"A safe voyage to ye," said Duncan Cameron, commander of Nor'-Westers, as the ex-governor of Red River settled himself in a canoe. "A safe voyage to ye, mon!"
"And a prosperous return," was the ironical answer of the dauntless ruler over the Hudson's Bay.
"Sure now, Rufus," said Father Holland to me a year afterwards, "'twas a prosperous return he had!"
Fortunately, I had my choice of scouts, and, by dangling the prospects of a buffalo hunt before La Robe Noire and Little Fellow, tempted them to come with me.
When the prima-donna of some vauntful city trills her bird-song above the foot-lights, or the cremona moans out the sigh of night-winds through the forest, artificial townsfolk applaud. Yet a nesting-tree, a thousand leagues from city discords, gives forth better music with deeper meaning and higher message—albeit the songster sings only from love of song. The fretted folk of the great cities cannot understand the witching fascinations of a wild life in a wild, free, tameless land, where God's own hand ministers to eye and ear. To fare sumptuously, to dress with the faultless distinction that marks wealth, to see and above all to be seen—these are the empty ends for which city men engage in a mad, feverish pursuit of wealth, trample one another down in a strife more ruthless than war and gamble away gifts of mind and soul. These are the things for which they barter all freedom but the name. Where one succeeds a thousand fail. Those with higher aims count themselves happy, indeed, to possess a few square feet of canvas, that truly represents the beauty dear to them, before weeds had undermined and overgrownand choked the temple of the soul. That any one should exchange gilded chains for freedom to give manhood shoulder swing, to be and to do—without infringing on the liberty of others to be and to do—is to such folk a matter of no small wonderment. For my part, I know I was counted mad by old associates of Quebec when I chose the wild life of the north country.
But each to his taste, say I; and all this is only the opinion of an old trader, who loved the work of nature more than the work of man. Other voices may speak to other men and teach them what the waterways and forests, the plains and mountains, were teaching me. If "ologies" and "ics," the lore of school and market, comfort their souls—be it so. As for me, it was only when half a continent away from the jangle of learning and gain that I began to stir like a living thing and to know that I existed. The awakening began on the westward journey; but the new life hardly gained full possession before that cloudless summer day on the prairie, when I followed the winding river trail south of the forks. The Indian scouts were far to the fore. Rank grass, high as the saddle-bow, swished past the horse's sides and rippled away in an unbroken ocean of green to the encircling horizon. Of course allowance must be made for a man in love. Other men have discovered a worldful of beauty, when in love; but I do not see what difference two figures on horseback against the southern sky-line could possibly make to the shimmer ofpurple above the plains, or the fragrance of prairie-roses lining the trail. It seems to me the lonely call of the meadow-lark high overhead—a mote in a sea of blue—or the drumming and chirruping of feathered creatures through the green, could not have sounded less musical, if I had not been a lover. But that, too, is only an opinion; for one glimpse of the forms before me brought peace into the whole world.
Father Holland evidently saw me, for he turned and waved. The other rider gave no sign of recognition. A touch of the spur to my horse and I was abreast of them, Frances Sutherland curveting her cayuse from the trail to give me middle place.
"Arrah, me hearty, here ye are at last! Och, but ye're a skulkin' wight," called the priest as I saluted both. "What d'y' say for y'rself, ye belated rascal, comin' so tardy when ye're headed for Gretna Green—Och! 'Twas alapsus linguæ! 'Tis Pembina—not Gretna Green—that I mean."
Had it been half a century later, when a little place called Gretna sprang up on this very trail, Frances Sutherland and I need not have flinched at this reference to an old-world Mecca for run-away lovers. But there was no Gretna on the Pembina trail in those days and the Little Statue's cheeks were suddenly tinged deep red, while I completely lost my tongue.
"Not a word for y'rself?" continued the priest, giving me full benefit of the mischievous spirit working in him. "He, who bearded the foe inhis den, now meeker than a lambkin, mild as a turtle-dove, timid as a pigeon, pensive as a whimpering-robin that's lost his mate——"
"There ought to be a law against the jokes of the clergy, Sir," I interrupted tartly. "The jokes aren't funny and one daren't hit back."
"There ought to be a law against lovers, me hearty," laughed he. "They're always funny, and they can't stand a crack."
"Against all men," ventured Frances Sutherland with that instinctive, womanly tact, which whips recalcitrant talkers into line like a deft driver reining up kicking colts. "All men should be warranted safe, not to go off."
"Unless there's a fair target," and the priest looked us over significantly and laughed. If he felt a gentle pull on the rein, he yielded not a jot. Unluckily there are no curb-bits for hard-mouthed talkers.
"Rufus, I don't see that ye wear a ticket warranting ye'll not go off," he added merrily. Red became redder on two faces, and hot, hotter with at least one temper.
"And womankind?" I managed to blurt out, trying to second her efforts against our tormentor. "What guarantee against dangers from them? The pulpit silenced—though that's a big contract—mankind labeled, what for women?"
"Libeled," she retorted. "Men say we don't hit straight enough to be dangerous."
"The very reason ye are dangerous," the priest broke in. "Ye aim at a head and hit a heart!Then away ye go to Gretna Green—och! It's Pembina, I mean! Marry, my children——" and he paused.
"Marry!—What?" I shouted. Thereupon Frances Sutherland broke into peals of laughter, in which I could see no reason, and Father Holland winked.
"What's wrong with ye?" asked the priest solemnly. "Faith, 'tis no advice I'm giving; but as I was remarking, marry, my children, I'd sooner stand before a man not warranted safe than a woman, who might take to shying pretty charms at my head! Faith, me lambs, ye'll learn that I speak true."
