CHAPTER XIV.AN INDIAN’S GRATITUDE.
Above the thunder of the falls my warning was heard and understood. Glancing back to make sure, I saw the startled faces of the two women, and the grimly-set countenance of Jim Gummidge. From the stern Moralle half-rose, looked this way and that, and made two daring strokes with the paddle. He dropped under cover again just as a volley of musket balls swept close over the canoe.
“You fool!” I shouted at him.
“I had to do it,” he yelled back. “We were swinging to the left. It’s all right now.”
“Steady! Here we go!” cried Gummidge.
I gave Flora a brief look that brought a dash of hot color to her pale cheeks, and then I turned quickly to one of my loopholes—Baptiste was gazing from the other. There was scarcely time to see anything. Like a flash I made out the little knot of painted savages on the reef to the left, and caught a blur of scarlet and copper from the shallows beyond the rapids. The next instant the turbulent waters leaped up and hid the view, and we struck the verge of the falls.
The Indians to right and left of the channel had evidently been posted there to prevent us from landing, and they did not fire on us as we shot by, but they yelled and screeched like fiends, their comrades below joining in, and above the horrid din of voices I heard the roar of the great waves that now surrounded us.
For a few seconds—it could have been no more—we hugged the bottom tightly. Spray and foam dashed over us; the frail craft pitched and tossed, swung round and round; billows and rocks smote the toughened birch-bark. Then came a sudden crash, the canoe turned over in the twinkling of an eye, and out we went into the raging falls, studded thickly with sunken bowlders and jagged, protruding reefs.
I was whirled about by the angry waters as though I had been a mere chip, sucked deep down, hurled to the surface, and bruised against rocks. I fought hard for life and held my breath, and when a spar of moss-grown bowlder loomed suddenly in front of me, I caught it with both arms and held it fast.
At the first I was grateful to Heaven for this mercy, and thought of nothing else. I filled my lungs with air and took a tighter grip of the rock. Then a burst of shrill yells and a couple of musket shots, ringing above the clamor of the rapids, roused me from my semi-stupor. I remembered that the canoe had capsized, flinging us all to the flood or to the waiting savages. And Flora! What was her fate? The dread that she had perished sickened my heart.
I shook the water from my dripping hair and eyes, and looked about me. There was little of cheer or hope in what I saw. I was stuck midway in the falls, with my face downstream. Many yards below, where the foaming slide of water broadened into choppy waves and swirling shallows, Baptiste was splashing hip-deep for shore. Three redskins were dashing after him with drawn tomahawks, and I gave the poor fellow up for lost.
Moralle had been carried through the cordon of savages, and had reached the farther bank. There, on the edge of the forest, he was locked limb to limb with a stalwart warrior. The two were down, rolling amid the grass and gravel, and three Indians were watching for a chance to shoot the voyageur without injuring their comrade. Off to my right, in a deep, whirling eddy formed by a big bowlder, Gummidge was struggling hard to save himself and his wife; he had the use of but one arm, for the other was fastened around the little woman’s waist. A short distance beyond them, Lavigne, in spite of his wounded shoulder, was clinging in the bushy limb of a tree that overhung and dipped to the surface of the stream.
All this I observed at a sweeping glance—scarcely a moment could have elapsed since the upsetting of the canoe—and in vain I sought furtherfor trace of Flora. That my companions were in peril of their lives, that death by drowning or the tomahawk must be my own fate—these things seemed of slight importance to me at the time. The canoe I discovered readily enough. It was wedged broadside to the stream no more than four yards above me, creaking and bending with the fierce current, its bow and stern jammed against half-submerged pinnacles of rock.
“Flora—Flora!” I shouted, loud and hoarsely.
Above the thunder of the waters, above the yelling of the bloodthirsty savages, I fancied I heard an answering cry. Again I called her name.
Just then I saw two white hands gripping the gunwale of the canoe, and Lavigne, who was still clinging to the tree, nodded his head in that direction, and shouted something I could not understand. The next instant the shattered canoe was torn loose by the rush of the current. It shot toward me, turned over twice, and sank from sight. And close behind it—she had been clinging to it all the while—my darling rose out of the greenish water. Swiftly she drifted on, the folds of her dress inflated with air, her hands beating feebly, and her white, agonized face staring at mine.
I saw that she must pass beyond me, at least an arm’s length out of reach. I did not hesitate an instant. Letting go of my precious rock, I struck out across the current. I swam alongside of the helpless girl, and caught her slender waist tightly.
Escaping the network of bowlders and reefs as by a miracle, we were swept down the remainder of the tumbling rapids. At the bottom I found a footing, and with my burden I struggled on, now slipping and floundering, now breasting the furious current, half-blinded at every stride by the dashing spray that beat in my face. But I was alive to the danger that awaited below, and I felt that there was no hope for either of us.
