Jealousy had awakened the love flame in his heart. Now the opposer had been destroyed, and no further obstacle stood in his path. Menotah was for him. He had but to put forth his hand and receive a bride—surely she was worth the taking. What mattered the stiff body drifting down an unknown reach of the Saskatchewan? That could no more interfere between him and desire. For the time he was sincere. This warmth at the heartwaslove; the beautiful being then caressing him with soft fingers had been the kindling of it.
Nor had she any great consideration for the dead Muskwah. He himself had explained the truth, when he said that none could think of the moon while the sun gave light. She breathed within a golden flood of ecstasy, in which time and season were empty phrases. The warmth and beauty of that summer day had been created for her alone, while she, in her turn, had been brought to the world that she might bring joy and satisfaction to another. Had not the heart been free from sorrow all the days of life? And now the happiness had been idealised. How magnificent, how wonderfully coloured, how fantastic and exquisitely enervating was this supreme intensity of heart joy!
She murmured to him softly, 'You have given me love. I know what it is now. And the more you give me, more I shall ask for.'
'You shall have it,chérie!'
'It is my life now. I should die if I looked for it—and it never came.'
He turned her face up inquiringly and gazed into it.
'Ah! You do not understand that. But, if I thought you had ceased to love me, it would kill me. You may not live without a heart. We are given but one, and we cannot part with our best more than once.'
'But when it is returned to you?'
'No; it is a different thing. You then offer that which belongs to another.'
Lamont looked long into her serious eyes. 'Ma mie,' he said tenderly, 'all of your age and sex speak so. They mean it, when they give the thought utterance, yet in a short time they will gladly transfer affection, and call it again love.'
'I do not understand the world ways. I do not wish to, if such is custom. Such women cannot possess hearts, or know truth.'
'It is nothing,' he said carelessly. 'Husbands tire of wives, wives desert husbands. It happens every day.'
'But what comes after that?'
'Often they separate.'
Menotah shuddered, while her face grew very grave. 'When you speak such words, a cold pain passes over me. It makes me lonely and unhappy. But tell me more; when the wife is deserted for another woman, what does she do?'
Lamont shrugged his shoulders and laughed. 'Takes somebody else,' he said lightly.
Yet he was astonished at her manner of receiving his words. She pushed him away with a sudden impulse, while her bosom heaved and the bright eyes flashed.
'Surely she would seek after vengeance? She would punish him?'
'You do not understand the workings of the world, Menotah,' came the careless answer.
'No—I go higher. For I know the call of Nature. If animals seek to obey the will of the Spirit, why should men and women do less? I will tell you what I myself saw last spring. Many herons nested among the river reeds, and I would watch them often while they fashioned homes and brought up their young. But one day a female deserted her mate and chose another. What do you think happened then? The others would not allow themselves to be thus disgraced; for they were wiser than those men and women of whom you speak. They waited, until the female bird came to the encampment, then set upon her, and tore her body in pieces. After that they turned upon her mate and beat him from the camp. All this I saw with my own eyes.'
Lamont shifted uneasily, for this style of conversation jarred upon him. This girl of the forests possessed deep inner feelings, which he felt she would be better without. There were still things of importance he must teach her, chief of which was the error of perfect fidelity. To him, love was the pleasure of an hour; to her, it was the core of life.
It was easy, also delightful, to assure her of the foolishness of dwelling upon matters which could not concern her. She was willing to be persuaded, and soon smiled on him again with her customary brightness.
'I have a gift for you,' she said.
'You have given it already. You shall not take yourself back again,' he replied laughingly.
She patted his mouth with a soft palm and laughed back into his eyes. 'It is something nicer than me,' she said. 'I had it with me in the storm; now it lies in the hut. There are many beautiful stones, which were given to my father by the hunter who found them. That was before I lived.'
He saw she was referring to the willow box. 'What is your gift,chérie?'
'Yellow stones. They are wonderful as sunshine,' she replied.
This was a matter of far greater interest. He drew himself up eagerly to ask, 'From where did they come?'
'I will tell you how the hunter of our tribe found them long ago. He travelled far, tracking the moose, and struck in a new direction, until he came to a strange land, which no man had knowledge of. He went through much forest, then came out to a country of rocks, where great red hills overtopped the largest trees; and still he travelled on, down the rock paths and through the deep clefts. At length he stood upon lofty cliffs, and looked upon what must once have been a great river, like our mighty Saskatchewan-god. But then it was dry, while the bed of sparkling sand, overstrewn with small shells, showed no mark of footsteps. So he wondered greatly, and let himself down the cliff front, over rocks the like of which his eyes had never rested on. For they were white as snow. Then he came upon the ancient river bed and his feet sank amid the brittle shells. Into the warm sand he worked his hands, then, behold! bright stones lay there, glittering beneath the sun as though made of fire. Also he chipped fragments from the white rocks, and saw wondrous yellow patterns traced upon the heart of the stone. So he came away with many of the bright creatures in his pemmican bag. When he returned, after much wandering, he gave them to the Chief.'
Lamont had given this narrative breathless attention. 'Where is that river bed?'
Menotah laughed. 'Do you wish to walk along the soft sand as well? You cannot, for none knows where it lies. That hunter has long been dead, nor could he ever find his way there again. The Spirit brought him to it, and it was after many weary days of travel. No man could lead you there. Do you wish to travel through the lone land?'
'I will tell you after I have seen the stones,' was the somewhat mercenary answer.
'You will meet me to-night, when the moon tips the black rock ledge. Then I will bring the little box and give it you.'
He agreed; but as he kissed her soft mouth, he thought more upon the glittering sands, so jealously guarded by Nature, than the upturned face of sweet beauty and the trusting heart that throbbed so happily against his breast.
But Menotah had flitted among the trees, and disappeared with a glad song upon her lips. Scarce had Lamont reached the open, when a shrunken form approached slowly from the direction of the river. He stopped, and, leaning against a rock, waited for the old Chief to come up.
The latter had perceived his daughter as she passed at a short distance, with scantest form of recognition. He groaned and struck his staff upon the ground in the bitterness of his heart. The white oppressor had taken from him everything, save only the light of his eyes. And now, even the heart of his child had been turned against her own. Especially did the old man hate Lamont, who had dealt destruction in the fight, who, as he now shrewdly imagined, might have some knowledge regarding the disappearance of Muskwah. So he would have passed without a word, had not the young man caught a fold of his blanket and brought him to a standstill.
Then he turned his bleared eyes and deeply wrinkled countenance to inject the question, 'Did you see her, who left me as you came up?'
Quickly the other found words. 'Can a man see the sun at noon? Who could wish for beauty when Menotah stands by?'
'You're right enough,' said Lamont, carelessly. 'She is—'
'What is she to you?' broke in the old Chief violently. 'No longer will she look upon those of the tribe as equals, no longer does she respect the needs of her sire. When I call for her, the answer comes, "She is absent; she has gone to the forest." When I search, failure but mocks my efforts. What have you done to her? Why have you turned her against her own people?'
'She is a good deal to me,' said Lamont. 'I am going to make her my wife.'
The old Chief clasped claw-like hands and trembled to his knees.
