredly not less desirable," Glyndon returned gallantly; and the dwelling of his soft eyes on the girl brought the rose to her cheeks.
"Come," she cried peremptorily to hide her confusion, "let me go in and get my things or I shall be late for mass."
Dunvegan thought to wait upon her, but the English clerk sprang in first.
"It is for me to serve," he declared. "I must learn my business."
And the chief trader experienced a pang of intense jealousy as he watched the laughter and badinage of the two across the counter while Desirée made her purchases. He glowered in dark envy and strode out on to the steps. When the girl danced gaily over the threshold, he did not speak.
Glyndon rejoined him, his eyes devouring the lithe, swinging form of Desirée Lazard as she rushed home humming a little French song under her breath.
"Jove!" he exclaimed. "Did you ever see such a figure? Look at the inswell of the torso to the waist and the outswell over the hips——"
But Dunvegan's hand falling like a great weight on his shoulder cut short the speech. Glyndon felt that grip clear through his body; felt his collar bone bend beneath the chief trader's thumb, and he winced.
"Glyndon, never admire a woman in that way," Bruce warned. "Never, I say! Do you understand me?"
The English clerk slunk back under the powerful menace in Dunvegan's glance.
"Oh!" he ejaculated with swift intuition. "I didn't know that you——"
"That'll do," the chief trader cut in. "You don't know anything yet. Try not to bother your head! Go on over to the Mission House!" He started Edwin Glyndon down the path.
Malcolm Macleod for the first time in twenty years had entered the chapel, not for the service but for the christening. Dunvegan left the store in charge of hismètisclerk and followed.
Was he going for the service? Perhaps, for he was a good man, and his religious creed was not a narrow one. Was he going for the christening also? Undoubtedly, for he was to stand sponsor for the child.
But in the depths of his being something cried a third reason.
Across the flat ground which served as the trading house yard lay the chapel. Roughly built after the fashion of northern missions, its very ruggedness suggested the strength of the faith for which it stood as symbol.
As Dunvegan approached the steps, people were already filing rapidly through the narrow doorway. A medley of types was there. Acorn-headed squaws pattered in. Morose Indians filed after. Women, children, and settlers drifted through the doorway. The Hudson's Bay men slouched over. Trappers and halfbreeds filled the single aisle. At the end of a rough bench in one front corner of the building sat the Factor, dour and unyielding. His head was bowed. Not a muscle of his body moved. Perched on the opposite end of that seat was Gaspard Follet, the Fool who had drifted in from nowhere to the post about a year before. It was the Fool's delight to go about hearing everything through dog-like ears, seeing everything through owlish eyes.
None could find out who or what he was, or whence he had come. Yet many at Oxford House contended that he was not so simple as he appeared. They declared that he was as wise as themselves and only kept up the sham to get an easy living. In proof of their contention these suspicious ones set forth his glibness of tongue when he pleased, for on occasion he could talk as well as Brochet.
As Dunvegan seated himself not far from Pierre Lazard and his niece, the mass began in solemn intonation.
"In nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti," began Father Brochet, the mass book supported where the black cassock bulged over his portly waist.
The clear voice of the clerk answered with sonorous "amens", and the responses rose in chorus.
Dunvegan looked at the Factor. The latter seemed unconscious that an earnest service was progressing. Sunk in stony oblivion, he appeared absolutely motionless, his chest neither rising nor falling as he breathed.
The long, familiar service was finally concluded, and those who had taken no part other than as mere listeners sat up with an expectant shuffle. Flora Macleod moved to the front with her child and stood before the altar. Father Brochet looked down upon her. There was no reproach in his mièn. Experience had taught him that in such a case as this, women followed their own hearts even to fleeing from their parents.
A hush brooded over the chapel's interior, a sort of awkward silence, a dread of things running awry! The child's whimper broke it, and Flora swayed the boy in her arms to quiet him.
Brochet spoke when she finished, his clear voice carrying to the door and even outside where some latecomers unable to find seats were grouped on the slab of rough stone which served for a step.
"Who is the male parent, the father of the child?" he asked in the natural course of the ceremony.
Deep silence reigned. Flora Macleod's lips closed tightly, indicating that out of stubbornness she would not speak the name. People looked at the Factor, and he turned from his immobility with the attitude of a sleeping bear suddenly prodded into angry activity.
"Black Ferguson," he snarled, sidling over a foot or so upon the bench.
"The name this child is to bear with honor through life?" Father Brochet continued.
"Honor?" grunted Macleod. "I don't know about that. No doubt he will inherit the spirit of disobedience from his mother. Call him Charles Ian Macleod! There will be no Ferguson in it."
A murmur stirred the assemblage at the Factor's rude remark, but they dared not add protest to their surprises. Dunvegan of course, had expected it from the first.
"Who stands as sponsor for this infant?" asked the priest.
Macleod swung himself half round and nodded to Dunvegan. Bruce rose to his feet, seeing with surprise that Gaspard, the Fool, had also raised himself up by jumping upon the seat.
"Who stands sponsor?"
"I," squealed the idiot. "Also, he can have my name, for if the truth came out, it is as good as anyone's and——"
He got no farther for old Pierre Lazard pulled the foolish dwarf off his perch before the angry Factor could strike him and pushed him unceremoniously to the door amid the suppressed chuckles of the assembly.