As Mr. Jack MacKenzie used to put it in his peppery reproof, I always did have a knack of tumbling head first the instant an opportunity offered. This time I had gone in heels and all, and now came up in as fine a confusion as any bashful bumpkin ever displayed before his lady. Frances Sutherland had regained her composure and came to my rescue with another attempt to take the lead from the loquacious churchman.
"I'm so grateful to you for arranging this trip," and she turned directly to me.
"Hm-m," blurted Father Holland with unutterable merriment, before I could get a word in, "he's grateful to himself for that same thing. Faith! He's been thankin' the stars, especially Venus, ever since he got marching orders!"
"How did you reach Fort Gibraltar?" she persisted.
"Sans boots and cap," I promptly replied, determined to be ahead of the interloper.
"Sans heart, too," and the priest flicked my broncho with his whip and knocked the ready-made speech, with which I had hoped to silence him, clean out of my head. Frances Sutherland took to examining remote objects on the horizon. Hers was a nature not to be beaten.
"Let us ride faster," she suddenly proposed with a glance that boded roguery for the priest's portly form. She was off like a shaft from a bow-string, causing a stampede of our horses. That was effective. A hard gallop against a stiff prairie wind will stop a stout man's eloquence.
"Ho youngsters!" exclaimed the priest, coming abreast of us as we reined up behind the scouts. "If ye set me that gait—whew—I'll not be left for Gretna Green—Faith—it's Pembina, I mean," and he puffed like a cargo boat doing itself proud among the great liners.
He was breathless, therefore safe. Frances Sutherland was not disposed to break the accumulating silence, and I, for the life of me, could not think of a single remark appropriate for a party of three. The ordinary commonplaces, that stop-gap conversation, refused to come forth. I rehearsed a multitude of impossible speeches; but they stuck behind sealed lips.
"Silence is getting heavy, Rufus," he observed, enjoying our embarrassment.
Thus we jogged forward for a mile or more.
"Troth, me pet lambs," he remarked, asbreath returned, "ye'll both bleat better without me!"
Forthwith, away he rode fifty yards ahead, keeping that distance beyond us for the rest of the day and only calling over his shoulder occasionally.
"Och! But y'r bronchos are slow! Don't be telling me y'r bronchos are not slow! Arrah, me hearties, be making good use o' the honeymoon,—I mean afternoon, not honeymoon. Marry, me children, but y'r bronchos are bog-spavined and spring-halted. Jiggle-joggle faster, with ye, ye rascals! Faith, I see ye out o' the tail o' my eye. Those bronchos are nosing a bit too close, I'm thinkin'! I'm going to turn! I warn ye fair—ready! One—shy-off there! Two—have a care! Three—I'm coming! Four—prepare!"
And he would glance back with shouts of droll laughter. "Get epp! We mustn't disturb them! Get epp!" This to his own horse and off he would go, humming some ditty to the lazy hobble of his nag.
"Old angel!" said I, under my breath, and I fell to wondering what earthly reason any man had for becoming a priest.
He was right. Talk no longer lagged, whatever our bronchos did; but, indeed, all we said was better heard by two than three. Why that was, I cannot tell, for like beads of a rosary our words were strung together on things commonplace enough; and fond hearts, as well as mystics, have a key to unlock a world of meaning frommeaningless words. Tufts of poplars, wood islands on the prairie, skulking coyotes, that prowled to the top of some earth mound and uttered their weird cries, mud-colored badgers, hulking clumsily away to their treacherous holes, gophers, sly fellows, propped on midget tails pointing fore-paws at us—these and other common things stole the hours away. The sun, dipping close to the sky-line, shone distorted through the warm haze like a huge blood shield. Far ahead our scouts were pitching tents on ground well back from the river to avoid the mosquitoes swarming above the water. It was time to encamp for the night.
Those long June nights in the far north with fire glowing in the track of a vanished sun and stillness brooding over infinite space—have a glory, that is peculiarly their own. Only a sort of half-darkness lies between the lingering sunset and the early sun-dawn. At nine o'clock the sun-rim is still above the western prairie. At ten, one may read by daylight, and, if the sky is clear, forget for another hour that night has begun. After supper, Father Holland sat at a distance from the tents with his back carefully turned towards us, a precaution on his part for which I was not ungrateful. Frances Sutherland was throned on the boxes of our quondam table, and I was reclining against saddle-blankets at her feet.
"Oh! To be so forever," she exclaimed, gazing at the globe of solid gold against the opal-green sky. "To have the light always clear, just ahead,nothing between us and the light, peace all about, no care, no weariness, just quiet and beauty like this forever."
"Like this forever! I ask nothing better," said I with great heartiness; but neither her eyes nor her thoughts were for me. Would the eyes looking so intently at the sinking sun, I wondered, condescend to look at a spot against the sun. In desperation I meditated standing up. 'Tis all very well to talk of storming the citadel of a closed heart, but unless telepathic implements of war are perfected to the same extent as modern armaments, permitting attack at long range, one must first get within shooting distance. Apparently I was so far outside the defences, even my design was unknown.
"I think," she began in low, hesitating words, so clear and thrilling, they set my heart beating wildly with a vague expectation, "I think heaven must be very, very near on nights like this, don't—you—Rufus?"