'Leave me this, only this,' he wailed pitifully. 'See, I would not bow myself to the white man for a small matter. But now I will humble myself for Menotah's sake. The white man has taken everything from me. He stole my land, driving me back to the forest, which is worthless to him; he killed the buffalo,[3]and took away our life support. Now, if we rise to reclaim our own, he takes away our life. White man—give me back my daughter. Take not away the only gladness of my last days.'
'Get up,' said Lamont, scornfully. 'What are you grovelling about there for? I am as good a man as any of yours.'
'May the Great Spirit aid me. May he save my child from her fate.'
'I guess your god will listen, if you shout loud enough; but he certainly can't stop me from making Menotah my bride.'
The aged Chief rose in feeble manner, a strange picture of crushed humanity. 'What good can come from such a marriage?' he quavered. 'Does the crow mate with the gull? Nature herself teaches you to take a wife from your own tribe. Yet, I tell you this, should you treat her wrongly, an old man's curse shall follow you to death. The earth will hate you, and the wind shall blow poison through your veins.'
The other laughed cynically. 'Good!' he exclaimed. 'You talk well, old man; it is a pity you will not live to see my downfall.'
'I do not wish to. I have seen much sorrow, and now look for sleep. It is the great love for what I may call my own that speaks in me.'
'Well, I have told you—I love her, too.'
'With the white man's constancy. No true fire burns within your heart. I know the white man's fair promise and the white man's love. You change, as the day in early summer. At one time all is bright, but even while you gaze black clouds roll up, the tempest beats. So will the love sunshine turn to dark forgetfulness before another moon has grown round.'
The young man smoothed his fair moustache. 'Have you done?' he asked listlessly.
'The wind will receive my prayers and carry them to the Spirit. He will act between you and me. White man, for the last time I plead to you. Give me back my daughter, the warmth of my life, the pleasure of my failing eyes. This is all I ask.'
Lamont's lips curled into a slow smile. Then he leaned forward, until his face came near the ancient head. 'You ask for your daughter. Have you never thought I might be unable to return her to you?'
The old man breathed thickly. 'What is the meaning in your words? I am aged, and the sense is feeble.'
The smile grew deeper as the words came deliberately. 'Perhaps it is already too late.'
Then he burst into mocking laughter, and turned towards the fort with swinging step.
But the Chief lifted two dim eyes upward, while the great sorrow consumed his ebbing life. Pitifully he cried and wailed to the peaceful nature encircling him, 'The God has spoken. Be it good or evil, what matters it? Yet, when he makes known his will, what have men to do but bow the head?'
[1]'Stay within when the darkness falls, for the night is bad. The evil one has his power.'—Cree proverb. The dogma is interesting, as to it the title 'Manitobah' (now Manitoba) owns derivation.
[1]'Stay within when the darkness falls, for the night is bad. The evil one has his power.'—Cree proverb. The dogma is interesting, as to it the title 'Manitobah' (now Manitoba) owns derivation.
[2]Spirits may only travel on the south wind.
[2]Spirits may only travel on the south wind.
[3]Though it has frequently been denied, the Hudson's Bay Company are alone responsible for the extinction of the buffalo.
[3]Though it has frequently been denied, the Hudson's Bay Company are alone responsible for the extinction of the buffalo.
Abandoned by Lamont, the Factor discharged a few duties in the store, made a selection of heterogeneous entries in his books, then set forth for the hut beneath the cliff. Here the Icelander, considerately left by Dave for 'planting,' was sheltered, watched over by the taciturn and skilful Justin.
The petty king of the district walked by the outlying scrub for some distance, then turned sharply and worked his great body with extraordinary agility down the almost perpendicular cliff. This was a journey he had often made before, chiefly for the sake of enjoying the breathless exercise of a somewhat hazardous climb. Presently he came to the bush-covered roof of the one-roomed hut. Here he veered off again, dropped from the overhanging ledge, and without ceremony kicked in the door.
Directly opposite the entrance lay the sick man, stretched upon a pile of sacking; Justin's stunted form moved to and fro; while, squatting on the floor, with an open Bible across his knees, and an odour of hypocrisy emanating from his very garments, appeared no less a personage than Peter Denton.
The latter was not anticipating a visit from his natural enemy, though he was quite prepared to act on emergency. Feigning complete ignorance of the Factor's presence—somewhat of an exaggeration in the restricted space—he bent over the book, and drawled forth in his nasal tones a portion of the Lamentations that happened to come handy. He could have done nothing, as he knew well enough, to more effectually arouse McAuliffe's ire. Nor did the latter lose any time in acquainting him of that fact.
'Quit that noise now, or I'll fire you outside; and darned quick, too. What are you doing here, anyway?'
The ex-minister droned forth his Jeremiads, swinging his angular body in regular motions.
'Do you hear? Quit it, or the river will have a drowning job first thing.'
Then Denton looked up, and closed the book mournfully. 'Did you speak, Alfred?' he asked smoothly.
'I just whispered,' shouted the Factor. 'You're a peach of a Christian, ain't you? Who told you to dump your carcase here, eh?'
'You turned me out of the fort without authority. I had to find a place for myself,' said the ex-minister, who was more afraid of McAuliffe than in the days previous to the fight.
'This shack's owned by the Company. I tell you that.'
'Well, and I'm one of their officers,' said Denton, sulkily. 'I sent a letter by this morning's boat to Garry. I've just put them up to how I've been used by the Chief Factor. The answer may bother you a bit, I reckon.'
'That'll be a sure thing,' said McAuliffe, rubbing his hands delightedly. 'But it's no good your going in for fiction. There's too many at it already. Mind you, lad, my report went along by same mail. There was some reading in it which would have made you fairly blush. I recommended you for promotion, hinted at a Victoria Cross, to say nothing of a pension when you were past lying. You're tough, Peter, and there's no denying it. I wonder that Bible don't burn a hole in your pants.'
Justin interposed. 'He no good. Make boy worse,' pointing to the Icelander.
'He's a waste of breath wherever he is. Fellows like him ain't a bit of good, until they're planted. Then they do keep a few worms going and enrich the ground a bit.'
Denton drew himself upright with poor dignity. 'I have my call, and I obey it. I am here to care for the soul of our sinful brother.'
McAuliffe burst into a lusty roar. ''Scuse me smiling, Peter. Think he wants you to trouble? Tell you, he'd be a lot more interested if you looked a bit after your own. How's the fellow, Justin? Going to snuff out?'
The half-breed gave a loud grunt of dissent, then bent again over the sick man, who was apparently asleep.
'He's not, eh? Well, you'll do fine, boy, if you drag him back.' He pulled forth a massive watch and continued, ''Bout time for my grub. Suppose you fix him up and hustle across to the fort. I've got a hungry sort of faceache on me just now. So long, Peter; it's made me regular tired seeing you again. Why don't you croak off, and make some of us happier?'
Followed by an indistinct reply to this gracious sentiment, the two left the hut and passed along in the white sunlight, taking the narrow shingle path which ran between the cliff base and low ebb of the waters. The taciturn half-breed was kept at a short double by McAuliffe's long strides, but at the tree-covered headland the latter paused to get a light for his pipe. There was a cool patch of shade beneath the overhanging rock, so Justin stopped willingly and rubbed the heat from his wrinkled forehead. Then he bit deeply into a black plug, while McAuliffe swore at the pungent sulphur which had found its way up his nose.
The great river swirled along, with a lazy gurgling beneath the bright light. Sweeping kanikaniks bent over and lay upon the cool surface, entangling small driftings that occasionally came down on the stream. There was something caught in the red strands now, and the half-breed's keen eyes soon perceived it. He pointed with his usual sonorous grunt.
McAuliffe puffed blue smoke through his moustache. The sunlight was dazzling, so at first he saw nothing but the red lines crossing and recrossing foam patches. Then, beyond the small waves which licked the shingle, he caught sight of a shining surface rising and falling feather-like, fretting at the restraint. 'Goldam, boy!' he exclaimed, 'it's a paddle.'
Justin grunted and again pointed, this time to a fragment of bark twisted up among the pendulous strings.
'Looks as if anitchihad been overset here,' said the Factor. 'There's been a canoe smashed, and it's a sure thing he didn't escape. He wouldn't have gone off without the paddle. Must have been in the storm, boy.'
Justin merely expectorated skilfully across the flat of the white blade.
'May have been monkey work going on,' continued McAuliffe. 'I was too everlastingly raddled to know anything. See here, boy, you were around best part of the time. Anyone cutting a crooked dido, you reckon?'
The half-breed shook his head slowly. 'Lightning, thunder, wind, rain.' He waved his hands towards the white rolling cloud masses. 'I in the hut—all night.'
'Did Peter shift his carcase outside any time?'
The decided shake of the half-breed's head was sufficient to exonerate the ex-minister.
McAuliffe pulled a deadwood stick from the bush, then brought the paddle to shore. 'One fellow gains by another's loss. It's a first-class paddle, boy.'
They continued along the shingle, worked up the cliff, and were already within sight of the fort, when the old Chief crawled painfully from the dim forest track and waited for the representative of justice to come up. With his great hand McAuliffe screened his eyes from the white stream of light, and presently observed the bent figure.
'Hello, whisky bottle! What're you after?'
The old man replied in his weak tones, 'I wish to speak to the white father. Now I have found him on the way.'
'That's what. No charge for talking to-day. Pump it out quick, though, for I'm wanting my grub.' He stopped, but Justin went on to the fort. Then the Chief came nearer, and stretched out a skinny hand.
'Muskwah answers not when we call. The leader of the young men has departed from us as the star before the light of day.'
McAuliffe whistled and grew interested. 'What's that? Quit your foolery about the sun and stars. Tell me straight what you're driving at.'
The young man went forth to hunt in the forest of the north. Then the Storm Spirit spoke and all trembled at his voice; but in the morning, when many of the tribe came for water to the river, there were portions of the canoe lying upon the stones. Then we knew Muskwah had gone to the unknown; also that there had been treachery in the manner of his death.'
The Factor shook his shaggy head slowly. 'That's bad; I'll have to look into this. We've no right to shoot down the boys, 'cept in self-defence. Besides, it's bad for trade.'
The old man feebly pointed with his staff. 'The father remembers the promise he made to his servants—they should no more be punished for the fight of rebellion. Also have we sworn not to fight against the white men. Yet none of my children could have slain the leader of the young men.'
McAuliffe was much perplexed. 'I'll have to think over it, boy. I'm derned sure I didn't fix Muskwah. Can show an empty brandy bottle, and prove analibi.' Then he reflected; Peter wouldn't have owned the pluck to be round in the storm. That only leaves Lamont, and he's not likely to have done it. Why should he? He wouldn't want to be practising long shots, especially on such a night. Besides, a fellow doesn't go around potting others as though they were tree-partridges, just to see if he can hit them. Then to the Chief, 'Keep your old eyes awake, boy. Might have been someone in the camp who had a sort of feeling against him.'
The other shook his head. 'There is no such man.'
'Look around, anyway, and come to me if you pick up anything.'
He began to move, for a thin line of smoke was ascending invitingly from the stove pipe which marked the fort kitchen, but the Chief still detained him with the words, 'I would speak on another matter with the white father. Que-dane, the half-breed, has stolen the wife of one of my young men. He is not of us, therefore will not obey my word The messenger whom I sent he beat with a heavy stick. My children fear him, for he is a mighty fighter. Will the father command Que-dane to give back the wife?'
'I'll go round this evening and fix things up with him. Glad of the chance, too, for he's a crooked lot.'
He walked off as he spoke, still holding Muskwah's paddle, which the Chief's dim eyes had not perceived. The latter turned back to the forest, and made his slow way in the direction of the camp.
Denton, in the meantime, left in charge of the sick Icelander, found himself situated in an entirely agreeable position. Justin had given him to understand that his patient was not to be disturbed, but the ex-minister had no idea of allowing a man to remain in comfort, when he imagined he could easily make him miserable. So, directly the door closed behind the two, he shut the Bible with unnecessary commotion and crossed over to his victim's side. Then he squatted upon a log of wood, aroused the sleeper, and commenced operations with an ominous groan. 'How are you feeling?' he asked, in a voice suggestive itself of a funeral procession.
Like most northerners, the Icelander could understand English perfectly, and speak it fairly. When he heard the sepulchral voice, he stirred and turned his blue eyes upon the speaker.
'You needn't bother to speak,' continued Denton, zealously. 'You are not half so strong as you were this morning. You're getting worse every minute.'
The man groaned and tried to speak, but Denton flowed on. 'The pain's getting duller all the time, isn't it? That's a sure sign of death.'
The Icelander shifted painfully, while his lips parted.
'Don't you know you're dying? You must go; no power can save you.'
Denton spoke in hollow tones, bending over the sick man, and shaking his cadaverous features impressively at each word.
The Icelander fastened two frightened eyes on the unpleasant face. 'No, no,' he said.
'But it's yes, yes,' continued Denton, now thoroughly happy. 'There wouldn't be any chance for a man not half so sick as you. I guess you'll live through this night. You may perhaps see the sun rise in the morning, though I tell you it's unlikely. By this time to-morrow you will be dead—likely enough under the ground. We shall plant you directly you turn up.'
'No, no,' came again from the patient.
'It's bad to think on, I know. Still, you've got to get accustomed to the idea. Mind you, the end is very near now. Its terrible to be like you, only having a few more hours to look for.'
'But Justin say—I live.'
'You didn't see him laugh at me when he did it. He thought he was doing you a kind turn telling you a lie; he knows you're dying fast. But it's my duty to tell you the truth; I'm a minister of the Gospel, and I must prepare you for the end. Do you understand?'
The Icelander lay back, with his mouth open and pale eyes staring.
'I reckon you've been a vile sinner,' resumed the weird voice. 'Now, you'll be wanting to know whether there's any chance of your being saved at the last moment. I'll just find out and let you know; but don't raise your hopes, for I'm getting afraid you're one of the poor lost brothers. Now, listen to me.'
He sat more upright and upraised a dirty hand. Then he half closed his eyes and groaned fervently. 'Have you always regularly attended your chapel and prayer meeting? Have you steadily helped towards your minister's income?'
The other shook his flaxen head. 'On lake in summer; bush work, winter. Not been near church.'
Denton's face lengthened in telescopic fashion. 'Have you ever joined with the immoral company of card players?'
Such a question aroused not unpleasant memories. 'Played poker nights at camp. Held a royal in diamonds one time. Diddled 'em all. 'Twas a jackpot, too. I won quite a bit that night.' He smiled, with more of the content of pride than sorrow of sinning.
'Perhaps you have even gone so far as to take part in lascivious dancing, or enter some hell of a theatre?'
But the ex-minister had quite defeated his own ends. This probing of conscience brought nothing but a flood of joyful memories of the past. In such a pleasurable review the Icelander quickly recovered from his fear, and replied, with an irreligious chuckle in his voice,—
'Had lots of good dances with the gals—best fun I've ever put in. When I was in Garry, would always take in the show when there was one. I'd like to see another, fine. Tell you, some of them gals could kick up!' He leaned back with the smile of reprobation, and rubbed his hands weakly.
Denton was distinctly frustrated, but, not being sensitive, he instituted a fresh attack. 'It is my duty to give such a wretched sinner as you every chance. Have you ever passed your time—the time for which you must now give account—in saloons, drinking with those equally vile?'
This mystified the Icelander, who did not know which way to take it. 'Always drunk fair, it that's what you're driving at. I've never dropped off a glass behind, then tried to make out I was level up.'
Denton rocked to and fro with deep groans of fanatical horror. 'Poor brother!' he wailed; 'for, miserable sinner as you are, I must still call you brother. You must yourself see that your damnation is assured. Nothing could save you, even it you do now repent—'
'But I don't,' broke in the sinner cheerfully. 'There's no harm in those things. They're right enough.'
'They are the wiles of your master, Satan. Poor dying brother. How dreadful it is to look on you! I must tell you where you are going to, and so complete my duty.' He opened the Bible, moistened a finger, then whipped over the pages, leaving a dirty impression on each. 'Here it is!' he cried in solemn triumph. 'The lake that burneth with fire and brimstone. That's where you're going to. They'll dump you right in, and won't care how much you howl or jump. It'll frizzle you. You'll jerk around like a hot pea. A sulphur match up the nose will be nothing to it.'
But the ex-minister, in his hypocritical zeal, had overshot the mark. His intended victim merely laughed stupidly in his face, then remarked, 'You've made me tired; I'm off to sleep. So long.'
Denton banged the Bible upon his misshapen knees. 'It will be the sleep of death,' he cried tragically. 'You may never wake in this world, and yet you will not listen to a minister of the Word. You will be damned, poor brother. Do you hear that? You will be damned.'
'Go away. You're a dam' fool to talk such truck. You're a dirty, mean liar, sure.'
After which, the Icelander turned towards the log wall, pulled the ragged coverlet above his shoulders, and sank placidly again into slumber.
The sun had almost reached the tree line along the horizon, when the Factor, accompanied by Justin, left the fort and switched off to the trail which led to the bigamist Que-dane's shack. McAuliffe was in splendid spirits, for the prospect of a tough wrestling bout—the stalwart half-breed was unlikely to obey command without persuasion—suited him to the finger tips. He could use thews and muscles to good advantage, even though the eye and hand steadily refused to work together whenever there was any shooting to be done. By his side trotted Justin, dog-like, his jaws working as usual, and a secret satisfaction lurking at his heart. For, an hour or so earlier, he had forcibly ejected Peter Denton from the riverside hut. The Icelander's condition on his return had inspired suspicion, and upon questioning, he discovered who was the guilty cause of the man's prostration. Thereupon he had furnished himself with a cudgel and bestowed attention upon the ex-minister, who, with his unfailing discretion in time of danger, had promptly evacuated his former position, and wandered forth to seek other shelter.
Justin had sufficiently trespassed upon taciturnity to jerk forth this incident for the benefit of the Factor, who but expressed sorrow that Denton had escaped the 'pounding' he was legally entitled to. 'I'd have gone to work and kneaded him up if I'd been around,' he said, then inquired who was tending the sick man.
'Rosalie—she look after him.' This lady was wife to a friendly Indian, who could be trusted.
They proceeded for some time in silence. Strangely enough it was Justin who re-opened conversation with the question, 'You going to fight Que-dane?'
'Bet your life,' returned McAuliffe, promptly. 'Going to give him a first-class hiding. You'll see some fun, boy.'
A feeble interest spread over the other's dusky countenance. A light crept into his small eyes. 'He great big man, and strong. No man beat him yet.'
The Factor laughed loudly. 'Don't trouble about that, boy. Tell you I shall knock the spots off him in short order. He's never had a fellow around him who could wrestle before.'
'What you beat him with?'
'Goldam. I never thought of that.' He stopped in the centre of the rough trail and scratched the thick hair at the back of his head for inspiration.
'Say, boy, who lives in the shack yonder?'
'Old wife—by herself.'
'That's good. Hustle over there; scare the old woman into lending you her axe. If she don't want, I'll forgive you if you steal it.'
The half-breed was very nearly astonished. 'Surely,' he exclaimed, 'you not going to kill the man with the axe?'
'My racket, boy. You hump along and fetch it.'
Justin obeyed, and presently returned with the implement, followed at a distance by the inquisitive old wife herself. He came upon his master standing in a thicket of young oaks, which had sprung up in a small fire clearing. The Factor grabbed at the axe and severed three saplings at the roots, then rapidly trimmed them down to a four foot length. This accomplished, he took each stick—they were about three inches in diameter—placed his big foot on the large end, and twisted violently, until they were like ropes. Then he grimly handed them to Justin, the two continued their journey, and later halted before the closed tent of Que-dane, bigamist and robber.
McAuliffe pulled aside the hanging flap, and immediately came upon his quarry within. Indeed, he had taken him red-handed, for the half-breed was seated on the ground in the centre, between his two wives, clothed in nothing more pretentious than a small breech-clout. He had just been oiling his body. The limbs shone like dull copper, emitting an odour evidently not displeasing to a waving cloud of mosquitoes, which hovered around and filled the hot tent with their thin note of defiance.
The malefactor, who was not entirely surprised at the visit, stared heavily at the Factor, while the two wives followed his example. The stolen one appeared perfectly contented with her wrongful owner; the lawful wife seemed to be untroubled by any qualm of jealousy; but McAuliffe had no compunction about destroying the peace of this domestic circle.
'Guess I've caught you all right,' he said, with unction.
Que-dane had no doubt whatever, and began to look a little troubled. He feared the Factor more than any man in the district. So he merely made an awkward movement nearer his legal wife, and discreetly remained mute.
'Come out of it now,' continued the visitor; 'I'm going to talk to you.'
The half-breed did not appear anxious for the conversation, so he added deafness to other defects, and refused to budge.
The Factor frowned capaciously. 'Well, come out you' he ordered, apostrophising the wives, who obeyed with alacrity.
Then McAuliffe rolled up his shirt sleeves—coat he had none—and continued, 'If you won't come when you're called, darned if I won't have to make you.'
He sprang inside the tent, and, knowing the advantage of getting 'first hands,' closed upon Que-dane as he rose from the ground to repel the assailant.
But McAuliffe quickly discovered that he was not to down his opponent at a first onslaught. The half-breed was chiefly himself, and the well-oiled flesh was as difficult to clutch as an eel's body. There was no purchase for the hands, which glided and slipped along the greasy surface in ineffectual fashion. Having the advantage of first catch, the Factor succeeded with his great strength on forcing Que-dane to his knees. But here the profit ended, for the other, with cool deliberation, dived at his opponent's ankles, bringing him down heavily, to the stolid perturbation of Justin, who began to reflect whether, after all, his master would emerge from the struggle with untarnished reputation.
But the Factor, as he himself would have expressed it, was 'wonderful tough.' In spite of years and bulk, the sturdy old northerner received no material damage from his fall, for he was up again in a breath, as full of energy as before.
After more dodging around the narrow space, McAuliffe came in again, this time getting two arms, like a couple of iron bands, round the greasy body of his antagonist. They linked behind, while the pressure soon became sufficient to remind the half-breed that breathing was a chief necessity for existence. So he replied by hurling himself forward with careless violence, succeeding by this manoeuvre in breaking the Factor's grip.
A fresh struggle for supremacy was long and fierce. Que-dane's naked flesh was marked with scarlet lines and patches, where catching fingers had dug in vain; McAuliffe's face glowed with sweat and oil drippings from the half-breed's body. Still they fought and swayed across the narrow space, while the evening shadows began to creep along the ground, and mosquitoes blinded their eyesight.
The round ended abruptly and disastrously for the Factor. He was thrown with considerable force. His body was pressed firmly against the caked mud floor, held down by Que-dane's lubricated limbs. The right arm was free, but bent beneath his body. The position was serious. 'Wouldn't surprise me to hear I was fixed,' he muttered to himself. 'Darn it, everynitchiin the place will start to kick me if I am.'
The two squaws were watching the contest, without displaying the smallest show of interest. Justin had been hovering round the writhing figures, continually expectorating in firework fashion. Now he presented the hammer side of the axe, with a suggestion that he should with it gently tap the victor's skull.
'Git away, boy,' shouted McAuliffe, suddenly. 'Gold am! haven't been trying yet.'
He saw his opportunity. As he finished speech, the tent shook with a convulsive effort. This was followed by a furious howl of disappointed rage—the first sound Que-dane had given utterance to.
Skill had come to the front with valour beaten. The half-breed's hair, which was long and thick, had been plaited by the hands of an obedient wife into a single tail, which fell in a straight black line down his back. When Justin approached with his axe and suggestion, Que-dane half turned, apprehensive of attack from behind. Then McAuliffe made his effort. He forced his body slightly above ground, freed the right arm, then, before the half-breed could turn again upon him, seized the pigtail in his great fingers. With a rapid motion he wound it round the owner's neck, and, with a fresh effort, brought him prisoner to the ground at his side. The next second they rolled over once more, then the Factor assumed the more comfortable position. He knelt upon the captive's chest, and triumphantly called to Justin for one of the oak saplings.
'Told you so, boy. I was only fooling first part. Tell you, it's no trick at all to diddle this chap.'
With deep-throated chuckles, Justin selected one of the twisted sticks and handed it over, while the wives gravely seated themselves to watch further proceedings. These were interesting chiefly to Que-dane, for the Factor at once commenced to bring the stinging fibres across his naked flesh with measured strokes of a muscular right arm. While administering justice, he lectured. 'This'll teach you. It'll be a kind of hint for you not to monkey around after other fellows' wives. Do you catch on, Que-dane?'
The half-breed struggled furiously, howled fiercely, and poured imprecations upon the head of the chastiser. But he could not release himself, and the Factor flogged on, until the tough sapling flew to pieces in his hand.
The wives began to chatter and laugh widely, when the fragments were discarded, and Justin imperturbably handed over the second torturing implement. This was a spectacle of delight not presented to the eyes every day.
Dull reverberations echoed out into the still solemnity of the evening. Indeed, the flagellation was continued with such unfailing energy that even Justin gave an exclamation of dismay.
'Surely I you kill the boy.'
'It'll do him good,' panted McAuliffe. 'Goldam! it'll show him I'm going to be boss around here.'
'See! he jump like a frog,' said the half-breed, more interested than merciful.
'He'll jump like a derned locust before I'm through with him. Pass over t'other stick, boy. This one's getting sort of used up.'
Justin obeyed, but wagged his head. 'You kill him. He not jump any more. He lie quiet now.'
It was as he said. Que-dane had ceased struggling and profaning. Now he lay along the ground, limp and motionless.
'He's right enough. Only shamming a bit.' Then he ceased his muscular exercise, and bent over the prostrate figure. 'See, here, Que-dane, are you going around wife stealing again?'
There was no answer nor motion, while Justin shook his head again.
'You're right, boy. I've chloroformed him, so he's missed the lecture I was going to let him have. It'll be a wonderful good lesson, I reckon.'
'You beat too hard,' said Justin, bending over the bruised body, and touching the injuries with dark, deft fingers.
McAuliffe stretched his limbs luxuriously. 'Pshaw! don't trouble about that, boy. You get to work and take the woman back to her husband. Tell him he's got me to thank for seeing her again. I'm going down to the river to wash some of this dirt and oil off my hide. Give me the axe; I'll leave it with the old wife as I come along.'
Justin gave a grunt of compliance, then walked over to the rescued woman and pulled her up by the arm. Accustomed to obedience she followed him, but whether she was anxious to return, or willing to stay, did not appear. None could have told. Such a thought, likely enough, did not trouble her own brain.
The two disappeared along the forest trail as the moon came up over the ledges. McAuliffe prepared to descend to the river, but first he paid attention to the half-breed's lawful wife.
'There's a job for you,' he said, looking over the bowl of his pipe, and raising a sulphur match, which spluttered with blue light in the darkness. 'Guess 'bout best thing it can do, is to look after what's left of your darned thief of a husband.'
That same evening, the old Antoine, after listening to the Chiefs last tale of sorrow, sought Menotah in forest and by river, forgetful of age and weakness. At nightfall he came upon her, tripping lightly along the path, with song on her smiling lips and the usual joy at Tier heart. He stopped and drew her—anxious to please, though unwilling to obey—aside to his own tree-environed hut.
Here, with the dramatic force and fantastic word-painting of his race, amid the long blackening shadows, he disclosed his heart. He spoke of the mysterious death of Muskwah, on the stricken mind of her father, and finally appealed to her, by all she held sacred, to return to the people who were her own, to break from the perfidious white, who would soothe the mind with flattery, while with deceit he broke the trusting heart.
The Ancient spoke without previous reasoning, for he had sufficient knowledge to understand that opposition must ever increase determination. At that hour he entertained but one central thought, namely the freeing of Menotah from the life bondage she was accepting. Here was the single bright spot in a dark heart, the only elevating attribute of an embittered nature, his love for the happy girl, who had sprung among them, as he himself had often expressed it, 'like a solitary flower waving in the heart of the rock waste.'
With her customary careless air, Menotah listened to the Old man's eloquence, hands clasped behind her back, radiant eyes wandering from point to point of interest. When he paused, before a fresh effort, she drew a little away and said quietly, 'I am sorry Muskwah is dead.'
So in truth she was, though with the kind of sorrow that breeds joy. For Lamont had assured her how necessary had been his removal. She understood that the Indian had sworn to take her lover's life; that if one was left the other must go. It was far better to lose Muskwah than her handsome white. So she was resigned, and looked upon the murder as part of the dark lot of necessity.
But when she spoke there was no emotion of the voice, nor tear in the eye. This was so evidently a lip sorrow that Antoine's anger ebbed forth in reproach.
'You say there is grief at your heart, child, yet you will give no sign. The man was your lover, and now is dead. In the camp there are maidens, whom he was never wont to favour more than with the passing glance. But these beat their breasts for the sorrow of his end. You, for whom he would have dared all, stand unmoved, and speak of your grief in tones that well might express joy.'
Menotah's soft brow doubled in a frown. 'You are over-ready with words, old Father. Remember, T have cast aside childhood, and may therefore know my own mind. He, who has gone to the shadows, was no lover of mine.'
'You lie, girl,' cried the Ancient, smiting a feeble palm upon his staff. 'Has not the old Chief, your father, told me of his favour towards Muskwah? More, the young man himself has spoken of his warm hope. Many a time did he tell of his love, beneath the still evening, when he sought me for counsel.'
'Did the Chief also tell you that I looked upon Muskwah with eyes of love? Did the young man come ever with the tidings that I had promised to be his bride? You would ask me riddles, old Father. Now must you also be ready with answers.'
''Tis not so. You are but a girl, and one made to obey. Since your father chose, with the wisdom of age, a husband for you, it was your duty to receive him, and thank the Spirit that he had sent you so perfect a man. You know not, child, the peril that lies in self-choice.'
Menotah stepped forward with all her lithe grace. She raised her beautiful features to the coloured air of evening, while the cheeks warmed in a glow of anger. Then she parted her proud lips for reply.
'I have not your learning, old Father, for I am but a girl, yet one who would wish to know. But I am the equal of those who call themselves men. You are wiser? I can draw you from your knowledge path with a glance. You are stronger? I can disarm you with smile or frown. I can outwit you in your slow movements. Now you would hold out to me advice. I scorn it, though I have listened for the sake of the love you bore me once. But when you cast blame at me, I will throw back your words and tell you that I have planned out my own life path, that I will follow it to the end, in spite of you and all. Do you heed, old Father? Once you taught me the power of ready speech. Now it is the master who is put to silence.'
The Ancient tottered to the door of the hut, then paused, leaning in helpless fashion upon his staff. His shrunken form seemed more dwarfed than ever, the wrinkled face more deeply lined. There was suffering in every slow movement.
Weakly he quavered forth, 'I am old, so old that I have lost count of the years in the past. Now my age is mocked by those who were crawling children when I was already weak with time. Is it to be sorrow to the end, nothing but sorrow, until my body is brought to the fire, and memory fades away?'
The girl was touched by her old mentor's genuine misery. 'Surely,' she said in soft accents, 'none may pity those who sorrow when there is need to rejoice. Old Father, I would not cause you suffering.'
The dull ears were quick to note the change in voice. All that was good in his withered heart poured from him, like a death gasp, in a last pitiful entreaty,—
'Have I not always loved you, daughter, child of the laughing heart? Even now would I have shown you hatred, for loving one of the hated race, but I could not. Love is stronger than mind, greater than Nature, for it conquers both, and binds them down in chains. It must live and burn, nor may it be quenched at desire. Child, fair child, by such love—the only gift an old man can give—I pray you, be guided by my counsel. Come back to your people, and forget the past. All will stretch forth arms of love, to clasp you close. There will be joy in the encampment, with a song at every heart. For the tribe will not lose the sunshine, its morning and evening light. See! I am an aged man, and I beg this of you.
'Well can I look upon the days when you were but a crowing child. Then I would raise you in my arms and clasp you to my shoulder, while you would lift your baby head to smile into my face. Then I first felt the love fire stealing silently from your holding limbs to my old heart. So in the white winter I would clutch you to my heart, to warm the body which had never known the power of love. Also, when you were older, with uncertain steps you would walk at my side, while I would point out tree and rock by name, that I might list in to the music of your voice raised to imitate the sounds.
'Yet seasons came and went, each finding you beauteous, and leaving you more perfect. But one day, when I gazed on you in the sunlight, I knew you were formed to a woman, a being enriched with what loveliness and grace the Spirit may give. Jealously I watched you, flitting lightly, as the wind-borne flower blossom, from forest to river, always with the pure joy smile and the same heart gladness. Then I knew we had truly given you the name of Menotah—the heart that knows not sorrow.
'Then the white company came to our land. I feared, for I saw your beauty; also I knew the black hearts of those who had robbed us of our own. Yet now that which I have feared and fought against has befallen you.
'Menotah, daughter of love, light of my age, listen once again to the weak old Father. Grant me that for which I ask. See! I will come to my knees; I will kiss your hands. Never have I humbled myself to any before. Child! give me back my love, and hear my words.'
Tears of heart grief coursed drearily along the cheek wrinkles. His clenched hands shook, while the senile body trembled with emotion. The words fell without meaning against his ears. Sad thoughts were at his heart, and the tongue gave utterance, but whether the two agreed he might not tell.
He had cause for sorrow; for he spoke truth, when he said the girl before him was the only being he could love. Now the great affection, enshrined in a weak body, was held a thing without worth; it was to be laughed at and cast aside. A single satisfaction remained, and that a sad one. Future might bring change, she might yet learn that the love she now discarded was a thing unchanging, which would burn at the time of need with the steady flame of constancy. After the reckless passion of youth, this would be the final haven of shelter, the last rock on which the broken soul might pause and rest a while, before continuing the pitiless march of despair.
'Girl, I have done. Forget an old man's tears. Yet bear in memory one thing: when his aid is needed, he will be found, with hand outreached—to save, or to avenge.'
The last word fell forth in a sharp whisper. Then he leaned in exhaustion against the log wall, while there was silence save for his deep breathing. Menotah stood near, a resolute determination upon her paler face, defiance in every proud pose of her body. Presently she spoke,—
'Better had you saved breath and strength by silence, old Father. Must I again say that I have my will, that none shall turn me from following the desire of my mind?'
'I but spoke the innermost thought, child. Perchance it has given you pain.'
The Ancient was humbled in his weariness.
'It was as casting a handful of feathers to the wind,' said the rebellious girl. 'Even the memory has now faded.'
He raised his head half fiercely. 'It will return. A time lies in the future when the echo of my words will deafen your hearing. You will come back to me then. Yes, you shall return, and pray for my aid.'
'I shall not need it. There will be one to protect me, stronger than you.'
He shivered as her words touched him. 'But I look forward, child. I gaze into the black shadow beyond. My eyes are clear in spite of age, while yours are blinded with mistaken trust.'
He cast off his weakness and faced her. The blanket crawled from his lean shoulders and rustled to the ground. The eyes shone wildly, with that strange, prophetic instinct of the uncivilised mind.
'I tell you, girl, that timeshallcome. Even now it is not far distant. Then you will seek me out, you will creep to me with a prayer on your white lips. You shall come as a suppliant to me, seeking vengeance on the head of him you now proudly call your life support.'
Night had now fallen; the forest had grown black and weird; shivering spindles of the northern lights crept tremulously, with whispering movements, backward and forward across a blue-white sky.
Menotah stepped back in all her happiness. Then her bright laugh rang forth, drowning, for the minute, soft moanings of the night breeze in the tree tops.
'Laugh, girl; yes, laugh. It gives me joy to hear your happiness once again. In the coming sorrow I shall never listen to that sound which has so often brought warmth to my weak heart.'
She laughed again, while the pines shook and muttered. 'You shall hear my laughter while you walk in life,' she cried merrily, 'unless you would stop your ears to it. Old Father, I shall leave you to your sleep. You are speaking on strange things to-night.'
She picked the blanket from the ground, and arranged it, with soft, womanly attention, round his body. Then she took his arm and led him to the door.
'It is a truth,' he quavered. 'Surely as to-morrow's sun will kiss yonder trees, shall you cry for vengeance on the betrayer.'
With a slight shudder—the night air was chill—Menotah stepped back from the hut. 'You cannot kill my heart with your bodings, old Father,' she said sternly. 'To-morrow, perhaps, you will speak in a different manner.'
But, at the moment of departure, a tall figure, enveloped in a long cloak, came quickly from the shadowy trees in ghostly fashion. It might have been man or woman. As this apparition reached the clearing round the hut, Menotah beheld it and cried aloud with startled surprise.
The old Antoine came to the door at the sound. But when his eyes fell upon the cloaked figure, a mighty fear of the unknown overwhelmed him.
'To the water, child!' he cried shrilly. 'Tis theMutchi-Manitou. He comes from the swamp to seize you. To the water! His power is only upon land.'
But she showed no such fear. She merely caught the black cloak, and said, 'You should not be here. Why have you come?'
'You haven't been near me all day,' said the figure. 'I am out of food, and hungry.'
She drew this apparition back to the forest with eager hands. 'I will come when the moon shines, and laugh at the spirits of the dead. But there is someone within the hut.'
The figure stepped away silently, while Antoine came feebly forward.
'What is this, child?' he asked, yet with tone of suspicion.
Menotah turned to him in her liveliest manner, and again drew him back to shelter. 'We two have looked on much to-night, old Father. We have seen and spoken with the evil one himself.'
Then her joyous laughter rose again and circled in the night.
That short season, which northerners compliment by title of summer, had almost come to its last day of warmth. There were wonderful colours by day, with clouds of floating gossamers at night. Occasionally the wind veered, then brought along from the Arctic shores icy blasts, which angrily bit with foretaste of approaching winter.
The last boat of the season, leaving that year later than usual, lay along the log stage ready for departure, with its fur and feather freight. Soon after sunrise on the coming morning she would leave the Saskatchewan, to escape the ice fields which would rapidly form along her wake. For the sharp cold of that evening was sufficient to drive anxiety into the pilot's heart. Already the greater part of the trees, that shed the green mantle in winter, had parted with summer beauty; the long grass shivered in dry white stems; birds of bright colour had escaped to the more hospitable south, leaving in their place clouds of dainty snow-birds, that broke the silence of the cold air by the sharp hissing of constant short flights. Earlier in the day a slight frost flurry had suddenly fallen, which the dry wind had drifted in pools of fairy crystals beneath the sheltering rocks, and in thin, white line along the rugged fringe of the desolate forest.
Little matter of importance had occurred since the day Antoine had made ineffectual appeal to Menotah in the bush-trailed hut. The girl had left the people of her life to dwell with her nominal husband in a small forest shanty some distance from the fort. Here, during those few short weeks of dying summer, she found continuation of that perfect heart-whole happiness she had lived upon always. This was all she wished for, with the addition of love, and she was granted both. Never had she so entirely proved her right to the name of 'heart that knows not sorrow,' as she flitted along from morning to night, a bright ray of pure joy, with the face of laughter and fresh mind of confiding love.
For a short time Lamont was altogether satisfied that he would never wish for change. His young girl—she was wife in the sight of heaven and earth, for what is a ceremony when hearts respond?—fascinated him with her childish ways and caressing affection, her enticing laughter and joyous bursts of song. During those days the withered Antoine always heard, as he snuffled daily alongside of the hut, the clear music of her perpetual joy. She was like unfading sunshine as she lavished worship of limb and tongue upon her heart's god, so it may readily be conceived how Lamont fell for the time beneath the glamour of attraction, until he came to feel that he might contentedly live thus for ever, away in the summer forest, with the bright, beautiful girl, laying aside all association, forgetting the call of civilisation. But, to a man of his temperament, this, could be nothing beyond a dream, from which he must awake gradually, yet surely. There are other seasons than summer, and there are times when the flower is scentless, the tree no longer green.
So the rapturous heart-warmth in his body faded with the cold approach of Nature's winter, and as the days grew shorter, the north wind keener, desire became re-awakened, the roving spirit of adventure called to him from distant lands. At length the surrounding desolation, growing more intense as autumn lengthened, became wearisome. Following on this he discovered for the first time a restraint on his movements. Then came the passionate longing for change, that indefinite and empty resource of the vacillating mind. He longed desperately for southern connections, actuated not unentirely by a curiosity to learn the actual fate of Riel and his followers, with whom he felt a sympathetic interest. There was but one more boat—a final chance for escape. If he allowed it to slip, he would be chained down to the lonely regions for many months during the intense cold of the Arctic winter. Days and weeks of monotony in such a spot! The very thought was intolerable. This hopeless prospect settled, without a shade of remorse, the wavering balance of his determination.
But there was an ulterior motive. The 'yellow stones' given him by his fair bride were, as he quickly discovered, singularly pure, though small, nuggets of gold. Such a chance of great wealth as was here afforded should not be allowed to merge through lack of application. So he had resolved to collect a few companions, return to the north immediately the spring winds opened the waters, and institute a search for the ancient river bed, where Nature seemed to have so lavishly scattered her treasures.
Nor was he alone in such determination. As may have been observed, Peter Denton was more of the knave than fool. This gentleman of uncertain antecedents, about the time of the punishment of Que-dane, found his position too uncomfortable for toleration. The very Indians despised him for cowardice; Justin openly reviled him on chance meetings; the Factor swore at him with unnecessary unction; as a final degradation, he had narrowly escaped a thrashing at the hands of the Icelander, when the latter, contrary to all the expectations of Dave, attained the stage of convalescence. So he became more than anxious to place himself within the bounds of civilisation. But he had no intention of returning empty handed. Sneaking round the hut one night, he beheld, through the window, Lamont closely examining the box of glittering stones. With undivided interest he watched further, while the unsuspicious owner returned the treasure to a hole in a corner of the earth floor. Then he crept away, with an idea simmering in his brain of negotiating a smallcoup d'étatbefore leaving.
Herein he was favoured of fortune. Of course the hut was always open to an invader, though generally occupied. But, by careful watching, he found his opportunity. When the others were assembled on the stage to welcome the boat, he crept into the hut, unearthed the small box, then absconded rapidly. The next day he took canoe to the mouth, caught the boat as she passed, and journeyed south, with joy at his avaricious heart.
This was a fortnight back, so he was safe away. Now, on the drear September evening, when the shadows closed round quickly, the last boat of the year rocked and grated against the rotten logs, while Captain Angus smoked strong plug and quaffed draughts of black brandy with McAuliffe in the fort.
But human passion and action only ebbed into full play after fall of night. Then, within the reed-covered hut by the petroleum swamp, Menotah, her head and shoulders wrapped by a blanket of many folds, was talking with a dark figure half enveloped in a long cloak. Around them reigned an almost perfect silence; so peaceful that it was quite possible to hear the rustling of crisp leaves as they lightly floated across stagnant pools, to note the formation of crystal ice spears as they lengthened over some shallow water patch, slowly converting liquid into solid.
From the low roof swung a lantern, casting strange shadows around the open space, faintly illumining Menotah's happy face, and at times the rugged features of her companion.
'But what are you going to do?' she asked. 'I tell you, the boat sails very early in the morning. If you do not go on her, you must stay here all the winter. Are you well enough to go?'
'I'm strong enough. Pshaw, girl! I'm as good as ever I was.'
'But shall you go?' she asked again.
'I'll think. Can't fix your mind to these sort of things at one jump. I reckon you know what I'm making at?'
Menotah looked at him strangely, as a shudder passed over her. Perhaps it was the biting wind, for she drew round her blanket more closely. 'I cannot understand you. Why won't you explain to me, as you said you would?'
The other laughed hoarsely. 'What's the good of it to you?'
She made an impatient movement. 'Well, I want to know. Perhaps I am curious; I believe most women are. Why did I find you as I did that night? Who is it you are going to kill? Why have you made me hide you and keep quiet myself?'
'Keep it back a while longer, and I'll tell you the whole thing.'
'But I want to know now. I have helped you right along, though you would tell me nothing. You said no woman's tongue could be trusted. As if I could not have kept quiet!'
'There was a risk, anyway,' replied the figure shortly; and then, 'Is the Chief alive yet?'
She shook her head, while a faint shadow of sadness crossed her bright brow. 'Ah! he has breath, but nothing besides. He has shaken off strength, and is fading fast to the shadow land. Perchance he will not see the sun of another day.'
As she finished speaking, the dull braying of a distant horn floated along the icy wind, to hang in throbbing echoes above the swamp.
They stared at each other in the dripping light of the lamp.
'The boat horn!' exclaimed Menotah.
The dark figure bent and bit his fingers. That heavy sound recalled to memory many things; chiefly a home and connections in the 'Spirits' Province.' He too was reminded of the bleak prospect which lay behind any further delay. So he merely put the question, 'You're sure the boat leaves in the morning?'
'Yes; Angus told me. I have never known her to leave in the night except once. They were afraid of the ice.'
'It's cold enough now to scare them.' He drew a deep breath and beat his hands together. Then he muttered, 'I mustn't lose sight of him again.'
'What are you talking about?' said Menotah, with a short laugh.
The other started. 'You heard, eh? No matter, girl; it's all my racket.'
She shook her small head with a puzzled air. This man was certainly an enigma, with his strange conduct and general silence. He wished to be avenged on someone who had done him a great wrong. Before the departure of each boat he had never failed to ask her for the names of those going in her. Even then, unsatisfied by her declaration, he would steal secretly to the point, and, crouched behind the willow scrub, would scan the black monster as she passed. The keen-eyed girl had watched him closely, and learnt much, though not the one matter which was alone of vital importance.
Such thoughts as these she now put into words. But the response obtained was merely, 'Nobody saw me moving about, except you?'
'And old Antoine,' she added; 'you know the evening you came upon us both? It was just after Muskwah's death.'
The remark, made carelessly, had an invigorating effect upon her companion. A look of utter incredulity passed across his worn face. 'You don't tell me he's dead?' he cried.
'Of course,' she returned, somewhat unfeelingly 'Surely I told you that?'
'Never,' he said violently. 'Tell me now.'
She shrank back a little. 'After all, I am wrong. I remember I did not wish you to know. But he was killed during that great storm of the last moon. His body was swept away along the great river. Nobody knows anything further.'
'Except you, I reckon,' said the figure bluntly.
She had spoken the lie unfalteringly, but at this covert accusation her cheek went white, and the one guilty thought of the mind stabbed her with remembrance. She stepped forward with her lithe motion and pulled the cloak from his spare shoulders. 'What do you mean by that?' she cried. 'Why should I know anything? Do you dare accuse me of killing Muskwah?'
He drew away from her angry hand. 'Pshaw, girl! there's more fire in you than I thought for. 'Course I thought you'd know more about him than others.'
'But why?' she persisted, in the same passionate voice.
'Well, he was your husband, and I suppose you liked him in a sort of way.'
Her face broke up at once, and she laughed outright. 'He wasn't my husband, and never would have been. The Chief wanted me to take him, but I—well, I was satisfied with someone else.'
She glowed afresh with the thought of her present perfect happiness.
'You're strange creatures, you girls,' said her companion, with a half smile. 'Muskwah was a fine enough looking fellow in my fancy. Which of the gang did you pick out, anyway?'
Menotah's clear laughter rang forth joyously in the pure heart rapture. The sorrowless waves of sound circled above in the frost-gleaming air, and beat far around into the forest, over the crisp ground, above the nauseous marsh. But it was for the last time. Neither the figure before her, nor old Antoine; nor even the cold winds that sighed round her head to lift the dark tresses in sport, heard that laugh again.
'Why!' she exclaimed, panting for her pure breath, 'it was not an Indian at all.'
A presentiment of sombre fact flashed across the listener's brain. His shrouding cloak whispered to the ground as he sprang upright and seized the girl's shoulder. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, until she would have cried aloud. But fear in his eyes froze up the power of speech.
'Good God! don't say it'shim—not him. What's the name, girl? Who is it?'
His voice was deep and hoarse. The words were forced from his tongue in jerky syllables, barely intelligible. She moved her red lips—scarce knowing if she spoke. Yet a sound proceeded therefrom in a whisper, forming a word, a single name, which caused the figure to clench his fists and swear furiously. Then she almost fell upon him. 'What do you mean?' she cried pitifully. 'Tell me what you mean.'
The forbidding exterior concealed a kindly heart. He looked upon the delicate, upturned face, the small nose, moist eyes, quivering mouth, all framed within the dark wreath of hair. He saw the slight figure, already ripening into the rounded lines of maternity. He thought of the meaning of treachery to that perfect piece of humanity. There might yet be opportunity for saving the heart from death.
'It's nothing, girl,' he said in surly manner. 'I was a bit astonished for a moment.'
'No, no,' she cried, 'it was not that. I cannot be deceived so easily. I saw fear in your face, and there was pity. Ah, yes, there was pity for me; I could see it. Why—tell me why? I have always been so happy. You cannot pity me now. Why should you?'
'It's all right,' he said, with slight knowledge of comforting. 'It's all a mistake of mine, anyway. Don't you bother yourself.'
'I can't believe you. I am trying to, but it is no use. There was that pity upon your face. Ah, tell me. Tell me all—all—all.'