"Again, who stands sponsor?" inquired the unruffled Father Brochet.
"I do," spoke Dunvegan.
"Do you, Charles Ian Macleod, renounce the devil, his angels and all their evil works?"
"I do," Dunvegan, as sponsor, replied.
"Do you believe in God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Ghost?"
"I believe!"
"It is well," observed Brochet. "We may now proceed with the service of baptism. Behold in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost I baptize you Charles Ian Macleod. And may the good Lord's mercy lead your feet in honorable paths."
"Amen! Amen! Amen!" rang the responses in many tongues throughout the chapel.
With the chanting of a hymn the people poured forth. Flora disappeared instantly with her child, waiting for no birth offering.
The Factor was equally swift in effacing himself from the unfamiliar Mission House. One of his desires had been fulfilled. There remained the other, and the consummation of that one promised to be a harder matter.
Dunvegan hastened after Desirée Lazard and overtook her near her uncle's cabin. Pierre himself had gone in ahead.
"Wait a moment, Desirée," he begged. "I want you to promise me something. I'll have no peace till you do. Macleod has ordered me to build at once the new post on the site I selected——"
"Kamattawa?" she queried.
"Yes. It is to hold the Nor'westers in check."
Desirée smiled. "The company of my father!" she reproved gently.
"Would that there were no need to fight them!" Dunvegan breathed. "Would that I might stay here! But I cannot. And it is torture for me to go with fear and doubt in my mind. I want your solemn promise that this man Ferguson shall have no speech with you."
"Why?" She was looking at him with her head turned sidewise like a saucy bird.
"Why?" Bruce echoed. "Surely you don't mean that. You know what he is. You saw to-day what he has done. They say he is hard set after you. And your heart should recoil from the very idea. Why? You don't mean it, Desirée. You are not that shallow!"
Her eyes suddenly softened. "Forgive me, Bruce. I was only tormenting you. I promise. I freely promise." She thrust both hands in his.
Dunvegan's blood leaped at the contact, but he controlled himself. "That's well, Desirée," he murmured. "That's so much gained. And what I gain I never lose. Perhaps when I come back I may gain still more!"
His gaze had a hunger in it. The whole strong manliness of his honest nature was pleading for what she had hitherto denied him. Desirée felt the strength of his passion and lowered her glance.
There were people passing, but foot by foot in her maddening elusiveness Desirée had drawn from the trail till she was hidden behind the outer cabin door which swung half open. Dunvegan, his shoulders wedged in the opening, tried to read her face.
"In a few days I'll be gone to build Kamattawa," he went on. "Give me some hope before I go. Don't send me away without a shred of encouragement, Desirée."
Wide-eyed she gazed at him. She was flushed, her manner all uncertain. Her breath came quickly. Abruptly she flung out her arms in a swift gesture of pity.
"Bruce," she cried, "it might be some time—if—if things were different."
"How?"
"If you didn't hold so strongly to the Hudson's Bay Company."
Dunvegan stepped back, his lips closed grimly.
"Would you—ever break your allegiance?" Desirée faltered.
"Never while my blood runs!"
"Oh, your proud spirit!" she lamented. "And mine as proud! It's no use, Bruce. It's no use."
She sprang up on the steps, but Dunvegan caught her by the arms.
"Don't," she protested. "There are people passing."
"They can't see," he replied feverishly. "You musn't go like this without telling me more. Why will you keep this barrier between us?"
"I have vowed I will never wed a man except he be of my own company."
"But why? What is the loyalty of old service to a woman?"
"As much as to a man. Remember every man of the companies was bred of woman. It is a matter of blood. And loyalty to the Northwest Company is in my blood."
Because the feminine soul of her was beyond his understanding, the chief trader was smitten with bitterness and anger. "And you will forever swear by these Nor'westers?" he demanded. "You will swear by a lot of frontier ruffians herded under the leadership of such a scoundrel as Black Ferguson? Tell me that!"
"I must," Desirée answered.
Dunvegan turned on his heel without another word.
But Desirée was flying after him as he reached the trail. Her hand was on his shoulder.
"Bruce," she panted.
He stopped. His face was cold, impassive.
"Well?"
"I must because—my—my father died with them. His spirit is in me." Both her hands were on his shoulders now. She was very much in earnest, and it hurt her that he should in any way misconstrue her motives. "There are times," she continued, "when I feel I hate the Hudson's Bay Company and all its servants. But at those times I always have to amend my hatred. Notallits servants! Don't you understand?"
She let him fathom her eyes, and he understood. There he caught a gleam of something he had never surprised before. The joy of the discovery ran through him like exultant fire.
He prisoned both the wrists at his shoulders. "Desirée, you care! You care a little!"
"Yes," she breathed, and still unwillingly, "I care—a little!"
With the partial confession she wrenched free and rushed blindly indoors.
Lieges of the most gigantic trust the world would ever see, the Hudson's Bay men filled Dunvegan's trading room when the long northern twilight fell upon the post. From above the chief trader's desk the Company's coat-of-arms, roughly carved on an oaken shield, looked down upon its hardy followers. The bold insignia seemed symbolic of the supremacy, the power, the privilege invested in that mighty institution.