“Save me, Denzil! Don’t let me die!” Flora murmured faintly in my ear.
“I will save you,” I cried, “or I will perish with you.”
I had hardly spoken when a voice—an English voice—rang loud and sharp from the forest:
“Don’t harm the girl! Take her alive!”
I knew that the command came from Cuthbert Mackenzie. He was hidden by the trees, and I vainly tried to catch a glimpse of him while I fought my way through the boiling current. A moment later the stream grew suddenly calmer and more shallow, and few feet below me, on a reef that jutted out into the water I saw an Indian standing. The sunlight shone on his feathered scalp-lock, on his breech-clout and fringed leggings, on his hideously painted face. With a whoop of triumph he leveled his musket and pointed it straight at my head.
I heard the click of the hammer as it was drawn back, and knew that I must die—shot down like a dog. Life was sweet, and I could have cursed my bitter fate as I stood there, breast-deep in the water, trying to shelter Flora with my body. She uttered a heart-rending cry, and clung to me tightly.
“Save the girl, but kill the Englishman!” Mackenzie yelled again from the shelter of the forest.
The savage seemed to hesitate, still keeping his finger on the trigger of his weapon and the muzzle pointed at my head and as I stared at him, and noted the purple scars on his breast, I suddenly recognized him beneath the war-paint that wrinkled his face. A wild hope flashed to my mind.
“Gray Moose!” I cried hoarsely. “Is this your gratitude? Don’t you know me?”
The merciless aspect of the savage’s countenance softened. With a guttural grunt he leaped forward and gazed at me hard. Then he lowered his musket and said quickly:
“Pantherfoot!”
“Ay, Pantherfoot,” I replied. “Do I deserve death at your hands?”
“The white man is my brother,” said the Indian. “I knew not that he would be here, else I would have refused to take the war-path. I have listened to words of evil.”
“And you will save us all?” I cried.
For answer, Gray Moose turned to his braves, who were whooping like fiends and firing an occasional shot, and shouted a few words to them in the native tongue. In a moment more—almost before I could realize my good fortune, every Indian had melted away into the forest. I heard Mackenzie cry out with baffled rage and furiously curse his recreant allies. Then a silence fell, broken only by the dull roar of the falls.
I waded to the shore, and placed Flora’s trembling and half-unconscious form against a tree. Baptiste quickly joined me; he had escaped from his pursuers, and had seen the whole affair from his hiding-place in the thick timber. Gummidge and his wife were clinging to the bowlders in midstream, and with some difficulty they joined us. But Lavigne had disappeared and poor Moralle lay motionless on the opposite bank, apparently dead. Cuthbert Mackenzie’s villainy had cost us dear.
CHAPTER XV.FORT ROYAL.
At first, huddled there together on the rocky spit of land, we stared at one another in dazed silence. It had been so sudden a transformation that we could not comprehend it all at once. A moment before while the horrid chorus of war-whoops rang in our ears we had each of us been marked out for death by tomahawk or bullet. Now our red enemies had vanished as swiftly and noiselessly as the deer; there was no sound but the droning chant of the rapids, and the singing of the birds in the forest trees.
But five of us were left; we had been eight that morning. As I thought of the three brave fellows we had lost, I made a vow that sooner or later I would avenge them. Then I knelt beside Flora, and by comforting words sought to banish the look of frozen horror from her lovely face. Mrs. Gummidge had fainted, and her husband was dashing water on her temples. Baptiste was wringing his dripping clothes and bemoaning the loss of his prized musket. We were all drenched to the skin, and it behooved us to mend our sad plight as quickly as possible.
“Our lives are safe Gummidge,” I said, rising, “and that is something tobe thankful for. We must have a fire to dry our clothes, and then we will be off on foot for the fort. The canoe is at the bottom, and crushed beyond repair.”
“But why did those red varmints spare us?” Gummidge cried hoarsely. “They melted away like chaff. What does it mean, Carew?”
“The leader of the Indians was Gray Moose,” I replied. “I saved him from a grizzly last winter, and this was his way of paying the debt. The moment he recognized me he called off his braves.”
“Then they were not on the war-path against the company? There was a white man with them.”
“I know that,” I answered, “and it was he who hired the savages.”
I briefly explained my view of the situation to Gummidge, who was aware of all that had happened in Quebec.
“It is a clear case,” I concluded, “and the motive was revenge and the capture of Miss Hatherton. Mackenzie chose this spot so that he could drive us over the falls. No doubt he intended to kill all of us but the girl.”
By this time Mrs. Gummidge was sitting up, and the color was returning to her cheeks. Baptiste set to work with flint and steel to light a fire, and meanwhile Gummidge and I waded through the shallows to the opposite side of the stream. To our surprise, we found Moralle lying unconscious, but breathing. He had two ugly tomahawk wounds on the head and shoulder, but I judged that he had a fighting chance for life. Gardapie had gone to the bottom above the falls, and doubtless Lavigne’s body had been sucked into one of the deep holes below, for we could find no trace of it.
We called Baptiste over, and he helped to carry poor Moralle back. We put him down by the fire, which was blazing cheerily, and Gummidge started to dress his wounds. Flora was standing alongside the flames. She was shivering with cold, and her face looked blue and pinched. I made her swallow some brandy—I had a flask in my pocket—and the fiery liquor warmed her at once.
“Denzil, was Cuthbert Mackenzie with the Indians?” she asked.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“We have not seen the last of him!” she cried. “He will come back.”
“I only wish he would,” I replied. “But don’t be alarmed. You are quite safe. We shall soon be at the fort.”
“The fort!” she murmured. “Then we are near it?”
“Very near,” said I. “It will be a couple of hours’ tramp, and then—”
I was interrupted by a shout from Gummidge and Baptiste. Hearty cheers answered them, and when I looked around I saw four men, with a big canoe on their shoulders, coming up the shore at a trot. And the foremost of them was the factor of Fort Royal.
Flora divined the truth instantly, and all her self-control could not prevent an agitated heaving of her bosom and a sudden pallor of the cheeks.
“Oh, Denzil, is it—” she began.
“Yes; it is Griffith Hawke,” I broke in savagely.
“Be brave!” she whispered. “Our paths lie apart—do not make it harder for me.”
Our eyes met in a look that spoke volumes, and then there was a sudden uproar as the factor and his companions joined our party. I heard my name called and soon Griffith Hawke’s hand was locked in mine and he was pouring out a torrent of eager words.
“And is this Miss Hatherton, my boy?” he asked suddenly.
I introduced him briefly and he made her a low and respectful bow. What he said to Flora or how she greeted him I do not know. But as I turned on my heel I stole a glance at the girl and I saw that she was struggling hard to keep her composure. The sun was shining brightly but the world looked dark and black to my eyes.
As soon as the excitement of the meeting was over Gummidge and I gavethe factor a coherent story of our adventures; and the narrative brought a grave and troubled expression to his face.
“I will speak of these matters later,” he said. “The first thing is to get back to the fort. The wounded voyageur needs immediate attention. My canoe is a large one and will hold us all.”
“But where were you bound?” I asked. “To Fort York? You sent word that you were not coming.”
“Yes; but affairs grew more quiet,” Hawke replied, “and I concluded that I could be spared for a week or two. I was on my way to meet you, Denzil, and it is fortunate that we did not miss each other.”
A few moments later we were all tucked into the canoe. Moralle was still unconscious, and the paddles of the voyageurs swept us down the foaming current of the Churchill River. It was shortly after noon when on turning a bend we saw below us the towers and palisades, the waving flag of the Hudson Bay Company’s post of Fort Royal. Since I had last seen it months before what a change had come into my life! It was a sad and bitter home-coming for me.
So our journey through the wilderness ended and now there was a lull before the threatened storm broke in all its fury—before the curtain rose on new scenes of excitement and adventure. I will pass briefly on to the things that followed soon after our arrival at the fort, the events that far surpassed in tragedy and bloodshed, in sorrow and suffering, all that had happened previously; but first I must give the reader a peep at a northern Hudson Bay Company’s post as it was in those remote days—as it exists at the present time with but few changes.
Fort Royal was a fair type of them all though it was much smaller than some. It was built mostly of heavy timbers and stood in a little clearing close to the river. The stockade was about six feet high, and had two corner towers for lookout purposes. Inside, arranged like the letter L, were the various buildings—the factor’s house, those of the laborers, mechanics, hunters and other employees; a log hut for the clerks; the storehouses where were kept the furs, skins and pelts, and the Indian trading house where the bartering was done. Some smaller buildings—the icehouse, the powder house and a sort of stable for the canoes—completed the number.
Nearly every man had a little bedroom meagerly furnished with picturesfrom old illustrated papers adorning the walls. The living room where they sat at night or on off days, yarning, smoking, and drinking, was a great hall. A big table in the center was strewn with pipes and tobacco, books and writing materials; on the walls hung muskets and fishing tackle. All the houses had double doors and windows; and in the winter tremendous stoves were kept burning. The food varied according to the season, ranging from pemmican and moose-muffle—which is the nose of the moose—to venison and beaver, many kinds of fowl, and fresh and salted fish.
A word as to the Indian trading house. It was divided into two rooms, the inner and larger one containing the stores—blankets, scalping knives, flints, twine, beads, needles, guns, powder and shot and other things too numerous to mention. To the outer room the Indians entered and through a square iron-barred hole they passed their furs and pelts, receiving in exchange little wooden castors, with which they purchased whatever they wanted.
Fort Royal, as I have said, was not so large as some. It held at this time about forty men, all trusty, good-hearted fellows. It was regarded as an impregnable post; but little did any of us dream how soon our flag would be lowered amid scenes of flame and shot, of carnage and panic.
CHAPTER XVI.A RESOLVE THAT FAILED.
Two things were clear to my mind—first, that Flora was lost to me, and that honor forbade me to speak one word of love to her again; second, that I could not remain permanently under the same roof with her, whether she was married or single. The latter was a delicate and difficult affair, and I had some misgivings as to how it could be arranged; but, fortunately, chance came to my aid, as I shall show.
The factor’s house was shared by several other non-commissioned officers of the company, one of whom was married. The single spare room was assigned to Mr. and Mrs. Gummidge. I saw my opportunity, and eagerly volunteered to give my own apartment to Flora, whose properplace was with the women. The matter was easily arranged, and within two hours of our arrival at the fort I was installed in a little room in the men’s quarters.
I was sitting there after supper, gloomily smoking my pipe, when I received a visit from Griffith Hawke. The sight of his rugged, kindly face gave me a keen twinge of conscience. He had been like a father to me in the past, and I hated to think how nearly I had done him a foul injury.
“All going well?” I asked.
“Within the fort, yes,” he replied gravely, as he sat down. “Miss Hatherton is quite recovered, and has an appetite. She seems to be a brave and spirited girl.”
“She is,” I assented. “You knew they were sending her, I suppose?”
“Yes, Lord Selkirk forwarded me a little water color sketch of her months ago. I am afraid there is a considerable disparity in our ages, but that can be overcome. I shall make her a good husband, and a steady one—eh, Denzil?”
With a forced smile, I pretended to appreciate the jest.
“How is Moralle?” I asked abruptly.
“He is a very sick man,” said the factor; “but it is not a hopeless case. With care, he may recover. But I came to have a serious talk with you, my boy. First of all, tell me everything that happened from the time you met Miss Hatherton in Quebec until I ran across you up the river this morning. I have heard only fragments of the narrative.”
I did as he requested, and he hung on my words with close attention and with a deepening look of anxiety in his eyes. When I had finished, he asked me numerous questions, and then pondered silently for a few moments.
Finally he leaned forward and began to fill his pipe. By this time my mind had strayed from the subject, and on a sudden impulse I plunged into the thing that I was so anxious to have done and over with.
I grew confused from the start—a lie was so foreign to my nature—and I fear I made rather a mess of it. What words I used I cannot recall, but I incoherently told the factor that I wished to leave the fort at once and go down country, pleading as an excuse that I was tired of the lonely life of the wilderness and had taken a fancy to carve a future for myself among the towns.
By the expression of his face I was certain that he suspected the truth, and I could have bitten my tongue off with chagrin and shame. He looked at me hard.
“You would leave the service of the company?” he asked. “And with your fine chances!”
“I might be transferred—Fort Garry would suit me nicely,” I blundered, quite forgetting what I had said previously.
“This is not the time to make such a demand,” Griffith Hawke replied, not unkindly. “I want you here. There will be trouble in the North before many days.”
“I am very anxious to go,” I persisted doggedly.
“I can’t spare you,” he said sharply. “Let that end the discussion for the present. In the spring if you are of the same mind—”
“I will wait until then,” I broke in.
I saw that all was against me, and that there was nothing to do but make the best of it.
“I can hardly believe,” continued the factor, “that Cuthbert Mackenzie would have undertaken so desperate an affair, or that the Indians would have taken service under him, unless both he and they knew that they had the Northwest Company back of them. I am of the opinion that the redskins have been bought over—that hostilities are about to begin. What do you think?”
“I am inclined to agree with you,” I replied.
“My duty is plain,” said Griffith Hawke. “I have already despatched a full report of the matter by messenger to Fort York. To-morrow I shall send a dozen men out to scour the country to the east, west and south.They are not likely to find Mackenzie—he is doubtless safe in one of the Northwest Company’s posts by this time—but they may run across some of Gray Moose’s braves, and ascertain from them what is brewing.”
“I hope they may,” said I.
“There is a chance of it,” replied the factor. “Will you take charge of the expedition, Denzil?”
I had been waiting craftily for this offer, which meant a prolonged absence from the fort. Nothing could have suited me better—short of transference to another post—and I accepted without hesitation. We talked the matter over together until it was time to turn in for the night.
I was off two hours after sunrise the next day, in command of twelve of our best men. I did not see Flora before I started, nor did I wish to. And I fervently hoped, as we plunged into the forest and lost sight of the fort that the priest would have arrived and the marriage be over before I returned.
I do not intend to write at length of the expedition, and indeed but little could be said of it. We scoured the wilderness in three directions, but we found no trace of Cuthbert Mackenzie or of his hired band of savages. They had melted away mysteriously, and the empty fastnesses of the Great Lone Land told us nothing of what we sought to learn. The Indians of those parts we met in abundance, but they were peacefully engaged in trapping, and denied that any overtures had been made to them by the Northwest Company.
We were gone a fortnight, and covered some hundreds of miles. Meanwhile the winter had set in, and we returned on snowshoes. The weather was bitterly cold, the streams and lakes were frozen, and the snow lay two feet deep. Away from the fort I had been in better spirits. When I entered the stockade again, and realized that I was near Flora my heart began to ache as before.
I was soon informed of what had taken place during my absence. Gummidge and his wife had departed for Fort Garry a week previously. Moralle was out of danger, and was mending slowly. The messenger was back from Fort York, bringing news that Captain Rudstone had not yet returned there—as was his intention before coming south—and that matters were quiet.Moreover the priest had not yet arrived at Fort Royal, and there had been no marriage. Flora was still single, and likely to remain so for a time.
A week slipped by rapidly. The winter raged in all its severity, and there was a steady influx of Indians laden with furs and pelts. I had much to do, and was kept busy. I did not return to the factor’s house, as I might have done, but stuck to my new quarters. I saw Flora occasionally, but at a distance. By mutual consent we seemed to avoid each other.
Then a memorable day dawned—a day fraught with a series of events that stamped themselves indelibly on my memory.
CHAPTER XVII.A STRANGE WARNING.
I had been up late the night before, going over some tedious accounts with the clerks, and it was by no means an early hour when I opened my eyes and tumbled out of bed. It was a clear morning, but bitterly cold. I hurriedly drew on my thick clothing, and was about to leave the room, when I caught sight of an object sticking under the bottom crevice of the door which opened on the fort yard.
I picked it up, and looked at it with interest and curiosity, not unmixed with a vague alarm. What I held in my hand was a flat strip of birch bark about six inches square, containing some rudely-painted scrawls, which I at first took to be hieroglyphics, but which quickly resolved themselves into the uncouth figures of two men. The one was clearly a white man, wearing on his head what was evidently intended to represent the odd-shaped cap of the Northwest Company. The other was an Indian in leggings, blanket and feathers.
Here was a puzzle, indeed, and I could make nothing out of it. I was satisfied, however, that it was meant to warn me—to indicate some danger that threatened myself or the fort.
“It is a mysterious affair altogether,” I reflected. “I can’t fathom it. Gray Moose may be the sender, but how did he get the bark under my door? Ah, perhaps he conveyed it by some of the Indians who came to trade; they must have been admitted to the inclosure an hour ago.”
But this explanation was not plausible enough. After some further thought, I concluded that the warning came from some of the Indian employees within the fort, who had learned from their own people of some threatening danger, and had chosen this means of communicating it. Then, looking more closely at the bark, I discovered in the background a few rude lines that had escaped my notice before. They were unmistakably intended for the barred window of the trading room, and of a sudden the solution to the problem flashed upon me.
“I was right in the first place,” I muttered. “This is the handiwork of Gray Moose, after all. And now, to make sure, I’ll set about it quietly, and won’t say anything to the factor until my suspicions are confirmed.”
I hastened from my quarters, forgetting that I had not yet breakfasted. I was so intent on my task that I did not even glance toward the upper windows of the factor’s house, where I usually caught a glimpse of Flora’s pretty face at this hour. The birch bark I had tucked out of sight in my pocket.
The gates of the stockade were wide open, and within the inclosure a number of Indians—a dozen or more—were standing in groups around sledges packed with furs waiting their turn to be served. They had left their muskets outside, as was the rule when they came to trade. I glanced keenly at them from a distance, and passed on to the trading house, entering by the private door in the rear.
Here, looking from the storeroom into the common room beyond, the scene was a noisy and brilliant one. Half a score of gayly-attired savages were talking in guttural tones, gesticulating, and pointing, demanding this and that.
Griffith Hawke greeted me with a nod. He and two assistants were busily engaged at the barred window of the partition, receiving and counting bales of skins, passing out little wooden castors, and taking them in again in exchange for powder and shot, tobacco and beads, and various other commodities.
For a few moments I watched the scene sharply, though with an assumedair of indifference. I was satisfied that no Sioux were present. They were all wood Indians—as distinguished from the fiercer tribe of the plains—but they were in stronger numbers than was customary at this time of the year.
What I was seeking I did not find here. I scanned each face in turn, but all present in the outer room were unmistakably redskins.
“You are doing a lively business this morning,” I remarked to the factor.
“Yes; I am having quite a run,” he replied. “I can’t exactly account for it.” In a lower tone he added: “Every man of them is purchasing powder and shot, Denzil.”
This seemed a partial confirmation of my suspicions.
“It’s queer, to say the least,” I answered. “I wouldn’t sell them much. Tell them you’re running short.”
“They won’t believe that,” said Griffith Hawke.
“Stay and lend me a hand, Denzil, if you’ve nothing else to do.”
“I’ll come back in a moment,” I replied. “I’ve got a little matter to attend to. I may want you to help me. If I shout for you, close the grating and run out.”
Griffith Hawke’s eyes dilated, and in a tone of astonishment he demanded to know what I meant. But I did not wait to answer him. I slipped unheeding out of the trading house, turned the corner and almost ran into a big savage who was coming from the rear of the inclosure—a place in which he had no business to be.
He was apparently an Assiniboin brave, decked out in cariboo robe and blanket, fringed leggings, and beaded moccasins. But his cheek bones were not prominent enough for an Indian, and when he saw me a ruddy color flashed through the sickly copper of his skin and a menacing look shone in his eyes.
And I, at the first glimpse, knew that the fellow was no more of a redskin than myself. I had rightly interpreted the bit of birch bark,which meant that a white man—a spy of the Northwest Company—would be found within the fort disguised as an Indian. I was convinced that the object of my search stood before me, and I even had a lurking suspicion that the rogue was none other than Cuthbert. Mackenzie, though he was too cleverly disguised for me to feel certain of that fact.
All this passed through my mind in much less time than it takes to tell. I was on the alert, and let slip no sign that might betray my quest. And no sooner had our eyes met than the Indian’s agitation vanished, and he looked at me with a proud and stolid expression.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded roughly. “This is not the way to the trading house. You have no business in this part of the fort.”
The brave’s only reply was a guttural “Ugh!” Folding his blanket closer about him, he began to stride off. This did not suit my purpose.
“Stop!” I cried. “I want to know what you were doing here.”
“Indian mean no harm,” he replied. “Heap nice fort—white man build many houses.”
The moment he spoke the last ray of doubt fled from my mind, for to my trained ear the fellow’s voice and accent were but feeble imitations of what they ought to be, and I fancied I could detect a little trick of mannerism I had observed in Cuthbert Mackenzie. It was time for me to show the iron hand, and I did not hesitate a second.
“You may be telling the truth,” I said, “but you must give an account of yourself to the factor. Don’t make any disturbance. Come along with me quietly or—” I finished the sentence by displaying a pistol which I had dexterously slipped from my belt.
I had expected some resistance, and was prepared for it. The Indian’s eyes gleamed with anger, and from under his blanket he whipped out a knife. As quickly struck the weapon from his hand and grappled with him. He gave a shrill cry, and I followed it with a loud shout for help.
What happened next, though it proved to my discomfiture, was as neat and swift a thing as I have ever seen done. From the front of the trading house, and from the inside of the building the Indians came dashing in a body. They made no use of any weapons, but by sheer muscular force theywrested my captive from me and beat me cruelly on the head.
The thing was over before a man could come to my assistance, though plenty were within sight and hearing. Rising dizzily to my feet—I had been knocked down and trampled upon—I saw the daring band of savages swarming toward the open gates, taking with them the disguised spy, their sledges of furs, and the powder and shot they had just purchased.
“Help—help!” I shouted, running in pursuit. “Stop them! Don’t let them get away!” With shrill cries, the redskins pushed on, and the single sentry at the gates deserted his post and fled. I heard an outcry behind me, and turning I saw that the factor and half a dozen others had come up. Griffith Hawke was the only armed man among them.
“What is the trouble?” he demanded.
“A spy!” I shouted incoherently. “A Northwest man in the fort, disguised as an Indian! I am certain it was Mackenzie! They tore him from me—don’t let them get him away!”
“Stop, you rascals!” the factor yelled loudly. “We must have that man!”
No attention was paid to the command, and lifting his musket, he pointed it at the squirming mass of savages in the gateway. There was a sudden flash, a stunning report, and one of the rearmost Indians dropped.
“My God! what have I done?” cried Griffith Hawke, his face turning pale. “It was an accident—my finger slipped. Don’t fire, men!”
The dead or wounded Indian had already been picked up by his comrades, and only a crimson stain was left on the snow to mark where he had fallen. The next instant the whole band were outside the stockade yelling like fiends, and with a crash some of our men flung the big gates to and barred them. A couple ran to the loopholes and peered out.
“The varmints are in retreat,” cried one—“making for the woods on the north.”
“And it’s a dead body they’re carrying with them, sure enough,” shouted the other.
By this time the fort was in a tumult, and a crowd surrounded the factor and myself, clamoring to know the cause of the disturbance. So soon asGriffith Hawke could quiet them a little, I told all that I knew, and produced the strip of birch bark. It was passed about from hand to hand.
“You read the message right—I know something of Indian character writing,” said the factor. “Doubtless Gray Moose sent it. A Northwest Company’s man in the fort as a spy! It is a thousand pities he got away! But are you certain, Denzil, that he was a white man?”
“I am sure of it,” I replied, “and the fact that the Indians rescued him so promptly—”
“Yes; that proves the existence of some sort of a conspiracy,” the factor interrupted. “But do you know that the spy was Cuthbert Mackenzie?”
“I could not swear to it,” I admitted, “but I am pretty well satisfied in my own mind.”
Some of the men were for sallying out to pursue and capture the Indians, but Griffith Hawke prudently refused to permit this.
“Let well enough alone,” he said. “A large force of savages may be lurking in the forest, and there will be trouble soon enough as it is. I regret the unfortunate accident by which I shot one of the Indians, for it will inflame them all the more against us. It is certain, I fear, that they have been won over by the Northwest people, and that they meditated an early attack on the fort. Thank God, that we got wind of it in time! Come what may, we can hold out against attack and siege! And at the earliest opportunity we must send word to the south and to Fort York.”
There were sober faces and anxious hearts behind the stockade that day, for there could be no longer any doubt that the long-threatened storm—the struggle for supremacy between the rival fur companies—was about to break. Nay, for aught any of us knew, open strife might already be waging in the south, or up on the shores of Hudson Bay; a lonely and isolated post was ours on the Churchill River.
We held a consultation, and decided to omit no precautionary measures. Our store of weapons was overhauled, the howitzers were loaded, the gates and the stockade were strengthened, and men were posted on watch.
The day wore on quietly, and no sign of Indians was reported. I saw nothing of Flora, but I thought of her constantly, and feared she must be in much distress of mind. I confess, to my shame, that it caused me some elation to reflect that the marriage was now likely to be indefinitely postponed, but there I erred, as I was soon to learn.
At about four o’clock of the afternoon, when darkness was coming on, I was smoking a pipe in the men’s quarters. Hearing shouts and a sudden commotion, I ran out in haste, thinking the Indians were approaching; but to my surprise, the sentries were unbarring the gates, and no sooner had they opened them than in came a couple of voyageurs, followed by two teams of dogs and a pair of sledges. The two occupants of the latter, in spite of the muffling of furs, I recognized at once. The one was my old Quebec acquaintance, Mr. Christopher Burley, the London law clerk; the other, to my ill-concealed dismay, was an elderly priest whom I had often seen at Fort York.
CHAPTER XVIII.A STOLEN INTERVIEW.
The news of so unexpected an event spread quickly through the fort, and by the time the gates had been closed and barred again, men were hurrying forward from all sides. They surrounded the travelers, greeting them eagerly, and plying them and their guides with rapid questions.
I held aloof, for I was in too bitter a mood to trust myself to speech. The reasons that had brought the London law clerk to Fort Royal—a journey of hundreds of miles through the wilderness—gave me no concern; but I knew what Father Cleary’s visit meant, and what would follow speedily on his arrival. Surely, I reflected, there could be no man living more wretched than myself. I thought I had become resigned to the loss of Flora, but now I knew that it was a delusion. I could not contemplate her approaching marriage without grief and heartburning—without a mad desire to dare the worst and claim the girl as my own.
The dogs and sledges were going to the stable, and the travelers, still hemmed in by a crowd, were moving toward the factor’s house. GriffithHawke caught sight of me, and made a gesture; but I pretended not to see him, and turning on my heel, I strode away to a far corner of the yard.
An hour of solitude put me in a calmer frame of mind—outwardly, at least. The supper horn drew me to quarters. I had little appetite, but I made a pretense of eating, and tried to answer cheerfully the remarks that my comrades addressed to me.
By listening I learned much of interest. The men kept up a ceaseless chatter and discussion, and the sole topic of conversation was the arrival of Christopher Burley and the priest. The travelers, it appeared, had come together from Fort York—where all was quiet at the time of their departure—and by the same roundabout road our party had traversed some days before. Strange to say they had encountered no Indians, either on the way or when near the fort, and for this the men had two explanations. A part asserted that the redskins had moved off in the direction of Fort York, while others were of the opinion that they had purposely let the travelers enter unmolested in order to deceive our garrison.
The discussion waxed so hot that no reference was made to the motive of the priest’s visit, for which I was heartily thankful. I was anxious to get away from the noise and the light, and as soon as I had finished my supper I rose. Just then Andrew Menzies, a non-commissioned officer of the company, entered the room.
“Carew!” he called out; “the factor wants to see you when you can spare the time.”
“All right; I’ll go over to the house presently,” and lighting my pipe, I sauntered out of the quarters.
Why the factor wanted me I could not readily conceive, unless it was for some detail connected with his marriage. There were several things that I wished to turn over in my mind before presenting myself to Griffith Hawke, where I would be likely to meet Flora.
A sound of low voices at the gates, and the rattle of a bolt, drew me first in that direction. A little group of men were standing at the loopholes, peering out.
“What’s up, comrades?” I inquired in a whisper.
“Ah, it’s you, Denzil?” replied one looking around. “Didn’t you know? Vallee and Maignon, the voyageurs who came in a bit ago have just started back to Fort York on snowshoes, taking a letter from the factor in regard to the row here this morning.”
“They will go as they came,” added another, “and I believe they will get through all right. They are out on the river by this time, and they would scarcely have been permitted to pass yonder timber had any Indians been on the watch.”
“I agree with you,” said I. “Let us hope that the brave fellows will meet with no mishap.”
I lingered for a moment, but the quiet of the night remained unbroken. Then I turned back across the yard, taking care that none observed me, and made my way to a small grove of fir trees that lay in the rear of the trading house and some distance to the right of the factor’s residence. In the heart of the copse was a rude wooden bench, built some years before by the factor’s orders. I made my way to it over the frozen snow crust, and sat down to meditate and smoke.
I had no more than settled myself when I heard the light, crunching patter of feet. The sounds came nearer, and of a sudden, by the dim glow of the moon, I saw the figure of a woman within six feet of me. It was Flora Hatherton. She was bareheaded, and a long cloak was thrown over her shoulders. As she advanced, her hands clasped in front of her, a stifled sob broke from her lips.
I had been on the point of retreating, but the girl’s distress altered my mind. By an irresistible impulse I rose and stood before her.
“Flora!” I exclaimed.
She shrank back with a smothered scream.
“Hush! do not be alarmed!” I added. “Surely you know me?”
“Denzil!” she whispered. “Oh, what a fright you gave me!”
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“The house was so warm—they have the stove red hot,” she stammeredconfusedly. “I slipped out for a breath of fresh air. And you?”
“I came for the same purpose,” said I. “This is a favorite spot of mine. But you have been weeping Flora.”
“No—oh, no,” she answered, in a tone that belied her words. “You are mistaken, Denzil. I—came here to think.”
“Of what?”
“Of my wedding day,” she replied half-defiantly. “Surely you know that the priest has arrived. I am to be married to-morrow morning.”
“To-morrow morning!” I gasped.
“Yes, unless the world ends before then. Oh, Denzil, I have such wicked thoughts to-night! It is in my heart to wish that the Indians would take the fort—that something would happen before to-morrow.”
“Nothing will happen,” I said bitterly. “The fort can stand a siege of days and months. So you are determined to wed Griffith Hawke—to forget what we have been to each other in the past?”
“Denzil, you have no right,” she said sadly.
The words stung me, and I suddenly realized the depths of shame to which I had sunk. She saw her advantage, and pressed it.
“I have lingered too long,” she said. “I fear I shall be missed. This is our last meeting. Farewell, Denzil!”
“Farewell!” I answered bitterly.
She held out her hand, and I pressed it to my lips. It was like marble. Then she turned and glided away, and I heard her light footsteps receding among the trees.
The next instant I regretted that I had yielded and let her go. The thought that I might never see her again maddened me. Without realizing the recklessness and folly of it, I started in pursuit, calling her name in a hoarse whisper.
But I was too late, swiftly as I moved. I reached the edge of the trees in time to see a flash of light as the rear door of the factor’s house opened and closed.
I stood for a moment in the moonlight and solitude and then something happened that cooled my fevered brain and put Flora out of my thoughts. Loud on the frosty night rang the report of a gun; two more followed in quick succession. From the nearest watch-tower the sentries shouted a sonorous alarm, and their voices were drowned by a shrill and more distant burst of Indian yells.