I wasn't thinking of heaven at all, at least, not the heaven she had in mind; but if there is one thing to make a man swear white is black and black white and to bring him to instantaneous agreement with any statement whatsoever, it is to hear his Christian name so spoken for the first time. I sat up in an electrified way that brought the fringe of lashes down to hide those gray eyes.
"Very near? Well rather! I've been in heaven all day," I vowed. "I've been gettingglimpses of paradise all the way from Fort William——"
"Don't," she interrupted with a flash of the imperious nature, which I knew. "Please don't, Mr. Gillespie."
"Please don't Mister Gillespie me," said I, piqued by a return to the formal. "If you picked up Rufus by mistake from the priest, he sets a good example. Don't drop a good habit!"
That was my first step inside the outworks.
"Rufus," she answered so gently I felt she might disarm and slay me if she would, "Rufus Gillespie"—that was a return of the old spirit, a compromise between her will and mine—"please don't begin saying that sort of thing—there's a whole day before us——"
"And you think I can't keep it up?"
"You haven't given any sign of failing. You know, Rufus," she added consolingly, "you really must not say those things, or something will be hurt! You'll make me hurt it."
"Something is hurt and needs mending, Miss Sutherland——"
"Don't Miss Sutherland me," she broke in with a laugh, "call me Frances; and if something is hurt and needs mending, I'm not a tinker, though my father and the priest—yes and you, too—sometimes think so. But sisters do mending, don't they?" and she laughed my earnestness off as one would puff out a candle.
"No—no—no—not sisters—not that," I protested. "I have no sisters, Little Statue. Iwouldn't know how to act with a sister, unless she were somebody else's sister, you know. I can't stand the sisterly business, Frances——"
"Have you suffered much from the sisterly?" she asked with a merry twinkle.
"No," I hastened to explain, "I don't know how to play the sisterly touch-and-go at all, but the men tell me it doesn't work—dead failure, always ends the same. Sister proposes, or is proposed to——"
"Oh!" cried the Little Statue with the faintest note of alarm, and she moved back from me on the boxes. "I think we'd better play at being very matter-of-fact friends for the rest of the trip."
"No, thank you, Miss Sutherland—Frances, I mean," said I. "I'm not the fool to pretend that——"
"Then pretend anything you like," and there was a sudden coldness in her voice, which showed me she regarded my refusal and the slip in her name as a rebuff. "Pretend anything you like, only don't say things."
That was a throwing down of armor which I had not expected.
"Then pretend that a pilgrim was lost in the dark, lost where men's souls slip down steep places to hell, and that one as radiant as an angel from heaven shone through the blackness and guided him back to safe ground," I cried, taking quick advantage of my fair antagonist's sudden abandon and casting aside all banter.
"Children! children!" cried the priest. "Children!Sun's down! Time to go to your trundles, my babes!"
"Yes, yes," I shouted. "Wait till I hear the rest of this story."
At my words she had started up with a little gasp of fright. A look of awe came into her gray eyes, which I have seen on the faces of those who find themselves for the first time beside the abyss of a precipice. And I have climbed many lofty peaks, but never one without passing these places with the fearful possibilities of destruction. Always the novice has looked with the same unspeakable fear into the yawning depths, with the same unspeakable yearning towards the jewel-crowned heights beyond. This, or something of this, was in the startled attitude of the trembling figure, whose eyes met mine without flinching or favor.
"Or pretend that a traveler had lost his compass, and though he was without merit, God gave him a star."
"Is it a pretty story, Rufus?" called the priest.
"Very," I cried out impatiently. "Don't interrupt."
"Or pretend that a poor fool with no merit but his love of purity and truth and honor lost his way to paradise, and God gave him an angel for a guide."
"Is it a long story, Rufus?" called the priest.
"It's to be continued," I shouted, leaping to my feet and approaching her.
"And pretend that the pilgrim and the traveler and the fool, asked no other privilege but to give each his heart's love, his life's devotion to her who had come between him and the darkness——"
"Rufus!" roared the priest. "I declare I'll take a stick to you. Come away! D' y' hear? She's tired."
"Good-night," she answered, in a broken whisper, so cold it stabbed me like steel; and she put out her hand in the mechanical way of the well-bred woman in every land.
"Is that all?" I asked, holding the hand as if it had been a galvanic battery, though the priest was coming straight towards us.
"All?" she returned, the lashes falling over the misty, gray eyes. "Ah, Rufus! Are we playing jest is earnest, or earnest is jest?" and she turned quickly and went to her tent.
How long I stood in reverie, I do not know. The priest's broad hand presently came down on my shoulder with a savage thud.
"Ye blunder-busticus, ye, what have ye been doing?" he asked. "The Little Statue was crying when she went to her tent."
"Crying?"
"Yes, ye idiot. I'll stay by her to-morrow."
And he did. Nor could he have contrived severer punishment for the unfortunate effect of my words. Fool, that I was! I should keep myself in hand henceforth. How many men have made that vow regarding the woman they love?Those that have kept it, I trow, could be counted easily enough. But I had no opportunity to break my vow; for the priest rode with Frances Sutherland the whole of the second day, and not once did he let loose his scorpion wit. She had breakfast alone in her tent next morning, the priest carrying tea and toast to her; and when she came out, she leaped to her saddle so quickly I lost the expected favor of placing that imperious foot in the stirrup. We set out three abreast, and I had no courage to read my fate from the cold, marble face. The ground became rougher. We were forced to follow long detours round sloughs, and I gladly fell to the rear where I was unobserved. Clumps of willows alone broke the endless dip of the plain. Glassy creeks glittered silver through the green, and ever the trail, like a narrow ribbon of many loops, fled before us to the dim sky-line.
When we halted for our nooning, Frances Sutherland had slipped from her saddle and gone off picking prairie roses before either the priest or I noticed her absence.
"If you go off, you nuisance, you," said the priest rubbing his bald pate, and gazing after her in a puzzled way, when we had the meal ready, "I think she'll come back and eat."
I promptly took myself off and had the glum pleasure of hearing her chat in high spirits over the dinner table of packing boxes; but she was on her cayuse and off with the scouts long before Father Holland and I had mounted.
"Rufus," said the priest with a comical, quizzical look, as we set off together. "Rufus, I think y'r a fool."
"I've thought that several hundred thousand times myself, this morning."
"Have ye as much as got a glint of her eye to-day?"
"No. I can't compete against the Church with women. Any fool knows that, even as big a fool as I."
"Tush, youngster! Don't take to licking your raw tongue up and down the cynic's saw edge! Put a spur to your broncho there and ride ahead with her."
"Having offended a goddess, I don't wish to be struck dead by inviting her wrath."
"Pah! I've no patience with y'r ramrod independence! Bend a stiff neck, or you'll break a sore heart! Ride ahead, I tell you, you young mule!" and he brought a smart flick across my broncho.
"Father Holland," I made answer with the dignity of a bishop and my nose mighty high in the air, "will you permit me to suggest that people know their own affairs best——"
"Tush, no! I'll permit you to do nothing of the kind," said he, driving a fly from his horse's ear. "Don't you know, you young idiot, that between a man surrendering his love, and a woman surrendering hers, there's difference enough to account for tears? A man gives his and gets it back with compound interest in cointhat's pure gold compared to his copper. A woman gives hers and gets back——" the priest stopped.
"What?" I asked, interest getting the better of wounded pride.
"Not much that's worth having from idiots like you," said he; by which the priest proved he could deal honestly by a friend, without any mincing palliatives.
His answer set me thinking for the best part of the afternoon; and I warrant if any man sets out with the priest's premises and thinks hard for an afternoon he will come to the same conclusion that I did.
"Let's both poke along a little faster," said I, after long silence.
"Oho! With all my heart!" And we caught up with Frances Sutherland and for the first time that day I dared to look at her face. If there were tear marks about the wondrous eyes, they were the marks of the shower after a sun-burst, the laughing gladness of life in golden light, the joyous calm of washed air when a storm has cleared away turbulence. Why did she evade me and turn altogether to the priest at her right? Had I been of an analytical turn of mind, I might, perhaps, have made a very careful study of an emotion commonly called jealousy; but, when one's heart beats fast, one's thoughts throng too swiftly for introspection. Was I a part of the new happiness? I did not understand human nature then as I understand it now, else would Ihave known that fair eyes turn away to hide what they dare not reveal. I prided myself that I was now well in hand. I should take the first opportunity to undo my folly of the night before.
It was after supper. Father Holland had gone to his tent. Frances Sutherland was arranging a bunch of flowers in her lap; and I took my place directly behind her lest my face should tell truth while my tongue uttered lies.
"Speaking of stars, you know Miss Sutherland," I began, remembering that I had said something about stars that must be unsaid.
"Don't call meMissSutherland, Rufus," she said, and that gentle answer knocked my grand resolution clean to the four winds.
"I beg your pardon, Frances——" Chaos and I were one. Whatever was it I was to say about stars?
"Well?" There was a waiting in the voice.
"Yes—you know—Frances." I tried to call up something coherent; but somehow the thumping of my heart set up a rattling in my head.
"No—Rufus. As a matter of fact, I don't know. You were going to tell me something."
"Bother my stupidity, Miss—Miss—Frances, but the mastiff's forgotten what it was going to bow-wow about!"
"Not the moon this time," she laughed. "Speaking of stars," and she gave me back my own words.
"Oh! Yes! Speaking of stars! Do youknow I think a lot of the men coming up from Fort William got to regarding the star above the leading canoe as their own particular star."
I thought that speech a masterpiece. It would convince her she was the star of all the men, not mine particularly. That was true enough to appease conscience, a half-truth like Louis Laplante's words. So I would rob my foolish avowal of its personal element. A flush suffused the snowy white below her hair.
"Oh! I didn't notice any particular star above the leading canoe. There were so very, very many splendid stars, I used to watch them half the night!"
That answer threw me as far down as her manner had elated me.
"Well! What of the stars?" asked the silvery voice.
I was dumb. She flung the flowers aside as though she would leave; but Father Holland suddenly emerged from the tent fanning himself with his hat.
"Babes!" said he. "You're a pair of fools! Oh! To be young and throw our opportunities helter-skelter like flowers of which we're tired," and he looked at the upset lapful. "Children! children!Carpe Diem! Carpe Diem!Pluck the flowers; for the days are swifter than arrows," and he walked away from us engrossed in his own thoughts, muttering over and over the advice of the Latin poet, "Carpe Diem! Carpe Diem!"
"What isCarpe Diem?" asked Frances Sutherland, gazing after the priest in sheer wonder.
"I wasn't strong on classics at Laval and I haven't my crib."
"Go on!" she commanded. "You're only apologizing for my ignorance. You know very well."
"It means just what he says—as if each day were a flower, you know, had its joys to be plucked, that can never come again."
"Flowers! Oh! I know! The kind you all picked for me coming up from Fort William. And do you know, Rufus, I never could thank you all? Were thoseCarpe Diemflowers?"
"No—not exactly the kind Father Holland means we should pick."
"What then?" and she turned suddenly to find her face not a hand's length from mine.
"This kind," I whispered, bending in terrified joy over her shoulder; and I plucked a blossom straight from her lips and another and yet another, till there came into the deep, gray eyes what I cannot transcribe, but what sent me away the king of all men—for had I not found my Queen?
And that was the way I carried out my grand resolution and kept myself in hand.
I question if Norse heroes of the sea could boast more thrilling adventure than the wild buffalo hunts of American plain-rangers. A cavalcade of six hundred men mounted on mettlesome horses eager for the furious dash through a forest of tossing buffalo-horns was quite as imposing as any clash between warring Vikings. Squaws, children and a horde of ragged camp-followers straggled in long lines far to the hunters' rear. Altogether, the host behind the flag numbered not less than two thousand souls. Like any martial column, our squad had captain, color-bearer and chaplain. Luckily, all three were known to me, as I discovered when I reached Pembina. The truce, patched up between Hudson's Bay and Nor'-Westers after Governor McDonell's surrender, left Cuthbert Grant free to join the buffalo hunt. Pursuing big game across the prairie was more to his taste than leading the half-breeds during peace. The warden of the plains came hot-foot after us, and was promptly elected captain of the chase. Father Holland was with us too. Our course lay directly on his way to the Missouri and a jolly chaplain he made. In Grant'scompany came Pierre, the rhymster, bubbling over with jingling minstrelsy, that was the delight of every half-breed camp on the plains. Bareheaded, with a red handkerchief banding back his lank hair, and clad in fringed buckskin from the bright neck-cloth to the beaded moccasins, he was as wild a figure as any one of the savage rabble. Yet this was the poet of the plain-rangers, who caught the song of bird, the burr of cataract through the rocks, the throb of stampeding buffalo, the moan of the wind across the prairie, and tuned his rude minstrelsy to wild nature's fugitive music. Viking heroes, I know, chanted their deeds in songs that have come down to us; but with the exception of the Eskimo, descendants of North American races have never been credited with a taste for harmony. Once I asked Pierre how he acquired his art of verse-making. With a laugh of scorn, he demanded if the wind and the waterfalls and the birds learned music from beardless boys and draggle-coated dominies with armfuls of books. However, it may have been with his Pegasus, his mount for the hunt was no laggard. He rode a knob-jointed, muscular brute, that carried him like poetic inspiration wherever it pleased. Though Pierre's right hand was busied upholding the hunters' flag, and he had but one arm to bow-string the broncho's arching neck, the half-breed poet kept his seat with the easy grace of the plainsman born and bred in the saddle.
"Faith, man, 'tis the fate of genius to ride afractious steed," said Father Holland, when the bronchos of priest and poet had come into violent collision with angry squeals for the third time in ten minutes.
"And what are the capers of this, my beast, compared to the antics of fate, Sir Priest?" asked Pierre with grave dignity.
The wind caught his long hair and blew it about his face till he became an equestrian personification of the frenzied muse. I had become acquainted with his trick of setting words to the music of quaint rhymes; but Father Holland was taken aback.
"By the saints," he exclaimed, "I've no mind to run amuck of Pegasus! I'll get out of your way. Faith, 'tis the first time I've seen poetry in buckskin of this particular binding," and he wheeled his broncho out, leaving me abreast of the rhymster.
Pierre's lips began to frame some answer to the churchman.
"Have a care, Father," I warned. "You've escaped the broncho; but look out for the poet."
"Save us! What's coming now?" gasped the priest.
"Ha! I have it!" and Pierre turned triumphantly to Father Holland.
"The Lord be praised that poetry's free,Or you'd bottle it up like a saint's thumb-bone,That beauty's beauty for eyes that seeWithout regard to a priestly gown——"
"The Lord be praised that poetry's free,Or you'd bottle it up like a saint's thumb-bone,That beauty's beauty for eyes that seeWithout regard to a priestly gown——"
"Hold on," interrupted Father Holland. "Hold on, Pierre!"
"'Your double-quick PegHas a limp of one leg!'
"'Your double-quick PegHas a limp of one leg!'
"'Bone' and 'gown' don't fit, Mr. Rhymster."
"Upon my honor! You turned poet, too, Father Holland!" said I. "We might be on a pilgrimage to Helicon."
"To where?" says Grant, whose knowledge of classics was less than my own, which was precious little indeed.
"Helicon."
At that Father Holland burst in such roars of laughter, the rhymster took personal offense, dug his moccasins against the horse's sides and rode ahead. His fringed leggings were braced straight out in the stirrups as if he anticipated his broncho transforming the concave into the convex,—known in the vernacular as "bucking."
"Mad as a hatter," said Grant, inferring the joke was on Pierre. "Let him be! Let him be! He'll get over it! He's working up his rhymes for the feast after the buffalo hunt."
And we afterwards got the benefit of those rhymes.
The tenth day west from Pembina our scouts found some herd's footprints on soggy ground. At once word was sent back to pitch camp on rolling land. A cordon of carts with shafts turned outward encircled the camping ground. At one end the animals were tethered, at theother the hunter's tents were huddled together. All night mongrel curs, tearing about the enclosure in packs, kept noisy watch. Twice Grant and I went out to reconnoitre. We saw only a whitish wolf scurrying through the long grass. Grant thought this had disturbed the dogs; but I was not so sure. Indeed, I felt prepared to trace features of Le Grand Diable under every elk-hide, or wolf-skin in which a cunning Indian could be disguised. I deemed it wise to have a stronger guard and engaged two runners, Ringing Thunder and Burnt Earth, giving them horses and ordering them to keep within call during the thick of the hunt.
At daybreak all tents were a beehive of activity. The horses, with almost human intelligence, were wild to be off. Riders could scarcely gain saddles, and before feet were well in the stirrups, the bronchos had reared and bolted away, only to be reined sharply in and brought back to the ranks. The dogs, too, were mad, tearing after make-believe enemies and worrying one another till there were several curs less for the hunt. Inside the cart circle, men were shouting last orders to women, squaws scolding half-naked urchins, that scampered in the way, and the whole encampment setting up a din that might have scared any buffalo herd into endless flight. Grant gave the word. Pierre hoisted the flag, and the camp turmoil was left behind. TheBois-Bruléskept well within the lines and observed good order; but the Indian rabble lashed their half-broken horses into afury of excitement, that threatened confusion to all discipline. The camp was strongly guarded. Father Holland remained with the campers, but in spite of his holy calling, I am sure he longed to be among the hunters.
Scouts ahead, we followed the course of a half-dried slough where buffalo tracks were visible. Some two miles from camp, the out-runners returned with word that the herds were browsing a short distance ahead, and that the marsh-bed widened to a banked ravine. The buffalo could not have been found in a better place; for there was a fine slope from the upper land to our game. We at once ascended the embankment and coursed cautiously along the cliff's summit. Suddenly we rounded an abrupt headland and gained full view of the buffalo. The flag was lowered, stopping the march, and up rose our captain in his stirrups to survey the herd. A light mist screened us and a deep growth of the leathery grass, common to marsh lands, half hid a multitude of broad, humped, furry backs, moving aimlessly in the valley. Coal-black noses poked through the green stalks sniffing the air suspiciously and the curved horns tossed broken stems off in savage contempt.
From the headland beneath us to the rolling prairie at the mouth of the valley, the earth swayed with giant forms. The great creatures were restless as caged tigers and already on the rove for the day's march. I suppose the vast flocks of wild geese, that used to darken the skyand fill the air with their shrill "hunk, hunk," when I first went to the north, numbered as many living beings in one mass as that herd; but men no more attempted to count the creatures in flock or herd, than to estimate the pebbles of a shore.
Protruding eyes glared savagely sideways. Great, thick necks hulked forward in impatient jerks; and those dagger-pointed horns, sharper than a pruning hook, promised no boy's sport for our company. The buffalo sees best laterally on the level, and as long as we were quiet we remained undiscovered. At the prospect, some of the hunters grew excitedly profane. Others were timorous, fearing a stampede in our direction. Being above, we could come down on the rear of the buffaloes and they would be driven to the open.
Grant scouted the counseled caution. The hunters loaded guns, filled their mouths with balls to reload on the gallop and awaited the captain's order. Wheeling his horse to the fore, the warden gave one quick signal. With a storm-burst of galloping hoofs, we charged down the slope. At sound of our whirlwind advance, the bulls tossed up their heads and began pawing the ground angrily. From the hunters there was no shouting till close on the herd, then a wild halloo with unearthly screams from the Indians broke from our company. The buffaloes started up, turned panic-stricken, and with bellowings, that roared down the valley, tore for the open prairie. The ravine rocked with the plunging monsters,and reëchoed to the crash of six-hundred guns and a thunderous tread. Firing was at close range. In a moment there was a battle royal between dexterous savages, swift as tigers, and these leviathans of the prairie with their brute strength.
A quick fearless horse was now invaluable; for the swiftest riders darted towards the large buffaloes and rode within a few yards before taking aim. Instantly, the ravine was ablaze with shots. Showers of arrows from the Indian hunters sung through the air overhead. Men unhorsed, ponies thrown from their feet, buffaloes wounded—or dead—were scattered everywhere. One angry bull gored furiously at his assailant, ripping his horse from shoulder to flank, then, maddened by the creature's blood, and before a shot from a second hunter brought him down, caught the rider on its upturned horns and tossed him high. By keeping deftly to the fore, where the buffalo could not see, and swerving alternately from side to side as the enraged animals struck forward, trained horses avoided side thrusts. The saddle-girths of one hunter, heading a buffalo from the herd, gave way as he was leaning over to send a final ball into the brute's head. Down he went, shoulders foremost under its nose, while the horse, with a deft leap cleared the vicious drive of horns. Strange to say, the buffalo did not see where he fell and galloped onward. Carcasses were mowed down like felled trees; but still we plunged on and on, pursuing the racing herd; while the ground shook in an earthquake under stampeding hoofs.
I had forgotten time, place, danger—everything in the mad chase and was hard after a savage old warrior that outraced my horse. Gradually I rounded him closer to the embankment. My broncho was blowing, almost wind-spent, but still I dug the spurs into him, and was only a few lengths behind the buffalo, when the wily beast turned. With head down, eyes on fire and nostrils blood-red, he bore straight upon me. My broncho reared, then sprang aside. Leaning over to take sure aim, I fired, but a side jerk unbalanced me. I lost my stirrup and sprawled in the dust. When I got to my feet, the buffalo lay dead and my broncho was trotting back. Hunters were still tearing after the disappearing herd. Riderless horses, mad with the smell of blood and snorting at every flash of powder, kept up with the wild race. Little Fellow, La Robe Noire, Burnt Earth, and Ringing Thunder, had evidently been left in the rear; for look where I might I could not see one of my four Indians. Near me two half-breeds were righting their saddles. I also was tightening the girths, which was not an easy matter with my excited broncho prancing round in a circle. Suddenly there was the whistle of something through the air overhead, like a catapult stone, or recoiling whip-lash. The same instant one of the half-breeds gave an upward toss of both arms and, with a piercing shriek, fell to the ground. The fellow caught at his throat and from his bared chest protruded an arrow shaft.