Well might the Company pride itself on the sovereignty of a vast domain. Well might the Factors call themselves true lords of the North! The rights King Charles the Second had granted them extended over a territory of two and one-quarter million square miles, an empire one-third the size of Europe. All other subjects of the Crown were expressly forbidden to visit or trade in this immense tract. Violation of the edict meant that trespassers ran the risk of sudden decease under the judgment of the Company's servants. For these were entrusted not only with the absolute proprietorship, supreme monarchy, and exclusive traffic of that undefined country known as Rupert's Land, which comprised all the regions discovered or to be discovered within the gates of Hudson's Strait, but also with the power of life and death over every aborigine or Christian who adventured there.
The only exemption along this line had been made a century after the erection of the corporation in 1670, consisting primarily of gallant Prince Rupert and his dare-devil associates, when provision of letters patent was made for those of the kingdom of New France, who had pushed northward to the shores of Hudson's Bay, whereby any actual possessions of any Christian prince or state were protected and withheld from the Company's operation. These claims were confirmed in 1697 by the Treaty of Ryswick, only to be abandoned by the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713. But still voyageurs of the adventurous heart wet their paddle blades in the Saskatchewan's sinuous waters, winding on the far quest of peltries toward the barrier of the Rockies. Conquest and cession interrupted such overland enterprises, but shrewd English business heads began later systematically to direct these undertakings till the pursuit finally led to the formation in 1783 of the Northwest Fur Company of Montreal.
Secure in its possession, strong in its kingship until now, the Hudson's Bay institution suddenly saw a dangerous rival invade its hitherto unmolested precincts, and the whole energy of the vast corporation was drawn upon to combat the ever encroaching Nor'westers. It was not to be supposed that the first lords of the North who had thrown their posts far across the basin of the Coppermine would give ground before the younger organization. Nor was it credible that the adventurers, who had ascended the Mackenzie to the grim Arctic Ocean and pushed down to the Pacific by scaling the Rocky Mountains would stand aloof from a literally open country which would glut them with gain. One company's desires were as compelling as the other's. In temerity and endurance they were equally matched. The only issue could be a violent and bloody competition till one giant broke the hold of the adversary.
In the very heart of the contention, in one of the richest trading districts, Malcolm Macleod found himself locking arms with the redoubtable enemy of his corporation. These were the days of sudden surprises and stern reprisals; of secret plottings and bloody skirmishes. A Hudson's Bay fort was beleaguered; a Nor'west fur train sacked. Or, again, it was a stroke in the dark when a picket was wiped out, or an entire brigade destroyed.
Ably seconded by Bruce Dunvegan, the Factor upheld the interests of Oxford House and the Hudson's Bay Company with an iron hand. The problem of the Nor'west advance faced him. Black Ferguson, one of the rival organization's leaders, had established a footing in the Katchawan Valley and built a fortified post, Fort La Roche, which was now the stronghold of the Nor'westers in that country. From there by secret trysts in which only a wayward girl would have indulged, Black Ferguson had enticed Macleod's daughter from under his very nose—enticed and deserted!
Alone in his council room Malcolm Macleod's black wrath boiled under the powerful insult. He had never seen Black Ferguson, but he promised himself that he should soon feast his eyes upon the Nor'wester trussed up in thongs with the fear of swift death confronting him. Macleod was only biding his time till Dunvegan should rear up Fort Kamattawa, the new post with which he intended to shut out Nor'westers from the Katchawan Valley. With Kamattawa as a base he would wipe Fort La Roche off the district.
The same possibility was being discussed by Bruce Dunvegan and his men as they smoked their evening pipes in the hazy light of the trading room.
"Give me the least opportunity to strike the Nor'westers in the Valley, and I'll strike hard enough to crush Black Ferguson's fort," the chief trader declared. "When Kamattawa is finished, the Factor expects to capture La Roche, but if we ever get a chance in the meantime, we'll take it, and take it quick. Eh, men?"
They nodded grimly. They loved deeds more than words, and Bruce knew they were as eager as himself.
Sandy Stewart, the Lowland Scot of the canny head, at length broke silence, quitting his pipe long enough to utter a brief sentence: "We'll no be shuttin' oor eyes as we build." His own gray eyes twinkled craftily through the steel haze of the Company's tobacco.
Pete Connear was sprawling in sailor's attitude, his back on a bench, his knees drawn up to his chin. He shifted his legs to speak.
"Why not send a spy among them?" he suggested. "There are lots of strange men in our service who could play the part."
"Too dangerous," commented the chief trader seriously. "Any man who enters an enemy's fort these days is putting his neck in a noose. Moreover it's impossible on both sides. The Nor'westers trust no stranger. Neither do we."
"We trusted yon gossoon Follet," put in Terence Burke, who had a brogue which was hard to smother.
"Bah! he's a fool."
"He talks loike a lawyer whin he plases. I think he's a deep wan."
"It's his idiocy. Gaspard is harmless. You see they could no more put a spy into Oxford House than we could employ a traitor to mingle in their ranks at La Roche. We must watch for our opening, daylight or dark, and catch Black Ferguson dozing. I'd give a thousand castors to lay hands on him right now!"
Basil Dreaulond emitted a low chuckle and beat his moccasin with the bowl of his pipe.
"Nobody don' nevaire catch dat man," he observed. "Ferguson mooch too smart; he got de heart lak wan black fox. De fellow w'at goin' git de bes' of heem mus' spik wit'le diable, yes!"
"Faith," Burke laughed, "he'd be spakin' wid his-self 'cause it's the divil in per-rson is me frind Black Ferguson. Oi clapped eyes on him wanst at Montreal."
"What did he look like, Terence?" asked Pete Connear. Even as the Factor, none of the other men had seen the troublesome Nor'wester at close range. The nearest vision they had had of him was in the gun-smoke of a skirmish or in the semi-darkness of a midnight raid.
"Fair as a Dane wid the same blue eyes," the Irishman answered.
"Listen till that, would ye!" cried Stewart. "An' why maun they gae callin' him 'Black' Ferguson?"
"Hees soul," explained Dreaulond tersely. "Everyt'ing dis man do be black asdiable. Tak' more dan wan t'ousand pries' confess heem out of hell!"
"Kind of brother to Captain Kidd, or a cousin of old Morgan's, eh!" remarked Pete Connear. "Pretty figure to have leading the other side. I'd think the Nor'west Company would put a decent man in charge."
"He's just the sort they want," Dunvegan declared. "They know they're beyond their rights and trespassing on ours. They want a man who will stop at nothing. In Black Ferguson they have him!"
Even as Dunvegan finished speaking a scuffle arose at the door.
"What's that?" the chief trader demanded.
"Sounds like a husky," observed Pete Connear.
They could hear snarling and groaning with now and then a whimper of fear as from a frightened animal.
"No, it's a human voice," declared Dunvegan. He strode across the room and kicked up the latch.
The door swung back swiftly and in bounded the weird shape of Gaspard Follet, the little idiot. He dashed forward as if propelled from a catapult, but the chief trader's peremptory voice halted him.
"Stop," Dunvegan commanded. "What in Rupert's name is the matter with you?"
Gaspard stood speechless. His owlish eyes glared in a perfect frenzy of real or simulated terror, and he hopped from one foot to the other in the center of the floor, hunching his dwarfed shoulders with a horrid, convulsive movement.
For the most part amazed silence struck the men, but Maskwa, the Ojibway fort runner, regarded Follet with the superstition of his race and jabbered in guttural accents.
"The Little Fool has seen a god," he asserted in Ojibway. "He has spoken with Nenaubosho!"
"Non," was Basil Dreaulond's more commonplace explanation. "De madgiddésbite heem. Dis Gaspard goin' crazy lak' dose yelpin' beas'."
But the chief trader bade them speculate in silence.
"Speak, Follet," he urged. "Take a long breath and you'll get it out. Something's tried your nerves!"
"Ah!" gasped the Fool between his chattering teeth. "I have been frightened. I have been frightened." He crossed himself a score of times and shut out an imaginary vision by holding claw-like fingers before his great, staring eyes.
"Speak out," ordered Dunvegan sternly. "Where have you been all day? I haven't seen you since Pierre Lazard put you out of the Mission House this morning."
"In the Black Forest," answered the dwarf. "I went in a canoe to be alone, for they put me out of the chapel. Who was it? Oh, yes, old Pierre. I will remember that. I went in a canoe and I saw a devil."
"What was it?" asked Bruce, smiling.
"I—I forget." Gaspard beat his forehead in a vain attempt at recollection.
The chief trader was well acquainted with the Fool's frequent pilgrimages here and there, his harmless adventures, his constant lapses of memory. Where others sometimes doubted, he believed Follet's imbecility was genuine. Else why was it kept up?
"You had better do your wandering within the stockades," he advised. "The woods aren't altogether safe for pleasure jaunts."
"Who would harm a silly head?" mumbled Gaspard.
"That's no protection. Your head might be taken off first and its sanity inquired into afterwards. That's a peculiar habit these roaming Nor'westers have."
"The Nor'westers!" echoed Gaspard Follet, in a strident scream, his whole face lighting with the gleam of certain knowledge born of suggestion. "One of them was the devil I saw in the Black Forest in the winter cabin. Name of the Virgin, how he frightened me! Now I remember well. It was the worst of them all. Any of you would have run as I did. Don't tell me you wouldn't! Ferguson sits in yon cabin!"
The floor shook with the spring of the men to their feet. Dunvegan had instantly leaped the length of the room and lifted the dwarf in his hands, shaking him to search out the truth of the statement.
"Do you lie?" he cried tensely. "Speak! Is this an idiot's fancy?"
Gaspard wriggled. His face no longer bore vacancy of expression. The flush of real intelligence mantled it.
"No, by the cross," he vowed. "I speak truth. I know what I saw. If you think I lie, take me there. Should the Black Nor'wester not sit in the cabin as I say, you may kill me."
Because Gaspard Follet was above all things a coward, this offer forced immediate conviction upon the group. As the chief trader set the fool upon his feet, he turned and saw Malcolm Macleod's form bulking broad in the doorway.
"You have heard?"
"I have heard." The Factor's tone boomed out, savage, exultant. The order that followed was given with a swiftness as sinister as it was explicit.
"Take a dozen men," he directed briefly. "Bring me the Nor'wester, living or dead. You understand?" Again he spaced the words for them: "Living—or—dead!"
Clement Nemaire swung wide the stockade gates. Bearing a forty-foot fur canoe, Dunvegan and his men filed out on their mission. The entrance closed behind the mysterious going.
"Bon fortune," whispered Nemaire.
A deeper blot within the shadow which the headland cast upon the water, Dunvegan's craft silently rounded Caribou Point, beached softly upon the sand in the granite-walled cove, and spilled its crew into the aisles of the Black Forest. Beyond rose the craggy ridge called Mooswa Hill, a landmark to the Hudson's Bay men in times of quiet, a pillar of fire when the Nor'westers struck.
The winter cabin Gaspard Follet had mentioned stood on a rock shoulder above the cove. Pine and spruce crowded it. In springtime the shore ice jammed to its threshold. The ooze and drip of the years were insidiously working its ruin. But still the halfbreed and the voyageurs sometimes used it for a night's shelter on their journeys. Once it had saved the life of Basil Dreaulond in a great blizzard. Exhausted, he had reached it when he could never have made his remaining three miles to Oxford House.
A neck of the Black Forest hugged the incline where the hut stood. Marshy beaver meadows, fringing the Bay, hedged the timber line, spreading across to Mooswa ridge and giving no solid footing except what was afforded by a dam traversing the black water. This ridge fell away gradually to where Oxford House was reared, but reaching the Hudson's Bay post by land from Caribou Point was precarious business in the dark for no bridge, other than that which the beavers had built, spanned the morass. Hence the chief trader with his band had elected to come by water.
Very warily they emerged from the shelter of the tree boles into the clearing where the cabin rested.
"Lie down," commanded Dunvegan, in a whisper. "And go slow! The fellow may have friends with him."
They disappeared at once among the rock ferns, worming noiselessly upon their faces toward the rough log shelter. The chinks of the logs streamed candlelight, but no sound came from within. The night seemed holding its breath. The intense stillness was broken only by the leap of maska-longe on the distant bars and the rubbing of elbows in the ferny brake.
At the cabin's corner the chief trader touched three of his followers upon the shoulder. Immediately they obeyed his unspoken command, slipping cat-footed round the hut one to the back one to either side. Possessed of sudden, sardonic humor, Dunvegan stooped and whispered in the ear of the dwarf whom they had taken at his word and brought along.
"Will you go in first?" he questioned, playing upon Gaspard's cowardly spirit.
The Fool shuddered and shied. Stifling a laugh, the chief trader thrust him to the rear of his line. His heavy kick flung the door back, and he leaped swiftly inside. The hut had an occupant! He rose from a block seat at the sudden intrusion, striding uncertainly to the center of the floor. Neither man spoke. Dunvegan's followers trooped in.
The chief trader's glance searched out the stranger's armament, the rifle in the corner, the belt of pistols on the rude table. The pistols Dunvegan threw down at the butt of the leaning rifle. Then he whirled the table itself across that corner of the room, cutting off access to the weapons, and sat upon it. The tall, sturdily-built fellow watched him, unmoved. His crafty, blue eyes never wavered. He seemed conscious of no immediate danger.
"Bon soir," he spoke finally, giving them the greeting of the North with a southern accent.
"It's not good," returned Dunvegan, curtly. "This is the worst night you ever struck in all your bad nights, Mr. Ferguson."
"Ferguson!" echoed the other in feigned surprise. Then he laughed cheerfully. "That isn't my name, and I'm not a Nor'wester. I'm a Free Trader from the South. A Yank, if you must know—from Vermont! I'll get out now that the Company has spotted me. I have some regard for my pelt. Come, act square with me. The H. B. C. always gives a man a chance. It's the first offense, you know. I'll turn my canoe south on the minute."
"Hardly," replied the chief trader, coldly. "There's some one waiting for you at Oxford House. You will not go far—if I am any judge of the Factor's designs." He folded his arms and swung his legs comfortably under the table.
To the Fool, he added: "Gaspard, is this the same person you saw?"
"By the Virgin, yes," quavered Follet, and hid himself behind Connear's bowed legs between which there was vision enough for his immediate needs.
"'Tis that devil of a Black Ferguson," the idiot piped from his vantage ground. "He frightened me; he frightened me." Breaking into a foolish habit of improvising rhymes, he shrieked:
"The devil's kin; the devil's son;And all the devils rolled in one!"
"The devil's kin; the devil's son;And all the devils rolled in one!"
Dunvegan silenced him with a word and addressed the Irishman.
"Burke," he asked, "can you corroborate this poor fool's statement? We want the right man. The Factor won't forgive any blundering."
"Fair as a Dane wid the same blue eyes! It's him. It's Black Ferguson."
"Do I look black?" demanded the baited man angrily.
"Saprie!We no be see you on de inside," was Basil Dreaulond's swift answer.
"I'm from the South," persisted the object of their quest, turning to Bruce. "A Free Trader, I tell you." His gestures were of irritation.
Dunvegan smiled a cold, triumphant smile. He delighted in the loss of his enemy's cool demeanor, in the failure of his self-possession.
"Ferguson," he began, "you're a weak liar. Your accent betrays you. We have you identified to our satisfaction, and your next interview will be with Macleod. I warn you that this first meeting with the Factor may be your last and only one, so carry yourself accordingly!" Dunvegan broke off, waving an arm to his band. "Bind him!" he added.
The Hudson's Bay men closed in, but Black Ferguson fell back, a defiant sneer on his handsome face directed at the chief trader.
"One minute!" he parleyed insolently. "What's your name?"
"Bruce Dunvegan."
"I've heard of you," Ferguson sneered.
"Perhaps," chuckled the chief trader. "Most Nor'westers have. But I wouldn't advise you to resist my men unless you want to get roughly handled."
"I've heard of you," the other repeated tauntingly; "heard of you as one of the Company's bravest. Is this how you show your courage? You have one, two, three—nine, without counting the dwarf. And you spring upon a solitary man. Dunvegan, you're a cursed coward!"
Before Dunvegan had felt the depressing gloom of the Nor'wester's shadow. Now he felt the flaming insult of the Nor'wester's flesh.
Under that insult his blood stung as under the stroke of a dog-whip. The scintillating fire grew in his darkened eyes. His teeth gleamed white between his drawn lips.
"Back, men," was his snarling command. "I never ask you to do what I'm afraid to do myself."
He leaped from the table and strode across to his enemy.
Black Ferguson stood perfectly still till Dunvegan was almost upon him. Then he plunged low with a wolf-like spring. What grip the Nor'wester took the other men never knew, but they saw the chief trader's big form whirled in the air under the tremendous leverage of some arm-and-leg hold. When he came down, Dunvegan was flat on his face upon the floor. Black Ferguson sat astride his back, pinning the chief trader's arms to the planks.
"You're quite helpless," Ferguson cried, laughing at his adversary and sneering at the circle of amazed men. "That's a wrestler's trick. I learned it in—in Vermont. What'll you do about that binding? I fancy——"
A grip of iron on his throat killed the words. Ferguson gurgled and twisted his head, casting his eyes down to see whose hands held him. But there were no hands. Dunvegan had swept his muscular legs up over his back and crossed them in an unbreakable hold about the Nor'wester's neck.
Like lightning he swung them down with all the power of his sinewy body. Torn from his momentary position as the upper dog, Black Ferguson crashed to the floor. His head seemed nearly wrenched off. His breath was hammered out. Dunvegan crouched on his chest, choking him into submission, but even in this strait he had voice enough to spring his big surprise.
"La Roche! La Roche!" he roared in a gasping shriek which sounded more like the desperate death rattle in some wild throat than a human call. "To me, comrades! To me!"
Something dashed out the candlelight. A gun roared in the doorway. The cabin rocked under a powerful assault. It all came in a whirl that dazed Dunvegan's brain. He heard the chug of bullets through the rotten logs, the oaths of his men, the battle cry of the rushing Nor'westers who had been craftily lying in wait.
"Damn you!" he cried to his prostrate antagonist, "this is your devilish trap!"
In a flash he understood that Ferguson had got wind of their coming and laid a trap for them. Dunvegan's force in his power, and Oxford House would be an easier prey! And Desirée Lazard an easier prey still! A madness seized Dunvegan. He vowed that Black Ferguson should pay the penalty! His fingers closed on the man's wind-pipe, but a falling beam hit him on the shoulder, hurling him away from his enemy and half-way through the door amid the rush of feet. There was little return shooting till Dunvegan squirmed into the open. Then he began it with his pistols, leading a dash for the canoe and shouting the Hudson's Bay cry.
Their guns belching fire across the dark, the hardy band zigzagged among the trees, covering their retreat to the cove with a rattling fusillade that kept the pursuing Nor'westers at a distance. Connear and Burke ran knee deep into the water with the big craft. Gaspard Follet was the first to leap in, but he sank clean through the bottom with a howl of dismay. Like a dripping rag they pulled him out, and Connear completely exhausted his store of sailor's expletives.
"Silence," ordered Dunvegan sharply. "What's wrong with you there?" The Nor'westers were shooting from the incline above the cove and their bullets spat in the water.
"Hole in her as big as a whaleboat," Connear growled. "We're caught in a trap, and those blasted Nor'west lubbers know it."
It seemed that the enemy had worsted them at every turn. The lake offered no means of escape, neither did the morass, and the Nor'westers held the slope. Dunvegan wondered why they had so easily fought their way to the canoe. Now he knew the reason.
The Nor'west leader thought that he had them hemmed in, that their extermination was already a decided fact. Then would come his surprise of Oxford House! The scoundrel was brainy, without a doubt. His ruse had been clever. But he had forgotten one thing—the topography of the country! There was a way out other than that up the incline and over the muzzles of the Nor'west rifles. The path lay across the black morass which ringed the Bay, and Dunvegan knew that path.
"Are we all here?" he asked suddenly of his men.
"All but Michael Barreau and Gray Eagle," Connear answered. "Someone caved in Michael's head with a gun stock; Gray Eagle was shot—I saw him fall! And old Running Wolf fired the shot!"
"The Cree joined them, eh? I expected that. Where's Maskwa?"
"Here, Strong Father," called the Ojibway fort runner. "What is your will?"
"You know the beaver dam, the wall across the meadows?" Dunvegan inquired. "You remember it, the new dam we found some moons ago?"
"I remember well," Maskwa answered solemnly. "Did not Strong Father carry me over that——"
"Never mind," the chief trader interrupted hastily. "If you remember the place, lead these men to it. When you get across, hurry up Mooswa Hill and light the beacon. I'll come last! Now then, altogether with the guns! Give them a good volley to make them think we are preparing to storm. Then slip away."
The fusillade boomed and roared. Return volleys belched out. Oxford Lake rumbled and quaked with a million echoes. Like heavy artillery the black powder thundered. Then dead silence fell. Expecting instant attack, the Nor'westers lay close, but the inaction continuing, their scout worked down close to the beach and found it deserted. At that moment Dunvegan's file was crossing the long beaver dam.
The Hudson's Bay men had their guns slung to their backs. All except Maskwa and the chief trader carried long poles in their hands, with which they saved themselves when they missed their footing and sank to the armpits in the rubbish of the structure.
Maskwa was leading the line. Pete Connear walked next. When they had reached the solid ridge and were waiting for the others, Connear poked the Ojibway's muscled back.
"What's that yarn you started to tell back there about bein' carried over this rickety dam?" he asked.
"The day of the great wind, three moons ago," began Maskwa unemotionally, "Strong Father upset with me in my canoe out in the big waters beyond Caribou Point. I took the bad medicine, the cramp, and the lake spirits nearly had me. But Strong Father swam out with me, pumped my breath back, and carried me over the dam of the little wise ones to the Company's post, for our canoe was in pieces on the rocks. Strong Father will not talk about it."
"By—the sailors'—god!" exclaimed Pete Connear slowly. Then he whistled siren fashion in failure of further speech, while the tall Ojibway bounded like a spikehorn up the Mooswa Hill.
When the last of Dunvegan's men had crossed the bridge built by nature's children, swift Maskwa had accomplished his mission. As they ran down the ridge toward the post, the beacon flamed, a pillar of fire, against the dark sky.
On through the stockade gates under Nemaire's challenge they sped. And the Hudson's Bay stronghold shook itself into ready defense at Dunvegan's news. But although they lay upon their arms, no attack came. Ferguson's intent had miscarried.
Yet the surprises of the night were not done. When Macleod made search for his daughter to see if she could throw any light on recent Nor'west movements he found her gone and his own canoe missing from the landing.
"You won your battle the other evening," remarked Father Brochet to Dunvegan a few days after. "Take care you do not lose this one."
Brochet's finger was levelled on the trail below the Hudson's Bay Company's store.
The chief trader stared and frowned. The two figures strolling over the path, Edwin Glyndon to his morning's business as clerk and Desirée Lazard for small purchases which were now growing very frequent, had been too much together of late to suit the chief trader's taste.
"Brochet," he spoke darkly, "I'm jealous of that fellow. I hate his cursed good looks, his woman's eyes, his easy manners! And mark this, Father, I could have him drafted in a minute to our farthest post. Often I'm tempted to do it!"
The kindly priest laid a hand on Dunvegan's arm, feeling the chief trader's muscles tighten under his inward emotions.
"Son," Brochet observed, "these are strenuous hours with the agents of two great companies striving for the overlordship. But in the midst of all the conflicts, the defeats, the triumphs, who is the real victor?"
"The Hudson's Bay Company," declared Dunvegan loyally.
The priest laughed. "Not the material conqueror," he explained. "I mean what sort of spirit holds the real supremacy?"
"The man with the heaviest hand," was the chief trader's practical answer.
"No," Brochet contradicted, "the man who rules himself! If you sent away this handsome Edwin Glyndon out of envy, you would be only indulging your own petty hate. Conquer your passions, my son. That is the true kingship! If you cannot win a woman's will on your merits, don't win it at all. No benefit ever came of such a victory gained by nothing but strength or craft."
Dunvegan paced uneasily in front of his trading room, his eyes glancing furtively toward the blank doorway of the store through which Glyndon and Desirée had disappeared.
"Yet I go this afternoon with my men to build Kamattawa, leaving a free field to him," he brooded. "Is that not giving Glyndon an advantage which you advise me not to take myself. The rule works both ways it seems to me."
"That," Brochet declared judicially, "is the natural course of things. The other is quite different. Have you any objection to his work as a clerk?"
"None! He handles the books and the pen better than any we ever had."
"Then it would be an injustice," the priest concluded. "Glyndon deserves his chance. How about his vice?"
"There is no opportunity to pamper his appetite here," laughed Dunvegan. "If he were alongside the Nor'wester's free rum barrel, I would not answer for him. But I trust your judgment, Brochet. Things stay as they are. Now I must finish my trading with the Indians or I shall not get away on schedule."
"I intend paddling with you a little way to bid you farewell," the priest announced as he started over the trail. "It may be I shall have someone with me in my canoe."
His brown eyes twinkled. The suspicion of a smile curved his lips. Dunvegan, looking sharply at him, flushed, and a hopeful gleam lighted his countenance.
"Father," he said slowly, "you have wisdom beyond all years. That would please me very much."
He watched the portly form pass on and wondered at the big heart that beat under the black cassock.
"Dunvegan!" called the deep voice of Malcolm Macleod.
The chief trader turned about to see the Factor standing on the veranda of his house, the sunlight flooding his broad shoulders. "How many Indians have yet to get their debt?" he asked.
"Twenty," Bruce replied. "Eight Ojibways and a dozen Wood Crees."
"Are they all in?"
"All but Running Wolf's tribe! The other Indian camps are ready to strike their tepees. The twenty men are waiting outside the yard."
"Run them off as fast as possible," the Factor ordered. "I'll attend to the preparations of your brigade myself in order that nothing may be lacking. Noon should see you started."
Dunvegan ascended the steps with a sigh.
"Oh, yes!" shouted Macleod, halting him. "What about Beaver Tail the Iroquois who failed to return the required value of pelts in the spring?"
"I cut him off the Company's book as you ordered."
"Give him his full debt," the Factor said. "The poor devil has been sickly, I understand, and not up to his usual prowess as a hunter. We'll let him have another chance!"
It was an unexpected freak of generosity in Macleod's adamant nature. The chief trader raised his eyebrows, expressing involuntary surprise, but he made no comment. From his trading room door he beckoned to the assembled group of Indian trappers beyond the tall palings enclosing the yard. A pair of Ojibways stalked forward, Big Otter, the great old hunter who had been on the Company's list for thirty years, and Running Fire, on the trail a scant three winters and just beginning to acquire fame as a trapper. In friendly fashion Dunvegan looked into their spare, smoky faces and hawk-like eyes which seemed to hold only surface lights.
"Running Fire, my brother," he commenced, "your debt on the Company's books is three hundred beaver. Here I give you three hundred castors to trade in what you will. Take them, my brother, and because you are so faithful on the hunt I add ten castors more. Does it satisfy you, Running Fire?"
"Surely," spoke the Ojibway. "Strong Father has the kind heart. Behold when the snows melt will I bring him a pack mightier than ever."
He took the string of wooden castors Dunvegan offered and, nodding his satisfaction, strode off to the store where he would barter the counters which represented half-dollars in money value for the supplies he would require during his winter's hunt. There he would buy powder and ball, clothing, blankets. He would stock up with sugar, tea, and flour. A wonderful knife or axe might take his fancy. And what remained of his purse would be squandered on fascinating, but useless, finery.
Big Otter traded next. The way he leaned over Dunvegan's counter showed that they were old friends.
"Now comes my weak brother, he of the old limbs, the aged bones, the waning strength," bantered the chief trader. "For him there is a debt of one hundred castors recorded."
But Big Otter smiled at Dunvegan's joke, knowing that his limbs were sound as any young buck's, remembering that his catch ran well over three hundred.
"Strong Father's tongue makes merry," he returned. "Where is the youthful brave who can follow my tracks?"
"I don't know him," admitted the chief trader, laughing, "but Running Fire is making a mighty name. Some fine day he may follow you."
Big Otter sniffed in contradiction. "Let us wait and see," he suggested.
Dunvegan passed over a string of castors longer than the previous one.
"Three hundred and fifty castors is your debt, great one," he smiled, "and to them I add twenty. Thus you stand high with us. But in return for the present you must tell me how you manage to keep your peace of mind, your strength of body."
The unweakened Ojibway chuckled quietly.
"I love not," he answered. "I hate not. I dream not."
Abruptly he strode out.
And Dunvegan, pondering, wondered if ever was born the white man who could thus get his debt in life.
All the long forenoon the Indian trappers came to get their credit. The six remaining Ojibways filed up. Appeared the twelve Wood Crees. The emaciated Iroquois Beaver Tail came humbly and in gratitude. But Running Wolf's band from the Katchawan failed to arrive. Not a hunter of his tribe showed face in the palisaded yard. No canoe from his camps touched prow on Oxford shore.
Although Malcolm Macleod had before boasted his unconcern at such an issue, the confronting of the stern truth weighed upon his taciturn spirits. The Cree chief had fallen in with Black Ferguson's party and joined it, because he had been seen fighting in their ranks but a few nights earlier. The fact that none of his kind had reported showed that Running Wolf had reached them by messenger. Doubtless by now the fiery Three Feathers and his brethren had swelled the Nor'west forces.
This knowledge plunged Macleod in a black mood. He rushed the preparations for the departure of the brigade. He commanded. He rebuked. He disciplined. He rated and cursed till even the hardy voyageurs sweated under the yoke. But when the noon hour was come, he had them marshalled on the beach all ready for their journey.
Loaded to the water's edge with supplies, dunnage, and arms, the big fleet of canoes pointed over Oxford's waters. The crowd cheered madly, dinning farewells and firing continualfeu-de-joies. They thrilled at the sight of the brawn going forth to build Kamattawa to shut out the Nor'westers from the Valley. These looked able to do it; brown-armed white men; swarthy post Indians; the hardymètis; the dashing voyageurs. The watchers' pulses leaped with admiration for the indefatigable leader who had travelled thus at the head of countless brigades on some stern mission for the Company. For him they raised a stormy cry of appreciation which was heartily echoed back by the men of the fleet.
But Dunvegan heeded not the uproarious approbation. The last glance he cast back centered on one handsome, smiling face in the throng, the face of Edwin Glyndon. Two other faces he missed, and his eyes looked ahead, searching the island-dotted expanse of water.
Many miles of silver surface Oxford Lake unrolled before them; many long, peaceful, shining miles! An intense calm mirrored it. The fiery, autumn sun glazed the whole. The vivid shores floated double along its sides. The sky lay down in its depths with great fish swimming among the white clouds; while so still swooned the water that the very veining and shading of color in the reflected foliage could be definitely traced.
As over silvered glass was the passing of the brigade. Each blotch of canoe bottom, each bit of overhanging duffle, each quivering sinew straining on the paddle flashed up from below.
Lightening the labor of their stroke, the debonair voyageurs broke into their familiar boating song:
"En roulant ma boule roulante——"
And chanting more swiftly, they sang in voices which blended with the artistic charm nature alone can give: