[1]The soldiers.
[1]The soldiers.
The cool breeze, which usually blows nightly in north and west, did not rise after the sun setting. On the contrary, though the thick atmosphere cleared slightly, and the wearisome white glare disappeared, oppressive heat stillness grew yet more intolerable. Sleep in such a hot bath became almost impossible. Shortly before dark, there were visible above the southern horizon small clouds of a copper tint, which ascended with peculiar, twisting motions, to break into incessant lightning on reaching a certain higher point.
That portion of the prairie, which receded from the north wall of the fort, was known as the least wholesome quarter in the district. It was infested by a cosmopolitan crowd of the poorest class, chiefly Jews and half-breeds, whose miserable shacks were scattered everywhere within dirty enclosures. Beyond this unfragrant belt were several small houses of light framework, surrounded with high fencing, which might almost have been dignified by the title of palisade. The furthest of these improved dwellings was the first to show a light on that evening. A lamp stood near the ground floor window, which was standing open, and cast long, yellow rays across the open space in front.
The dark figure of a solitary woman came from the deep shadows beneath the north wall, and made in the direction of this house. Though her feet were bare, she walked indifferently, without flinching, over the broken fragments of bottles and other refuse which everywhere strewed the grass. Her features were concealed by a black cloak wrapped round head and shoulders. Yet, even so, at times might be seen the quick glitter of determined eyes as she glanced suspiciously towards the occasional figures that drifted along distantly in the gathering gloom. She passed from grimy tent to tarred shanty, until the unsavoury quarter had been left behind. At length she reached the tall fence which protected the house where burnt the guiding lamp. Here she paused, as though the journey's limit had been attained, and crouched into the long grass, half concealed by a bush maple which sprang up alongside the fence. Eagerly, as the tiger lying in the jungle for its prey, she kept her gaze fixed upon the illuminated window, which was scarcely more than a dozen paces distant.
By this time it was quite dark. A few gauzy moths and cumbersome beetles circled drearily round the drooping flower heads. The night air was stifling. Soon soft lightning began to play incessantly along all parts of the sky.
The woman remained bent in her cramped position, unconscious of the deadness, of sharp pricking of the limbs, disregarding the wounds in the soles of her feet, where blood trickled forth slowly. Her straining eyes were constantly fixed ahead. She could not note such trivial torments as attacks of insect or any mere suffering of the body.
A sullen roar broke from the south and trembled along the ground, while a faint air wave rippled through the night. Then silence and heat settled down again.
But, before the echo of that sound had rolled itself away across prairie, a deep groan burst from the woman's lips as she sank back in a trembling heap. Every muscle in her body shuddered; her mad fingers fought into the dusty turf; she sobbed and wailed so piteously that any chance listener might well have wondered at so great a sorrow, yet withal so quietly that the sounds covered a very slight interval. This was weakness, but nature dies hard.
For in the full light of the lamp stood two figures within that room—a man, and close to him a girl, slender and dark. His arm was encircling her waist, she was pressed to him in an embrace, while he was looking down upon her upturned face with a smile—doubtless, also, with words of love.
This was an ordinary sight, surely, that of a greeting between husband and wife on the former's return from daily toil. The woman in the dark heat outside was surely strangely influenced by trifles.
During those past few days Lamont had been making mental preparations for departure. He felt that his continued presence in Garry was perilous. Any day there might enter the fort some Indian or half-breed, who could recognise his former leader, and who might feel inclined to place himself in comfortable circumstances by denouncing him to the Government. Sinclair, his especial enemy, had been dead for some time. Nothing but an accident could now divulge his identity as the notorious White Chief. Still, with the roving passion of the adventurer, he longed for another country, for fresh faces.
He had practically abandoned the idea of instituting a search for the river of gold which lay hidden in the distant north. The journey was a difficult one, and failure probably lay at the end. Then it would be almost impossible to find companions in whom he could trust—to venture alone would be madness. Besides, once in that district, there lay the danger of crossing some Indian warrior, who would strive to avenge Menotah's lost honour.
So far, the attraction which had bound him down to the western land was his real affection for his dark Canadian wife. He had been duly married to Marie by the rites of her religion, and for the time—as with Menotah—he was quite satisfied with his heart choice. But Sinclair had spoken truly to the Indian girl when he said, 'Lamont can't love; he hasn't got the heart.' So he had recently made the inevitable discovery that her presence had ceased to bring him pleasure; in short, that he was growing tired of her, as he became weary of anything which had a tendency towards daily repetition. This fact Marie, with woman's quick discernment, perceived, and—not possessing Menotah's tender devotion—resented, as she had indeed a right to do. Slight quarrels had arisen, like first mutterings of the yet distant storm, which could not fail to widen the breach which had been already formed by his growing indifference. On more than a single occasion actual bitterness had shown itself, and though such scenes more usually ended with kiss and fresh protestation of love, memory survived, converting the lip promise into a mechanical action which had no consent of the heart.
So Lamont was only now waiting for a favourable opportunity to steal away from the country, and join the forces of some insurrection in any other part of the world. His wife would be left behind as a matter of course. There were women to be found everywhere. Doubtless he could discover many as beautiful in the new land of his choice. Had Sinclair set the wheels of the law revolving but a month later, he might have found himself too late.
On that particular day they had quarrelled—the heat had made him irritable—but as evening approached and an indefinite feeling of fear tormented the mind, he had made such humble overtures towards reconciliation that Marie was astonished at the change. As she was sincerely fond of her husband, when it so happened that his moods agreed with hers, she was perfectly willing to meet his advances half way. Consequently it appeared that the threatened storm had been averted. Then the lamp was lighted in the little sitting-room overlooking the dark prairie, the window was left open on account of the heat, while they listened to the first smothered exclamation of the distant thunder.
Then Lamont began to experience that dim presentiment of approaching evil, which is such a real and such a terrible truth. He became suddenly so entirely lonely, and in so fearful a mood, that he was compelled to turn to his weak wife for protection as well as sympathy. It was impossible to remain any time in one position, while thought became intolerable.
'How irritable you are!' she said, when he began to pace up and down the room.
'The place is full of mosquitoes. It is the lamp light. Shall I shut the window?'
'If you like,' she replied. 'They don't trouble me, though.'
He did not go to the window, but sank into a chair. 'Marie!' he called suddenly.
She looked up in some wonder, when he called again. Then she crossed to his side. He threw his arm round her and drew her on his knee, to whisper in her ear, 'You love me,chérie, don't you?'
She did not know what to make of this sudden change of front. Somewhat doubtfully she replied, 'Yes, Hugh, when you're nice to me.'
'You don't say that in the way you used to.'
'And you haven't kept all the promises you once made. You were never to speak a harsh word to me; never dream of quarrelling with me; I should always have my wish; you would always love me devotedly; and—oh! I don't know how many more.
He put his hand over her mouth, then caressed her half fondly, half nervously.
'I always love you,chérie. You know I do, so you must forgive me. And you will always remain faithful to me, won't you?'
'Yes,' she said carelessly.
'You will always take my part? You will protect me—'
She gave a short laugh. 'How can I protectyou?' she cried, with some scorn. 'What's the matter with you, Hugh?'
He passed a hand across his forehead. 'I'm unsettled. I hardly know what I'm talking about to-night.'
'Go and lie down. I'll bring you something to drink presently.'
He took no notice of her words, but pressed her to him eagerly.
'You will never desert me, Marie mine? You will be faithful to me always?'
'Of course,' she replied petulantly. 'At least so long as you are faithful to me—and country,' she added, as an afterthought.
He started wildly, all his worst fears aroused. 'What has that to do with us? If I am true to you, why think about country?'
The small patriot became infected by his strange mood. 'It is the true man's first thought. Home and country must always go together.'
'Pshaw! What has it done for us? If it is to a man's interests to go against his people, let him do so.'
He was almost startled at the horror on her face. 'Fight against your own land, against your own people! Do you mean that?'
'Why not?' he said huskily.
'It is the vilest thing a man can do,' she cried hotly. 'Look at the Rebellion that is just over. Don't you think with me that the traitor they call the White Chief is an evil spirit, and not man at all?'
The next instant she had approached him with solicitude, for his face was ghastly. 'Why, what is it, Hugh? You are not well.'
'The heat,' he muttered. 'I'm faint.'
Then there came a loud, hollow knock upon the outer door.
Lamont forgot his infirmity and sprang up excitedly. 'What is that?'
'I believe you are crazy, Hugh!' said his wife angrily. 'The paper, of course.'
'Don't go, Marie,' he pleaded. 'Stay here with me. I'm not feeling well. I don't want to be left alone.'
She stopped irresolutely at his side, and looked up at the nervous face. He was greatly excited, and trembling. With the woman's sympathy for suffering, she placed both hands on his shoulders, then said kindly, 'I'm just going for the paper. Then I will sit by you and read the latest news.'
With a soft hand she pushed back the hair from his forehead. It was moist with heat and his fear of the unknown.
'You really are unwell.'
He put his arms round her; then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he said, 'Kiss me,chérie.'
She did so, though with a perplexed smile, and with no conception of the idea that this was the last embrace which was to pass between them. As she released herself, the deep roar broke forth again from the southern night.
'The storm's coming,' he muttered, thinking on the night of Muskwah's end, 'It's the only way such a day could end.'
She was not gone more than a few minutes, yet when she returned her husband was standing near the window in a pitiful state of alarm. As she came questioningly to him, he clutched her arm with the weak action of the child who seeks protection from invisible dangers.
'There was a face—a white, revengeful face.'
'Where?' she asked, quickly with a strange glance. 'At the window. Only for a moment. The eyes were terrible. There was death in them. Didn't you hear me call out?'
Marie advanced to the open window, where a few mosquitoes sang their mournful, high-pitched note. There was nothing, except the soft lightning playing incessantly through the hot air. 'It was your imagination,' she said, with a certain wondering contempt. 'Come and see for yourself.'
But he did not stir. 'I hear footsteps. There are men coming through the grass.'
'Well, the prairie is public. People have a right to pass if they like.Ciel!Get rid of this folly of yours.'
She drew him to a chair, then seated herself beside him, and opened the single vilely printed sheet published in Garry at that time under the title of newspaper. That evening it was larger than usual.
He was completely beneath her influence, so obeyed her light touch, casting many furtive glances in the direction of the window, which was constantly flooded in a pale blue light. The thunder now commenced to roll and roar through the stifling night.
Outside, between the fence and the bush maple, still crouched the dark figure, never shifting her position, and always gazing into that room. Occasionally she could even hear a portion of the conversation.
Marie's attention was drawn at once towards the black lettered headlines of the opening column. 'It is an account of Father Lecompte's death,' she said solemnly.
'He is dead, then?' said Lamont, blankly, his thoughts on other things.
'You know he is. Didn't you listen to the bell tolling last night? You said it kept you awake.' Then she began to read from the closely printed sheet. 'The Archbishop has lost his right hand. The good priest, who fought with him so loyal-heartedly in his endeavours to quell the Indian rising, will be seen in our midst no more. During the Rebellion, when there were traitors—'
'The Rebellion!' he interrupted violently. 'You're always talking on that. I tell you, it's over and done with. I don't want to hear about the priest's death, Marie. Heaven knows this night is dismal enough without making it worse by reading such things.' Ho shuddered as he spoke.
With a little petulant movement his wife turned over the sheet. Her eyes were immediately caught by another headline, announcing far more significant intelligence. She read the paragraph that followed quickly, then turned to her husband, who sat motionless in his chair.
Sinclair, the simple-minded hunter, had reckoned without the journalist in the laying of his plans. He knew nothing of the searching curiosity of the reporter, with whom nothing is sacred, reputation least of all. During a moment of incautious jubilation in official circles, the secret must have leaked into the ears of clerks, each a type of garrulity, and the keen-scented news maker, who could track copy in the air, had made the tidings his prey. The newspaper is always the criminal's most faithful ally, the friend when everything human has dropped away from him. Now it came very near to wrecking Sinclair's well-devised plans.
Marie spread the sheet across her knee and smoothed it out excitedly. 'Listen, Hugh. Here is something that really will interest you.'
He made no reply, nor was there any curiosity in his manner. Full of the startling intelligence, she continued quickly,—
'It is about the White Chief. He has been discovered.'
She bent her head to read from the paper, but at the moment a strange sound of deep gasping came to her ears. She looked up hurriedly, and then her own face for the moment grew white with fear.
He stood in the centre of the room, a livid hue crossing his face, knees knocking together in weakness of extreme terror, hands clutching at the table for support. His entire being was transformed.
Marie came forward, trembling. 'What is it? Tell me, Hugh—'
He reached out towards the paper, and tried in vain to speak. The shock had been so terrible, so fearfully sudden.
'It isthat, then,' she said, with a strange light growing in her eyes. 'Would you like to hear the rest?'
She held the sheet beneath the lamplight. 'Information has been given by a man who for some time was believed to be dead, hunter Sinclair of St Andrews.'
It was all over now. There could be nothing worse than this, so strength, the unreasoning strength of despair, liberated his tongue and brought energy back to the limbs. He forgot the presence of his wife, everything save his awful position. He stood surrounded by a blood-red atmosphere, where lightnings blazed and thunders crashed; before him he saw the limp figure of Riel swaying at the rope's end; in his ears sounded the mad shouts and execrations of the people. He was a man by himself, outside all mercy, with a country shrieking for his blood.
'Sinclair is dead!' he cried, in an awful voice. 'He never rose, never moved. I could not have missed my aim. He is dead—dead.'
His wife shrank in her turn, the horrible truth worming into her heart.
'Speak!' she shouted at him. 'Tell me the meaning of this.'
He did not notice her. 'There is no one else. Spencer had no proofs. Sinclair is dead.'
He shuddered frightfully, then staggered across the floor.
Motion removed the numbness from his mind. The first paralysing wave of terror had passed, so now he saw again clearly. He looked upon his wife, with hatred growing in her eyes; he thought of the possible foes already in wait outside the door; he beheld the window, and knew that salvation lay there.
Thither he went, with an attempt at a smile upon his features. Ah, there was shelter and life in that dark night. But then the lightning burst forth wildly, converting the outer blackness into a weird atmosphere of shuddering blue.
He fell back with a shout no effort could repress. In the brief space of light had been plainly visible a knot of men crossing the prairie in that direction.
But his wife had seen them, too. The dreadful truth, so far a suspicion, now became a certainty. Unwittingly she had taken to husband the vilest and most cowardly of all her country's treacherous sons.
'I see,' she said, bending forward like the snake about to strike. 'You are afraid of these men. They are coming here. Perhaps you know why.'
One minute of perfect coolness, and he would be safe. He could escape by the door, pass out at the back, reach open prairie, then make for the bush. None could touch him there. But he must first secure his weapons, which lay in the next room.
So he laughed feebly, and smiled in ghastly fashion upon his wife. 'It's all right, Marie,chérie. The heat has knocked me over altogether. I'm just going out for a bit.'
But as he crossed the floor, she stepped forward and put herself in his way.
'Where are you going?'
His tongue and throat were parched. All he could say was, 'I'll be back in a few minutes. I can't tell you.'
She held his arm. 'Before you go, tell me what you know of the White Chief?' There was a pause, broken by the rattling of the thunder, then her voice came again, 'Why did you try to kill Sinclair?'
He tried to move onward—naturally the one idea was immediate flight—but she hung to him.
'I can't tell you. I know nothing.'
Then she placed herself between him and the door. Her face was hard and stern.
'You shall not go. I believe you know who this villain is.'
Again he tried to laugh. 'Yes—but I couldn't tell you, or anyone. He's a friend, who often has done me good service. I can't forget him now. He lives in Garry, so I am going out to warn him. I shouldn't like to see him hung.'
The last words were spoken in a thick whisper, while he turned a frightened glance towards the window.
'You liar!' she burst forth. 'Why did you speak to me on fidelity to country? What was the reason of your fear, and why did you see an enemy in every passer by? Why did you almost lose reason when I read that paragraph from the paper? Why did you yourself confess that you tried to shoot Sinclair?'
Deceit was now a useless weapon. The last resource lay in the power of a terrible name coupled with brute force.
'Damn you,' he said in a soft, sinister whisper, which had often aided him better than muscular strength, 'I AM THE WHITE CHIEF! Stand aside, and let me pass.'
'Never!' Then she compressed her lips fiercely.
He clenched his fists and made a menacing movement. 'Come away from that door!'
'You shall not pass.'
Then she locked the door and drew forth the key.
'It will have to be over your body. The choice is yours.'
She raised a denouncing finger, and met him with the single word, 'Traitor!'
He was cool again now. 'Too late for that,' he began, but her passion was fully aroused.
'See! Those men are waiting outside for a signal. They have come to arrest you. I shall see you hung at Regina, if the people do not kill you here.'
Her concluding words were almost drowned in a crash of thunder. A lurid picture of the bloodthirsty lynchers, with a prospect of horrible death by burning, flashed across his mental vision. Weakness returned, and he trembled.
'There are footsteps. There is someone coming up to the window.'
He would have rushed there, but dared not. Escape by the door was his only chance.
'Dare to lay a finger on me, traitor. I am a free woman now. Your perfidy has divorced me from you.'
'The key!' he cried in hoarse tones many times.
'There is the open window. Leave the house that way. The soldiers are waiting to receive you.'
The sweat broke on his forehead. 'I give you another chance. Stand aside, and let me pass.'
She drew herself up proudly. 'No man shall ever say of Marie Larivière that she feared a traitor to her country.'
This return to her maiden name showed him how completely isolated he was from all human sympathy.
He swore fiercely, then sprang forward at her. But the little patriot was ready; she doubled her fingers and struck him across the eyes.
'Perfide!'
The bold action aroused his entire fury. He seized her by the waist and flung her brutally to the floor. Bravely she clutched the key within her two hands. He bent over, and furiously struggled to wrest it from her grasp. But it is no easy task—even with far greater strength—to open the fist which is closed in a grim determination. She panted and sobbed, yet fought nobly; he swore and threatened, but could not succeed.
It was terrible. The sweat flowed from his face. Any second he might find himself surrounded by soldiers and his last hope gone. The demon within triumphed. He struck the girl twice upon the side of the head. She sank upon the floor, while the fingers yielded limply. Feverishly he clutched the key, again seeing the world of liberty opening and spreading before him.
He reached the door. With shaking hands he endeavoured to force the key into its place.
Suddenly a new flood of terror passed into his being and robbed the hands of strength. They were unmistakable sounds in the room. Someone had entered. As he started round, a low voice gave utterance to the pitiless words,—
'It is no good.'
Standing in the centre of the floor was a woman, barefooted, bareheaded, with hair streaming wildly over her shoulders, with hungry set look on her colourless face.
It was Menotah.
Calmly she looked again upon her betrayer, the man who had won her heart, he who had lightly stolen her happiness. No shadow of doubt crossed her brow, nor was there; any sign of swerving from the path of duty in her passionless face. She had completed a dreadful journey to avenge, as her religion directed. Now that the moment had arrived, she would not be the one to display lack of resolution.
And again he looked upon her, his former and present lawful wife. Even then, with vision obscured, with eyes failing by heat and his fervent fear, he marvelled at the complete change which time and his perfidy had worked. There was something familiar in that figure, in the stern features, in the cold voice as it delivered its mortal message. Could this hard-featured woman have owned at any time some connection with the laughing girl he had taken to himself in the lone forests of the Saskatchewan? Yet, if so, where were the eyes that always danced with joy, where was the colour that had played like chequered sunshine across her cheeks? What sickness had robbed her step of buoyancy, what hand had deprived her of all the numerous graces that had contributed towards making her so adorable a thing of life?
Even in that moment of selfish terror he could realise that Menotah had vanished with all her youth and beauty; that, from the ashes of her dead heart had sprung another being, bearing her name, though lacking all her womanly qualities. This figure had but one object in view. The words of the careless, beautiful Menotah of the summer forest rang forth with the thunder, and flashed within the lightning in letters of fire,'If anyone should kill my heart with sorrow, I would give life and strength to the cause of vengeance. I should never turn back!'
Yet, outside everything remained quiet, save for the tumult of the elements. There were no visible signs of other enemies. This woman, though terrible perhaps to gaze upon, was devoid of strength. As he had no feeling apart from his personal safety, he began to breathe again.
But she divined his thoughts. Deliberately she drew from the folds of her cloak a small knife, then, with the indifference of a butcher about to slaughter, examined the point. The brightness of the metal was dulled at the edge by a brown stain.
Stealthily she came round the room and crept near the door. He was fascinated by her eyes, and fell back as she approached. Then she spoke in a dull voice, 'There is poison on the knife point.'
Then he understood the deadly nature of that brown stain. She slipped into his late position near the door, still watching him with eyes that never twitched or closed.
Soon Marie recovered partially and dragged herself to a sitting posture. With large, wondering eyes she stared upon the intruder.
'I am changed since the time you last saw me,' said Menotah, in passionless tones. 'Why am I another woman, while you remain the same man?' She paused, as though waiting for reply. When none came she continued, 'I will tell you.'
But she did not, for with the thought came other recollections—the aged Antoine and his last weak words; her dying father and the oath she had sworn over him, using words which might not be lightly set aside. Already had she failed in the appointed course of action. She was threatening, where she should be pleading. Still, before the final act, she would trifle with this man, as he had played with her. She would put his courage to the test. But first she turned to Marie, and said in herpatoisFrench,—
'Do you love this man?'
The girl was half dazed, but she directed her gaze towards the pitiless face. Then Menotah, attracted possibly by sympathy for one who was to suffer her pangs, drew nearer and looked closely at her features. Then she said, 'You are his wife?'
The other moistened her dry lips. 'I was,' she muttered.
'He deserted me for you.' She hung on every syllable. 'When he said he loved me, you were at his heart; when he caressed me, he thought of you; when he spoke tenderly, he forgot it was not you he was addressing.'
An angry flush of shame crossed Marie's brow. 'He never cared for me—the traitor. And I hate him.'
Menotah turned. 'So; she who was your wife before your own people has nothing for you but hatred.' Then she picked up the key, which Lamont had dropped in his sudden fright. 'It is time,' she said quietly, then unlocked the door and threw it wide open. She cast aside the cloak, while the knife glittered as she stretched forth her arm. 'You may pass if you wish.'
He was stupefied at this new move, and wondered at her meaning. Beyond he could see the lamp light flickering in the hall, and further, half hidden in shadow, the dim outline of the outer door. In that direction lay liberty. How simple it was! A quick bound forward, two or three steps, and life would be his again.
But then the cold voice struck on his ears again,—
'First I will warn you. As you pass I shall strive to wound you. A touch with this knife is death.'
He stood irresolutely, while a contemptuous smile broke over Marie's white countenance.
'I am waiting for you.'
He gazed from the open door to that terrible window, where the dreaded power of justice perhaps even then lay concealed.
'It will be over in a single moment.'
He tried to nerve himself for the act. With a single motion of his hand he might hurl the slight girl from the door; with one blow of his powerful fist he could paralyse that arm. But she was quick, and fearfully determined. The risk was too great.
'Coward!' she burst forth in a first expression of passion. 'I am but a weak woman—how weak you can hardly tell. But even for your liberty you will not attack me, for the gift of your life you dare not pass me.'
There was silence, until the splashing of heavy raindrops on the shingle could be distinctly heard.
'Hark! there are other sounds than the rain and the thunder.'
'I hear footsteps,' said Marie, in a barely intelligible voice.
Menotah barred the doorway with a trembling arm. 'Your chance is gone,' she said, yet with a peculiar deliberation. 'You know why these men have come. You do not deserve to live, for you have been false to everyone. They will take you with them, and treat you as they did Riel. They will hang you as they did him.'
She fell back as she spoke against the wall, while the hot breath choked her.
Another thought occurred to him. If he could reach the next room he might obtain his weapons. Armed, he would be not only a brave man, but a formidable foe. But Menotah still guarded the threshold, the deadly instrument in her hand, her eyes following his every movement.
'You cannot escape,' she murmured with low, fearful accent. There was a new expression upon her face which Marie wondered at. 'You are captured by a weak woman. You did not think to set eyes on me again. You thought I should crawl away to some quiet spot, there to sob away my life as the wounded deer. Yet I have followed your footsteps to repay you for the wounds you have inflicted upon me. The time is here now—the hour for vengeance.'
The last words fell from her lips in a frightened whisper. For the first time since that fatal night of desertion, emotion awoke in her colourless face, while a strange moisture started into her eyes.
But where was the plan for vengeance, and why did she not follow it out? For this meeting she had waited and planned. Now it had arrived. Why did she not make use of opportunity and act quickly? The deadly drug still lay unused in her bosom. Why did she not make use of it?Because she had then forgotten its very existence.
Again came the sounds On this occasion Lamont fancied he could detect a creaking of the storm door outside.
'They are coming,' said Marie, in a hushed tone.
Menotah looked upon her wildly. She repeated the words as though doubtful of their full significance. Then in a tremulous half whisper, 'Perhaps they are all round the door. He might escape by the window.'
'Escape!' half shouted Marie, excitedly.
Menotah's face had broken and changed, like the sky after a storm. The cruelty had melted and gone. A look of fear crept into her pain-filled and lustrous eyes. Suddenly, after a short and mighty struggle with herself, she turned and loudly cried at Lamont,—
'The window!'
The guilty man started at the change in that voice. Again he saw Menotah in the full sunshine, flitting along by the high cliff of the Saskatchewan, with bright song and laughter.
'There is still one chance left.'
Lamont could not move. He was divided between paralysing dread and suspicious perplexity. But she came towards him. He shrank from the knife with the brown stained point. Fearlessly she took him by the arm, then compelled him across the room.
'See!' Her voice was low and fervent. 'You may yet escape, with this knife to aid you. Make for the bush on the river's opposite bank. There you will be safe.'
There was a trembling pity in every motion, while her limbs shook with weakness. Upon her he turned his dazed eyes. Then he saw that her cheeks were burning, as though with fever, that the look on her face was wild and cunning.
'Let me go for my rifle,' he said.
'You cannot. They will see you. Go! For the love you bore me once—escape.'
Marie passionately intervened. 'You have jested with him enough. Take care, or he will snatch the knife from you.'
'Jesting!' cried Menotah, piteously. 'Ah, no. I am the coward now. I loved him. I gave him my heart and wrapped my soul round his life. Now I am called to avenge. I cannot. I cannot. The pain has returned—back to my heart. I thought the flame dead and cold. But it has sprung up again. It lives! It lives!'
She sprang at Lamont, and hung to him with an embrace. 'There is still time. Go! Go!'
'Stop!' cried Marie, furiously. 'You are in league with him. He shall not escape.'
'Do not listen to her. See! I will hold her arms.'
Marie advanced with a loud cry, but Menotah was upon her with all her lithe strength, holding her back, stifling her screams.
'The knife!' cried Lamont, with his usual selfish thought.
She threw it at him, but in the effort Marie cast her aside. Frantically she cried, in a piercing voice which rose above the storm, 'Help! He is escaping. The window!'
A second of silence, then there came deep voices and sounds of hurried footsteps.
'There is death on the point of the knife.' Again she held back the struggling Marie.
Lamont sprang to the window. Freedom was his. Another second—one more step forward, then the darkness would have received him, the night would have covered his flight. But that step was not to be made.
A man rose up suddenly from the gloom, a spare man with thin, nervous face. There could be no passing, no resisting, this new opponent. He had not strength to raise his hand against that figure.
'Sinclair!'
The single word burst from him as he fell back in a bath of terror. There was no hope now.
For hostile sounds uprose on every side. Like a man in a dream, he watched an officer, followed by two soldiers, entering the room at the door. These men were deemed sufficient to arrest one who would be unprepared. A larger band might have excited suspicion; besides, there might still be partisans of the White Chief hanging round the enclosures of the fort.
But as these entered a dreadful cry rang forth. Menotah was upon her knees, crying bitterly in this new sorrow. 'We may not turn back, if we have sworn to hate. If we pray for vengeance, the God will force it on us against the will.'
Sinclair advanced with an oath, and took her by the shoulder. 'What are you doing here? Helping him to escape—eh?'
'Yes,' cried Marie, fiercely. 'And she would have killed me—the savage!'
'You'd better get out while we give you the chance,' said the hunter, 'or you'll be taken and hung along with him.'
She raised her streaming eyes to his, until the grandeur of her romantic beauty touched even him. 'I care not. I am woman again now. That is why I could not harm him whom I had loved. Take me and hang me. See! I ask it of you. It will be pleasure after my suffering.'
Trembling and hopeless, Lamont stood against the wall, though the knife gleamed threateningly in his hand. Sinclair covered the window, one of the soldiers was backed against the closed door, before him stood the officer. The latter held a bright object, which glittered ominously beneath the lamp light.
'Come, Sinclair,' said the latter, 'leave thatnitchigirl alone. She can't trouble our plans, but if we fool around here for long, some may turn up who will. We may have been watched coming here, and, mind, the Rebellion hasn't been long over.'
'You're right,' said the hunter. 'Well, I'm ready.'
The officer pointed. 'This is our man—the White Chief, eh?' he asked, in his strident tones.
Fiercely Menotah turned upon him. 'No! it is not. This man is innocent. The White Chief is dead. I know he is. I myself saw him—'
'Quit your darned noise,' interrupted the man. 'What the devil have you to do with it? I'll fire you out of the window, if you talk another word.'
'That's the White Chief, all right,' said Sinclair, with a slow, savage satisfaction. 'He's your man, officer.'
Menotah could not be repressed. 'You dare not touch him. That knife he holds is poisoned.'
The men looked at each other. Close quarters with the traitor meant certain death. But the officer was equal to the emergency.
'I've got a warrant for your arrest, and I'm going to take you alive or dead. I allow I'd rather have you alive, so I'm going to give you two minutes by my watch to chuck down that knife. None of us mean to be fixed by any more of your dirty tricks.' Then he raised his hand, with the revolver levelled against the prisoner's heart.
The last faint hope died, though he still mechanically retained his grasp of the knife.
Sinclair chuckled. 'I reckon I shall get square for that scar on my shoulder now,' he muttered.
Then Menotah passed before him and knelt before the officer. She lifted her beautiful moist eyes, with a last request, 'May I speak to him first—just for one moment? He was my husband once.'
The others burst into coarse laughter. Then the officer pushed her aside. 'I told you not to say another word, didn't I?'
'Don't let her speak to him,' cried Marie. 'She wants to free him.'
'How can I do so?' flashed Menotah. 'There are four men here, and I am unarmed. What can I do?'
'Better put her out of the house,' said Sinclair.
Her face was grand as she turned at him. 'Who saved your life in the forests of the Saskatchewan?'
The hunter turned red, and muttered something awkwardly.
'Ah! let me wish him good-bye. He was my husband, and I love him.'
Her excitement, the heat of returning passion, had made her again lovely. The hair fell in luxurious disorder, the bosom heaved, and eyes glittered between wet lashes. The officer observed all of these things, and did not give the order for her ejection. On the contrary, he bent down and whispered something into her ear. The others guessed what this was, and laughed again.
She did not flinch when the proposal was made. It was indeed what she had expected. 'Honour is nothing to me now.'
'It may be risky all the same,' said Sinclair, addressing the man in command.
She smiled bitterly. 'Are you still afraid of one weak girl?'
The officer bit at his moustache. Then he said, 'You can't have more than half a minute.'
'She may give him something,' cried Marie.
'Hold my hands.' She stretched them forth proudly.
The officer nodded, and the two soldiers came forward. They placed themselves on either side of the girl, and took each a hand. Then they crossed the floor.
She twisted herself in front of the men, who stood well back from the dreaded knife, and spoke a few words into Lamont's ear. Afterwards the three stepped back, and left him standing by the side of the lamp.
The officer pulled out his watch. 'The two minutes start now,' he said briefly.
Menotah drew near his side, falling a little behind in the deep shadow. Perhaps her beauty had never been so remarkable as at that moment. Her eyes were glowing with unnatural fire, the light intensified by dark lines beneath, and brilliant scarlet of the cheeks. The lips were parted half painfully. She was breathing fast, and fighting for each deep breath. For this was all the last effort of nature. The whole of her remaining life strength was being cast into one supreme endeavour to save the man who had wronged her. That colour was but the hot passion fever of the mind; the brightness of the eyes was closely akin to the light of madness. During that awful day she had not tasted food; sleep had scarcely been hers for the past month; now she was nothing but a shell, containing a single spark of fire, which would flash once, then die away for ever.
The officer had raised his revolver, and now covered Lamont. The traitor stood motionless in the same spot, still clutching the death knife. The seconds of time which made up that first minute ticked away without action on his part.
Lamont glanced wildly at the dark window, the silent soldier guarding it, then at the standard lamp which stood between them. Every eye was upon him. Sinclair knew that his triumph was complete. Marie, with large eyes of hatred, regarded the man who had won her young affections and had so grievously dishonoured her life. None thought of Menotah, as she stood in the shadow. She never for a second removed her gaze from the officer within reach of her hand; she noted his slightest movement; deliberately she counted the rapid pulsations of these two terrible minutes.
And the last of these now drew towards its close, Lamont had not stirred, nor did he show any sign of dropping the murderous weapon.
'Fifteen seconds more.'
'You're a fool, Lamont,' muttered the hunter. 'Chuck the thing away, and be a man.'
'Ten.'
Menotah was quivering like an aspen in the breeze.
Grimly the watch ticked off the last few seconds.
The officer took a more deliberate aim, while every man held his breath.
'Time.'
Almost before the word had formed into sound, Menotah dashed the revolver from his hand.
'Now!'
Lamont hurled the lamp to the floor in front of him, then bounded forward in the darkness. The soldier moved to meet him, despite the almost certainty of death from the poisoned knife. But, instead of the fugitive, he caught in his arms the figure of a girl. Menotah had cast herself against him to assist the escape. They rolled together on the floor, and Lamont tumbled over them both. Then, with a desperate movement, he dragged himself to the window, until he clutched the ledge with his fingers. But the man caught him by the ankle. Menotah deliberately threw her whole weight upon the detaining arm, and it broke down beneath the strain.
The next second Lamont had dragged himself free. Then he clambered to his feet, and in almost the same motion leapt from the window. All heard the furious shaking of bushes beneath, the hurried click of a gate in the palisade, followed by loud beating of feet upon the hard road.
'After him!' shouted the officer, swearing violently in his rage. 'Shoot him! Club him—anything.'
'He's bound for the river,' shouted one of the men. Then he flung himself from the window. The other followed, and after him the officer.
Sinclair stood in the dark room, biting his hands. 'If he swims across and reaches the bush, we sha'n't see him again,' he muttered furiously.
Then he struck a match. The pale, sulphurous flame lit up the room weirdly. Marie's nerves had given way, and she lay in a chair sobbing with weakness.
The hunter brought in the lamp from outside. As darkness disappeared, Menotah rose from the ground and tottered with feeble motions towards the door. That frightful strain had been removed at last. The work for which she had retained life and strength was done. Her vengeance had been accomplished, so she might rest—rest in the peace of death, for now there remained no further duty in life.
She spoke in a low voice of anguish. 'Has he escaped? They did not seize him? Tell me.'
Sinclair turned viciously upon her. 'Damn you!' he snarled, 'I could fix you for this. You've robbed me of my revenge, after all my planning and waiting. But you'll have to pay the devil now. Wait till they come back. I tell you, if they haven't got him you'll swing instead. They'll hang you, right enough, for this.'
Madly she drank in the glad truth of his opening words. Then she moved again nearer the door, as though she would once more seek a hiding place.
But tension never fails to find the weakest spot.
Suddenly she flung both hands to her burning forehead, staggered on another couple of paces, then fell crushed to the floor, with a low, heart-breaking cry.
The kindly darkness of insensibility blotted away for a time her madness and her pain.
Thus the weak hand, which was to have dealt the death blow, gave life to the traitor and liberty to the betrayer. For a secret tendril of love still clung and quivered about the dead heart. This might not be killed entirely, nor stamped out by a mere effort of the will, though for long it lay quiescent, in the mood of eternal silence. The presence, the sight of the once loved, aroused that latent force into hot overwhelming life, banished all recollection of duty, cast into oblivion memory of the sacred oath, the curse of her shattered life.
She became woman again—that was the difference.
Once he had deserted her, and the heart flickered out in a wild grief. The one thought then was for vengeance. She lived for it; cried for it to the Spirit; her soul was fed with the longing, while the waiting for it maintained the body in strength. Then it came, the life lay in her hand, she was bidden to crush it and satisfy all longing.
But instead she courted a felon's death in a wild effort to assist him in escaping. To save him she gladly offered to sacrifice life and honour, though both of these things were valueless, and dead fruit in her mouth.
For when she saw the figure she had loved, feeling returned in a mad torrent. Still she hated him for the vile treachery; she despised him for the lack of manly courage: but she could not lay a destroying hand upon the body she had worshipped. For she had loved him with a passion of which even he himself could know nothing. She made, at the dedication of Self, no empty lip promise; she offered no meaningless service of the tongue; but she offered the soul and life happiness.
In her false strength, all through the weary months of the northern winter, when she rocked the babe upon her knee, she had played the part. It was then her strong determination to do justice to her people, to obey her gods, to avenge her dishonoured self. Yet what was the result of this mighty striving after an imagined duty? When the moment arrived for the act which should for ever quench desire, when she heard the steps of the approaching soldiers, when she knew they would seize him she had loved, hang the one she had fondly caressed, then came the flood of reaction. The old sharp pain crept back to the body. Again she was woman, weak, foolish woman, with no thought but to protect, and, save the man—what mattered it whether he were worthy of the sacrifice?—who had first lit that sacred fire within her breast. She was fool, traitor, coward. That is what the disappointed men called her. Perhaps they were right.
Yet unwittingly she had leaned towards the teaching of the white man's God—the doctrine she had so heartily rejected. The power of love had of itself taught the heathen mind to act according to highest admonitions. Was there then something better and greater in that strange, misty faith. Could it be that the white God had pointed to the Religion of Love?
Presently, as Sinclair waited anxiously for the return of the pursuers, loud shouting uprose from the direction of the palisade. After his reply, noisy footsteps careered along, and a minute later three figures put in an appearance—Captain Robinson, behind his cigar; McAuliffe, with a long-necked bottle protruding from his pocket; Dave, with his short pipe and smug self-satisfaction. This trio had followed the former band at a safe interval, and were now burning to learn how things had gone.
They were somewhat taken aback to find Sinclair standing moodily in the yellow blot of lamp light, with a young woman sobbing hysterically in a chair, and Menotah lying without motion along the floor. The unexpected sight checked their exuberance.
'Goldam!' exclaimed the Factor. 'Say, Billy, what sort of a picnic is this, anyway?'
'He's gone,' replied the hunter, sourly.
'Not Lamont!' the others cried in unison.
Sinclair nodded. Then he pointed to the corpselike figure. 'She's tricked us all.'
Dave, who had completely forgotten events of the night preceding, became greatly concerned when he discovered the identity of the lifeless figure.
'You've gone to work and fixed her!' he shouted. 'Who did it? By holy heaven, Billy, if you had a hand in it, I'll fix you right now.'
'Quit it, Dave,' said the Captain. 'There's another gal here.'
'Damn 'em,' shouted Dave, wildly, 'I'll teach 'em to fix my poor gal! I'm going to start work with Billy here.'
He produced a great revolver from his hip pocket, but before he could bring it down to his elbow the others held him.
'Don't be a gol-darned fool, Dave,' said the Captain. 'Billy's our pard.'
Dave struggled and swore. 'My gal's dead.'
'She's right enough,' growled Sinclair; 'only fainted.'
Dave was himself again. 'Gimme your bottle, Alf. I'm going to give my gal a drink.'
The Factor gave him the bottle, then asked Sinclair to detail events. 'Tell us how the flush was bob-tailed, Billy.'
The hunter obeyed, and startled his listeners by the account of Menotah's courage.
'Well, well,' said the Captain, when he had finished. 'So he's got right away.'
'They're after him,' said Sinclair hopefully. 'He didn't get much of a start, and they're armed.'
McAuliffe had a word to say. 'Pshaw! as if he couldn't get away from those bullet stoppers,' he cried disdainfully. 'Tell you, Lamont's a match for that crowd. Might as well try and catch a badger on open prairie as him. The badger jumps into a hole and pulls it in after him. Lamont's the same.'
In the meantime, Dave was half choking Menotah with the fiery spirit. 'When whisky fails, order the coffin,' he proclaimed, as she began to cough.
Sinclair listened at the window. The night was very dark and pleasantly cool by then. Rain was falling heavily. 'They should be back soon.'
'It's not far to the river, and he'll swim that,' said the Captain.
'Then he'll be all right,' added the Factor. 'The bullet stoppers won't follow. First place, they can't swim; if they could, they'd be too darned scared of getting wet.'
The hunter turned to Dave. 'If you want to save her, you'd better get her away before they come back.'
'I'll chaw them up if they try to start fooling,' said Dave.
'You can't do it. They'd hang her quick enough for this night's business.'
Dave rubbed his coarse hand along the girl's smooth neck. 'They don't get her from Dave Spencer. We'll walk our chalks when we hear the bullet stoppers coming.'
Menotah stirred slightly, while a faint groan burst from her lips. Slowly she was returning from the bliss of insensibility to the awful dreariness of life. Then the Factor bethought himself of offering assistance to Marie.
So he snatched the bottle from the unwilling Dave, came over and touched her awkwardly on the shoulder. Not for years had he spoken with a 'civilised' woman.
'No darned use in crying, far as I can see.'
Marie dropped her handkerchief a little, but made no reply.
'I reckon tears are sort of unsatisfactory.'
Still no answer.
McAuliffe grew desperate. 'Never mind Lamont. He's not worth troubling over, anyway. See here! this is first-class whisky. Have a good pull at it. It'll make you feel fine and comfortable.'
He rubbed his coat sleeve over the neck, then pushed it close to her mouth.
Then she raised an angry flushed face. 'Leave me alone!' she cried.
'You'll have a drink?' said the Factor, blankly. 'It's fine whisky; I'm not fooling.'
'I don't want it,' she said, with a passionate movement.
This rendered McAuliffe speechless. The person who refused a drink of good whisky was, in his estimation, something worse than a criminal.
'If you want to do something for me,' continued Marie, 'you can take her out of the house. She has no business here.'
'Reckon none of us have,' the Factor managed to exclaim. Then he comforted himself secretly by means of the rejected bottle.
Here Sinclair buttoned up his coat and announced his intention of going down to the river. Menotah had sufficiently recovered to walk, so Dave, with a stubborn determination not to have her captured, proposed they should return to the hotel and learn final results the next day.
The others agreed. 'How about you, though?' asked Sinclair.
Marie saw she had been addressed. 'I shall stay here,' she said fiercely. 'I want to learn whether the soldiers have caught that traitor. To-morrow I can go home.'
'She's provided for,' muttered the Factor. 'Come on, Captain. Dave's got his gal.'
They went down the slippery wooden steps, while silence fell again over the frame house where human passion had raged so fiercely that night.
Three men, heated with running, wet to the skin by the heavy rain, came to the shelving bank of the Red River. About three minutes earlier another runner had reached that spot. Without hesitation, he had ploughed a rapid course through the mud reach and sought the deeper water. The former had arrived in time to see the latter swimming towards the opposite shore, putting all the force he could muster into the arm strokes.
They stopped at the edge of the mud, with the knowledge that the adventurer had beaten them.
Lightning still played softly across the heavens. The officer pulled his revolver, then fired shot after shot into the deceptive red glow, glimmering over the waters round the indistinct and distant swimmer. With the shot that emptied the chamber they saw the fugitive drag himself to land by aid of the long willows which swept the stream. For a moment he paused at the foot of the tree-spread bank, to coolly wave his hand in their direction by way of farewell. The next minute he was swallowed up by the dark, pathless line of bush.
'No good following him there,' muttered one of the men resignedly.
The officer swore softly to himself. 'Follow! I should say not. He's as good a bushman as anynitchi!
Sullenly they began to retrace their steps, the officer wondering how he could summon courage to face his superiors; but before they had gone far they came across the hunter, tramping stolidly along the rapidly miring trail.
'Where is he?' cried the latter eagerly, as he recognised them.
The officer was sulkily silent, but one of the men answered for him. 'Safe in the bush.'
The hunter's face fell, for he had allowed himself to hope a capture might be made in the mud flats.
'Well, well,' he muttered savagely, as he joined the small band and tramped dismally back with them, 'the White Chief has escaped. That's the devil's business.'
Lamont did not penetrate very far into the dripping bush. He knew there could be no search before daybreak, and by that time he would be in a place of absolute safety. So he rested for some time beneath a bluff of black poplar, the while he planned his future course of action.
There were plenty of friendly half-breeds in the immediate vicinity. In one of these huts or dug-outs he could safely hide for a day or so, with his former disguise resumed. For he could make up and act the part of the native Indian to the life. Then he would steal or borrow ashaganappipony and ride some night to the States, only forty miles distant in a bee-line across prairie. After, he would escape from that continent at his leisure.
'There's a rising in Brazil,' he muttered thoughtfully. 'That will be a good place for me to try my hand in next. A new rifle, and then for the strongest side. Besides, there are fine women among the Creoles.'
He laughed quietly to himself in the glory of this unexpected freedom and new life, then gathered up a handful of the clammy red clay which had earlier given the great river its name. He squeezed forth the moisture, then rubbed the soft slime across his features.
Next he scraped some powder from the roots of the black poplar and applied this also in carefully arranged markings. The change was startling. It would have required a very keen eye to have penetrated that disguise. Then he made his cautious way into the bush, destroying his trail as he went. There were no bloodhounds in Garry, very few Indians or breeds would lend assistance to track the White Chief Even so, none of them were better bushmen than himself. He was entirely safe from pursuit.
Once he thought of Menotah, but then he only laughed at the weak foolishness of a loving woman; he thought, indeed, more of Marie, but then he frowned with a longing to get her again within his power.
So he passed on until he came to a place of shelter.
Shortly before autumn, he made safe landing at Rio Janeiro.
By the side of the Great Saskatchewan it was darkness and chill evening, with dead leaves spreading upon grey rocks, and sharp sting of frost along the breeze. For winter was again drawing near, closing round the land that year earlier than usual. The following day would witness the departure of the last boat, and after that dreary event the days would roll monotonously one into the other, until it became a matter of difficulty to reckon the actual flight of weeks. Christmas and New Year would pass unrecognised, the February blizzards would shriek, and the ice hills raise snowy caps to a leaden sky. Thus all would remain in desolation, until spring, rising with warm breaths from south and west, should disperse the snow palaces, break the ice fetters and bring new life to earth.
Within the fort a light shone dully. Presently the door opened and McAuliffe appeared. Somewhat wearily he gazed at the heaving line of bush ahead, with the black points of rock between. Soon he perceived the full moon, just rising above the tree tops, defining strongly the tapering summit of each sombre pine. He shivered, then buttoned his worn coat tightly. The frost crept noiselessly along, stiffening each grass blade, while not an insect stirred down the biting air.
Massive in proportion though the Factor still was, he appeared thinner than on that well remembered night of the fight. Also a careworn expression had settled over his face, while the grey in hair and beard was certainly more pronounced. When he stepped out to the open and commenced to pace up and down, it might have been noticed that his step had lost much of its former briskness, that the body leaned forward at a decided angle. He was growing elderly now, and neglected to give the body such care and attention as the years demanded.
A few hours earlier, he and Dave Spencer had quarrelled with such bitterness that Justin had been compelled to interfere. Menotah was the bone of contention. She had prevailed upon Dave to bring her back across the lake, that she might bid a last farewell to the land of her fathers. Then she would return with him to Selkirk, as the slave to do his unpleasant bidding. The time had now arrived. The boat was about to leave, so Dave had commanded the girl to be in readiness to sail with him early on the following morning. She had consented, asking only a single favour—that he would give her that last night entirely to herself. She wished to sleep in the hut, where she had spent the happiest days of youth; to go over again each hallowed spot; to revisit the inanimate objects, each of which brought back some sacred association.In the morning she would be his, and he might do with her whatsoever he desired.
When sober, McAuliffe's heart was large and sympathetic. He was sorry for the changed girl in his rough way, also secretly disgusted at the constant manner of Dave's bullying. Besides, he did not want to lose her from his district. So, as absolute despot of that part of the country, he had ordered Dave to relinquish his claims. The natural result followed, and the Factor came very near to smashing Dave up, as he had threatened. The sequel was that Dave, ejected from the fort after the manner of Denton, found himself compelled to seek shelter for the night within the boat.
The Factor was in a meditative mood, as he passed up and down on his evening exercise, the red sparks of his pipe glowing occasionally in the silver air. There was the rugged patch of bush, where Sinclair had frightened him so badly. That was on the night just about a year before, when Lamont made off, and Menotah went wild with her grief. Further along was a rough irregular mould, covered thickly with pine needles and brown cones. He did not clear these away from Winton's grave, because he had a superstitious fancy that they were keeping the dead body dry and warm.
Like most men accustomed to much living in solitude, he spoke aloud to himself as he walked along.
'Sort of seems to me everything's over now. There's not much for an old chunk like me to do, 'cept settle down quiet and wait for my name to get stuck on the death list. There's old Billy settling comfortable at home. Lamont knocking around somewhere, the Lord knows where, likely enough deceiving some other poor fool of a gal with his handsome face and fine ways. And here's old Mac himself, planted again in his district, just about as lonely as ever. Didn't have so much of a time down in Garry after all. Afraid I made a darned old fool of myself; always do when I get loose for a while, but then it's so quiet and desolate 'way up here, with nobody but thenitchiesto talk to. Folks don't think, when they see us old chaps rocketing around, what it is to find yourself in a civilised sort of place, where there are lots of people, with nice bright saloons, where you can get your own mixture fresh and spicy, and a few good fellows on each side of you. Well, well, I'll not be leaving the fort many more times. Then they'll get to work and plant me alongside of young Winton. There we'll lie, a couple of good pards, until the angels come fooling around to wake us. Well, well, life's a queer thing anyway.
He laughed a little sadly, and rubbed his hands together to restore circulation. Suddenly he bent quickly. 'Ah! there's that rheumatism jumping up my leg again. Reckon I shouldn't be strolling around on a cold night. Guess I'll get inside.'
Presently he closed the door of the fort and watched Justin shoving pine sticks into the box stove. More interested than usual, he gazed upon the small bent figure, with grey hair falling over the neck, and heavily lined, expressionless face. Then he exclaimed,—
'Say, boy, how are the years going for you?'
The half-breed looked up and shook his head slowly.
'Don't know, eh? I guess you can't be far off sixty, boy. Anyway, I reckon you're older than this child.'
The other merely grunted. Age was a matter of perfect indifference to him.
'That's what it is, Justin. We're getting two stiff old baldheads. Say, boy, mind the time I thrashed Que-dane?'
A light crept into the half-breed's heavy eyes. He nodded his head violently.
'Couldn't do it now. Haven't got the nerve.'
'He walk this way now,' said Justin, shambling in awkward fashion across the floor.
'Must have twisted his spine. Didn't want to spoil him, but I reckon it did him good. He hasn't been stealing other men's wives since, anyway.'
There was a dreary pause before the Factor continued, 'We won't lose track of days this winter, boy. I'll fix the calendar right up behind the stove, so as we can see it easy of an evening. When I forget to mark off the day, you let me know before I get to bed. We got terrible off the reckoning last year. Time we thought Christmas was 'way behind New Year. We'll have some fun this year, just you and I, boy. I'll make a fine big pudding, and you shall eat it, eh?'
He laughed heavily, then the half-breed, who was not communicative at any time, left the 'office' to prepare the supper moose meat. So the Factor was again left to his uncongenial thoughts.
'Darn it, I'm terribly lonely to-night. Feeling sort of uncomfortable, too. Got to pull through the winter without a friend to talk to or quarrel with. An old chap like me ought to have grandchildren fooling round his knees, digging into his pockets for candies, wanting him to monkey around with them, or spin long lies by way of yarns. I should have stayed east and got married. Then I might have known a decent sort of life. Well, this sort's got to slip off some time.'
He sat at the table, drumming his big fingers on it fretfully. Presently the virtuous fit wrapped itself more closely round his soul. Then his musings became of the following nature,—
'Going to turn over a new leaf right now. Going on a different sort of track from this day forth. There's to be no more deep drinking, or any such bad habits. I'm going to be what Peter used to try and make out he was. I start this night. Some fellows are always fixing up new resolutions—a brand new set once a month regular. Believe they only set them up just for the fun of knocking them down again. I'm not that way. 'Tisn't often I make a resolution, but when I do I stick to it. Goldam! I hang on to it by the eyelids. It's time I thought of turning reformed character, for I'm shuffling along in life pretty fast, getting down to the last few years at a terrible rate.'
He paused in his reflections, as if summoning courage to form a mighty resolution. Soon he wagged his head gravely.
'There's my winter stock of whisky just laid up. A fellow can't resist the smell of a nice mixed glass. If I once start at it, I shall slide back to the old life, and not be a darned bit better. I'll fix that racket right off.'
In his stentorian voice he called out to the half-breed.
There was a slow shuffling within the little passage, then Justin appeared from the kitchen, his tobacco-charged mouth moving slowly.
'You mind my fresh whisky keg—one Dave's just brought along for me, eh?'
The other grunted in affirmation.