I heard his terrified comrade shout, "TheSioux! the Sioux!" Then he fled in a panic of fear, not knowing where he was going and staggering as he ran; and I saw him pitch forward face downwards. I had barely realized what had happened and what it all meant, before an exultant shout broke from the high grass above the embankment. At that my horse gave a plunge and, wrenching the rein from my grasp, galloped off leaving me to face the hostiles. Half a score of Indians scrambled down the cliff and ran to secure the scalps of the dead. Evidently I had not been seen; but if I ran I should certainly be discovered and a Sioux's arrow can overtake the swiftest runner. I was looking hopelessly about for some place of concealment, when like a demon from the earth a horseman, scarlet in war-paint appeared not a hundred yards away. Brandishing his battle-axe, he came towards me at furious speed. With weapons in hand I crouched as his horse approached; and the fool mistook my action for fear. White teeth glistened and he shrieked with derisive laughter. I knew that sound. Back came memory of Le Grand Diable standing among the shadows of a forest camp-fire, laughing as I struck him.
The Indian swung his club aloft. I dodged abreast of his horse to avoid the blow. With a jerk he pulled the animal back on its haunches. Quick, when it rose, I sent a bullet to its heart. It lurched sideways, reared straight up and fell backwards with Le Grand Diable under. The fall knocked battle-axe and club from his grasp;and when his horse rolled over in a final spasm, two men were instantly locked in a death clutch. The evil eyes of the Indian glared with a fixed look of uncowed hatred and the hands of the other tightened on the redman's throat. Diable was snatching at a knife in his belt, when the cries of my Indians rang out close at hand. Their coming seemed to renew his strength; for with the full weight of an antagonist hanging from his neck, the willowy form squirmed first on his knees, then to his feet. But my men dashed up, knocked his feet from under him and pinioned him to the ground. La Robe Noire, with the blood-lust of his race, had a knife unsheathed and would have finished Diable's career for good and all; but Little Fellow struck the blade from his hand. That murderous attempt cost poor La Robe Noire dearly enough in the end.
Hare-skin thongs of triple ply were wound about Diable's crossed arms from wrists to elbows. Burnt Earth gagged the knave with his own moccasin, while Ringing Thunder and Little Fellow quickly roped him neck and ankles to the fore and hind shanks of the dead buffalo. This time my wily foe should remain in my power till I had rescued Miriam.
"Monsieur! Monsieur!" gasped Little Fellow as he rose from putting a last knot to our prisoner's cords. "The Sioux!" and he pointed in alarm to the cliff.
True, in my sudden conflict, I had forgotten about the marauding Sioux; but the fellows haddisappeared from the field of the buffalo hunt and it was to the embankment that my Indians were anxiously looking. Three thin smoke lines were rising from the prairie. I knew enough of Indian lore to recognize this tribal signal as a warning to the Sioux band of some misfortune. Was Miriam within range of those smoke signals? Now was my opportunity. I could offer Diable in exchange for the Sioux captives. Meanwhile, we had him secure. He would not be found till the hunt was over and the carts came for the skins.
Mounting the broncho, which Little Fellow had caught and brought back, I ordered the Indians to get their horses and follow; and I rode up to the level prairie. Against the southern horizon shone the yellow birch of a wigwam. Vague movements were apparent through the long grass, from which we conjectured the raiders were hastening back with news of Diable's capture. We must reach the Sioux camp before these messengers caused another mysterious disappearing of this fugitive tribe.
We whipped our horses to a gallop. Again thin smoke lines arose from the prairie and simultaneously the wigwam began to vanish. I had almost concluded the tepee was one of those delusive mirages which lead prairie riders on fools' errands, when I descried figures mounting ponies where the peaked camp had stood. At this we lashed our horses to faster pace. The Sioux galloped off and more smoke lines were rising.
"What do those mean, Little Fellow?" I asked; for there was smoke in a dozen places ahead.
"The prairie's on fire,Monsieur! The Sioux have put burnt stick in dry grass! The wind—it blow—it come hard—fast—fast this way!" and all four Indians reined up their horses as if they would turn.
"Coward Indians," I cried. "Go on! Who's put off the trail by the fire of a fool Sioux? Get through the fire before it grows big, or it will catch you all and burn you to a crisp."
The gathering smoke was obscuring the fugitives and my Indians still hung back. Where the Indian refuses to be coerced, he may be won by reward, or spurred by praise of bravery.
"Ten horses to the brave who catches a Sioux!" I shouted. "Come on, Indians! Who follows? Is the Indian less brave than the pale face?" and we all dashed forward, spurring our hard-ridden horses without mercy. Each Indian gave his horse the bit. Beating them over the head, they craned flat over the horses' necks to lessen resistance to the air. A boisterous wind was fanning the burning grass to a great tide of fire that rolled forward in forked tongues; but beyond the flames were figures of receding riders; and we pressed on. Cinders rained on us like liquid fire, scorching and maddening our horses; but we never paused. The billowy clouds of smoke that rolled to meet us were blinding, and the very atmosphere, livid andquivering with heat, seemed to become a fiery fluid that enveloped and tortured us. Involuntarily, as we drew nearer and nearer the angry fire-tide, my hand was across my mouth to shut out the hot burning air; but a man must breathe, and the next intake of breath blistered one's chest like live coals on raw flesh. Little wonder our poor beasts uttered that pitiful scream against pain, which is the horse's one protest of suffering. Presently, they became wildly unmanageable; and when we dismounted to blindfold them and muffle their heads in our jackets, they crowded and trembled against us in a frenzy of terror. Then we tied strips torn from our clothing across our own mouths and, remounting, beat the frantic creatures forward. I have often marveled at the courage of those four Indians. For me, there was incentive enough to dare everything to the death. For them, what motive but to vindicate their bravery? But even bravery in its perfection has the limitation of physical endurance; and we had now reached the limit of what we could endure and live. The fire wave was crackling and licking up everything within a few paces of us. Live brands fell thick as a rain of fire. The flames were not crawling in the insidious line of the prairie fire when there is no wind, but the very heat of the air seemed to generate a hurricane and the red wave came forward in leaps and bounds, reaching out cloven fangs that hissed at us like an army of serpents. I remember wondering in a half delirium whether parts of Dante'shell could be worse. With the instinctive cry to heaven for help, of human-kind world over, I looked above; but there was only a great pitchy dome with glowing clouds rolling and heaving and tossing and blackening the firmament. Then I knew we must choose one of three things, a long detour round the fire-wave, one dash through the flames—or death. I shouted to the men to save themselves; but Burnt Earth and Ringing Thunder had already gone off to skirt the near end of the fire-line. Little Fellow and La Robe Noire stuck staunchly by me. We all three paused, facing death; and the Indians' horses trembled close to my broncho till I felt the burn of hot stirrups against both ankles. Our buckskin was smoking in a dozen places. There was a lull of the wind, and I said to myself, "The calm before the end; the next hurricane burst and those red demon claws will have us." But in the momentary lull, a place appeared through the trough of smoke billows, where the grass was green and the fire-barrier breached. With a shout and heads down, we dashed towards this and vaulted across the flaming wall, our horses snorting and screaming with pain as we landed on the smoking turf of the other side. I gulped a great breath of the fresh air into my suffocating lungs, tore the buckskin covering from my broncho's head and we raced on in a swirl of smoke, always following the dust which revealed the tracks of the retreating Sioux. There was a whiff of singed hair, as if one of thehorses had been burnt, and Little Fellow gave a shout. Looking back I saw his horse sinking on the blackened patch; but La Robe Noire and I rode on. The fugitives were ascending rising ground to the south. They were beating their horses in a rage of cruelty; but we gained at every pace. I counted twenty riders. A woman seemed to be strapped to one horse. Was this Miriam? We were on moist grass and I urged La Robe Noire to ride faster and drove spurs in my own beast, though I felt him weakening under me. The Sioux had now reached the crest of the hill. Our horses were nigh done, and to jade the fagged creatures up rising ground was useless.
When we finally reached the height, the Sioux were far down in the valley. It was utterly hopeless to try to overtake them. Ah! It is easy to face death and to struggle and to fight and to triumph! But the hardest of all hard things is to surrender, to yield to the inevitable, to turn back just when the goal looms through obscurity!
I still had Diable in my power. We headed about and crawled slowly back by unburnt land towards the buffalo hunters.
Little Fellow, we overtook limping homeward afoot. Burnt Earth and Ringing Thunder awaited us near the ravine. The carts were already out gathering hides, tallow, flesh and tongues. We made what poor speed we could among the buffalo carcasses to the spot where we had left Le Grand Diable. It was Little Fellow, who washobbling ahead, and the Indian suddenly turned with such a cry of baffled rage, I knew it boded misfortune. Running forward, I could hardly believe my eyes. Fools that we were to leave the captive unguarded! The great buffalo lay unmolested; but there was no Le Grand Diable. A third time had he vanished as if in league with the powers of the air. Closer examination explained his disappearance. A wet, tattered moccasin, with the appearance of having been chewed, lay on the turf. He had evidently bitten through his gag, raised his arms to his mouth, eaten away the hare thongs, and so, without the help of the Sioux raiders, freed his hands, untied himself and escaped.
Dumfounded and baffled, I returned to the encampment and took counsel with Father Holland. We arranged to set out for the Mandanes on the Missouri. Diable's tribe had certainly gone south to Sioux territory. The Sioux and the Mandanes were friendly enough neighbors this year. Living with the Mandanes south of the Sioux country, we might keep track of the enemy without exposing ourselves to Sioux vengeance.
Forebodings of terrible suffering for Miriam haunted me. I could not close my eyes without seeing her subjected to Indian torture; and I had no heart to take part in the jubilation of the hunters over their great success. The savory smell of roasting meat whiffed into my tent and I heard the shrill laughter of the squaws preparing the hunters' feast. With hard-wood axlessqueaking loudly under the unusual burden, the last cart rumbled into the camp enclosure with its load of meat and skins. The clamor of the people subsided; and I knew every one was busily gorging to repletion, too intent on the satisfaction of animal greed to indulge in the Saxon habit of talking over a meal. Well might they gorge; for this was the one great annual feast. There would follow a winter of stint and hardship and hunger; and every soul in the camp was laying up store against famine. Even the dogs were happy, for they were either roving over the field of the hunt, or lying disabled from gluttony at their masters' tents.
Father Holland remained in the tepee with me talking over our plans and plastering Indian ointment on my numerous burns. By and by, the voices of the feasters began again and we heard Pierre, the rhymester, chanting the song of the buffalo hunt: