As Charles Nordis passed out of the house into the open he met an old Indian with a look of intense fear stamped upon his face. He was trembling violently, and his staring eyes were directed toward the river. As the missionary appeared he turned and began to speak rapidly in the native tongue.
"The Hishus!" he cried, while a shiver shook his form. "They come up the river. They carry their canoes around the rapids. They are cruel men, and will kill us."
"Hush, hush, du Nord," commanded the missionary. "If all the Big Lakes are like you there will be little done to oppose the Hishus. You cower and fear like a cur."
"I am old, Master," replied the native. "How can I fight? If the Big Lakes were only here!"
Charles Nordis looked intently at the poor creature standing before him, and his face softened. He remembered how faithful the man had been to him through long years. He, too, had been brave. But now in his old age it was only natural that he should fear a scene which years before had been all too common in his life.
"Poor du Nord," said the missionary to himself. "Who am I that I should feel contempt for him?"
Then he began to pace up and down before the house. His steps were long and rapid, a sure sign of his agitated thoughts.
"And is this the end of it all?" he murmured. "After years of patient toil and prayer, has it come to this—a deadly battle between these two tribes? What fond hopes were mine ten years ago. How I trusted that these Indians would lay aside their strife forever. But now they are at it again. And Nadu—poor child—of whom we hoped so much. Little did I think she would fall so low. Have all the teaching, prayers and patient care amounted to nothing? What have I to show for all these years of work?"
The report of a rifle in the distance startled him. Then another, and still another.
"I feared it! I feared it!" the missionary hoarsely breathed. "The battle has begun, and oh, what horrible things will happen! God in Heaven," he cried, falling upon his knees on the hard ground, "stop this fight! Let not these people engage in deadly conflict. Show Thine arm, put forth Thy strength, and let them have a glimpse of Thy glory, that they may turn to nobler, higher things."
Presently his lips ceased to move, and across his face spread a wonderful transforming light. His eyes gleamed with a new lustre, and he gazed before him into space. His surroundings were forgotten, neither did he see old du Nord standing awe-stricken a fewyards away. Another series of shots ripped through the air like messengers of woe. The missionary sprang to his feet. He listened intently. Again came those ominous reports. With not a look behind Charles Nordis sprang forward, crossed the open, and disappeared among the trees.
Meanwhile over at the mouth of the cave, behind the giant pillars, the two weary men maintained their long watch. Dan continued on guard until the dawn had ripened into day. Donnie still slept, while Grey remained by his side. He, too, had fallen asleep, but it was only a fitful slumber, and he awoke with a start thinking the Indians were upon them. At length he went to the trapper's side, where he stood leaning upon his rifle.
"The Indians are quiet, Dan," he began.
"Quiet now," was the reply. "Guess they kin afford to be quiet, fer it seems they intend to starve us out."
"Do you really think so?"
"Feel quite sartin about it. If not they'd've rushed us long afore this."
"But it was almost as bright as day, Dan. Perhaps they'll wait until to-night and come upon us ere the moon rises. It will be dark then."
"I was thinkin' of that, pardner. It's one thing or t'other, mark my word."
"But what shall we do in the meantime?"
"God only knows. But we might make a rush fer it when night shets down. That's our only hope, an'what will that poor child do in the meantime without grub? We kin stand it; but a child is different. He wants to eat about all the time."
"Look here, Dan," and Grey picked up his rifle lying on the ground. "It's my turn now. You go and lie down awhile, for I intend to watch."
"An' ye'll be sure to wake me if the Injuns come?"
Grey almost laughed outright at such a request, and even a smile flitted across the trapper's face as he slowly wended his way to the dark entrance of the cave.
"An' so he thinks I'll sleep, does he?" he mumbled. "Wall, I'll see about that."
Thrusting his hand into a pocket in his jacket he brought forth a small candle. This he deliberately lighted with a match produced from his match case of two cartridge shells fitted neatly together. Glancing first at the constable and then at the sleeping child, he moved forward within the cave. The flickering light of the candle showed up dimly the rugged wall about him. Here and there large wooden logs, much decayed, were seen sticking forth where the earth had tumbled in.
"Ha, ha! I thought so," he muttered. "This has been a mine as sure as sunrise. Hello! what's this?"
Stooping, he picked up a piece of iron against which his foot had struck.
"A pick, by jimminy, an' a queer old one at that. None of yer new-fangled ones. My! the man wot swung that must have been a monster. He was aRooshian, that's who he was. Now it's sartin that they dug this place."
Holding the candle high he slowly advanced, the passage becoming narrower all the time, owing to the falling earth.
"Guess I've gone fer enough from the entrance," he muttered, "an' had better go back."
He was about to turn when a glitter on the right wall caught his eye. Stepping quickly forward, he thrust the candle close to the spot, and with an exclamation of surprise reached out and grasped a big handful of gravel.
"Good Lord!" he gasped. "It's gold! Nuggets of 'em!"
The prospector's fever now possessed him, and holding the candle in his left hand he clawed into the bank, and exposed to view the precious gravel. And rich it was, he could tell at a glance, and it seemed to be the beginning of a rich vein which had been unearthed. Forgotten for a few brief moments were the Indians as he stood there with staring eyes looking upon his discovery.
"I wasn't fer wrong in my surmise," he mused. "Jist think how much them Rooshians must have scooped outer this place. But they left some behind, an' it took Buckskin Dan to find it, ha, ha!"
Suddenly he thought of the Indians, and the light of discovery faded from his face.
"Yes, I've got the gold, but the Injuns have got me, an' the lads out yon. This is sartinly a purty fix feran old trapper to git into, ain't it now?" and he scratched his head in perplexity. "With all this gold mebbe I could make some dicker with them redskins, an' buy 'em off. But no, darn it! I won't give 'em the satisfaction, nor Siwash Bill either. He's at the bottom of this hull hellish bizness, an' we've got to git more'n even with 'im. I'm goin' back to me pardner now, an' see how things are shapin' out thar."
When he reached the mouth of the mine he found Donnie awake and crying piteously. He glanced toward the constable, and noted that he was not heeding the child, but was keenly intent upon something beyond. Having soothed the lad's cries, he hurried to Grey's side.
"What is it, pardner?" he whispered. "Are the Injuns comin'?"
"Look," and Grey pointed to the left. "I saw several forms moving among the trees. There they are, see, creeping up behind those boulders. They are Indians, it strikes me, but they do not seem to be the Big Lakes, and they are not coming directly toward us either."
Dan looked keenly at the creeping figures, and then an expression of satisfaction crossed his face.
"They're the Hishus, pardner!" he whispered. "An' they mean bizness at that. They're divils when they're on the warpath. Mark my word, somethin's goin' to happen in the twinklin' of an eye. The Big Lakes haven't seen 'em yet. But when they do we'll see sparks a flyin'. Thank God, they've arrived inthe nick of time! We'll just wait until they git busy with the Big Lakes, an' we'll hike it outer this."
The Big Lakes had certainly been caught napping. They little expected the arrival of the Hishus, and merely kept a vigilant watch lest the prisoners behind the big columns should escape. They were delighted that they had the fugitives in such a trap. They could afford to wait until hunger drove the pale faces from their hiding place, and that this would not be long they felt sure. So while several kept strict guard the rest lolled around, laughing and chatting about the imprisoned whites.
But when several sharp reports ripped the stillness of the day, and as many bullets sang their menacing danger about their heads, they sprang to their feet in dismay, seized their rifles and dashed for cover. At first they imagined the volley came from the besieged, but when yells of derision followed the shots they knew that the Hishus were upon them.
When the first shock of surprise had passed their coolness and cunning returned. The wild savage nature was aroused. Their old implacable enemy was before them, and now old scores were to be settled. Creeping cautiously from boulder to boulder they watched their opportunity. Whenever a head showed for an instant it became a target for sure marksmen. At first they returned yell for yell, but now they were silent! Both sides realised how deadly was the game, and like tigers they crouched and watched.
From their rocky fastness Dan and Grey looked outupon the scene of conflict. Owing to their somewhat elevated position they were able to obtain a good view of all that took place. The two tribes were much closer together now, and the shots became more frequent. It seemed to be only a matter of a few minutes ere they would be engaged in a hand-to-hand encounter. The wild hatred of their savage nature would be unleashed, and terrible would be the lot of the vanquished. This Dan and Grey knew. Their fate depended upon which side should win.
"If the Hishus conquer," said the trapper, "we are safe; but if the Big Lakes, God help us! We must be ready to step outer this at the fust opportunity. Ye'd better keep the kid close."
Scarcely had Dan finished speaking ere he leaned forward, while a roar of surprise broke from his lips.
Grey looked, too, and what he saw caused his eyes to open wide with amazement. Speeding across the open, and not far away from where they were hiding, they beheld the old man whom they had met the day before. His arms were lifted in an imploring attitude. He seemed not to mind the unevenness of the ground, nor the danger to which he was exposed. He appeared to lead a charmed life as he sped into the midst of that rain of death. Grey almost held his breath as he watched. What did the man mean? Surely he must be crazy! But still he kept on. Presently he fell, and when he rose he was seen to be limping painfully. With much difficulty he scrambled to the top of a big boulder, and lifting up his arms beganto speak in the Indian tongue. What he said neither Grey nor Dan could tell. That his words had little effect was evident, for the shots were as frequent as ever. How he escaped for so long was marvellous.
Grey now realised the old man's purpose. He would stop the fight between these two tribes. He was willing to act as a mediator, to lay down his life that their strife might cease. Surely the man must be crazy, or a fanatic, he thought, to risk his life in such a way for no apparent purpose. But he was no coward, that was certain, and Grey felt a thrill of admiration as he watched him standing erect in the face of that deadly fire. Then an overwhelming pity possessed him. He could not see the old man die without an effort to save his life. He longed to hurry him away, if possible, from such danger. Only a few wild heart-beats had passed since the missionary mounted the boulder, but it was sufficient time for Grey to think, and to make up his mind.
Forgetting his own peril and without one word to Dan he sprang from his hiding place, and bounded across the open. He had almost reached the old man when he saw him reel and then pitch headlong with widely extended arms among the rugged rocks. Grey was by his side in an instant. He seized the man and raised him somewhat from the ground with the hope of carrying him away. But, strong though he was, he had not sufficient strength to bear such a burden. Rising to his feet he lifted up his hands to the natives. Would they not understand—would theynot heed such an appeal? Surely their hearts were not altogether turned to stone. There must be some spark of nobleness mingled with their savage nature. In fact the fire did slacken, and it seemed as if the Indians were about to cease their strife for a while. But alas! his hope was in vain. He suddenly felt the ground reel beneath him. A horrible blackness rose before his eyes. He tried to stand. He groped about for an instant. He tottered, and then fell forward unconscious upon the prostrate form at his feet.
After Charles Nordis, the missionary, had hurriedly left the room Madeline listened intently for a few minutes. Hearing nothing more she concluded that the matter was of little importance. She knew how easily Indian women were excited and ready at times to believe almost anything, whether an unsubstantial dream or the wild imaginings of an overheated brain. Her mind gradually turned to other things. She thought of the old man and of the lonely life he must have led since his wife's death; of Nadu, and often her eyes would turn toward the picture upon the wall. But she thought mostly of Norman and Donnie. What had happened to them? How she longed to have the child close by her side again. It grieved her to think that he was somewhere out in the wilderness among the Indians, with no one to comfort him or to soothe his cries. But surely Norman would find him—he would if it were possible—she felt sure of that.
During the past six terrible years the hope that Norman would come and save her had buoyed her up. She clung to the idea like a drowning person. He had always been her hero, and often she had pictured him seizing her in his strong arms and carrying her awayfrom her uncongenial surroundings. And he had come, had looked upon her, and believed her to be unworthy of his love. He had saved her from the icy waters, but that was only by chance. He had followed her, but only for the sake of the child whom he was in duty bound to seek. He would return, no doubt, bringing the lad with him. Then he would take the little one to Big Glen, and leave her in the wilderness. Why had he not left her to die in the rapids? It would have been more merciful. But would he speak to her when he returned? she wondered. Would he give her a chance to explain or would words be unnecessary? He had seen her living with Old Meg, and perhaps that would be sufficient to poison his mind against her. But he had touched her in the water. He had enfolded her in his arms as he carried her to the house. Did he look into her face, and loathe the burden that he bore? The thought was almost more than she could endure. She felt so tired, and she closed her eyes in an effort to shut out the many scenes which were moving like horrible spectres before her mind.
A pretty picture she presented as she lay there. Her loose dark-brown hair was tossed over cheek and pillow. Her face was white and worn, for the experiences of the last few days had left their mark. She had struggled hard, and had endured without a murmur. Her prayers during the whole of this ordeal of years had been a pitiful, intense pleading to the Great Father for help. And what was the answer? Nothing but silence! Thrown among savages, and cast off by the very oneupon whom she had most relied, what was left to her now? Hope gone, to return no more forever!
She lay very still for a time, and was only aroused by Nancy du Nord entering the room. Fear was still depicted upon the Indian woman's face, and she cast furtive glances around as if expecting pursuit.
"What is it, Nancy?" Madeline questioned, surprised at her agitated manner.
"Hishus! Hishus!" she cried. "Dey come! Dey kill! Oh! Oh! Oh!"
Madeline, who had no fear of the Hishus, for they had always been friendly to her, could not understand the poor creature's fright.
"They will not harm us, Nancy," she soothed. "They have been good to me. Why are you afraid?"
"Hishu bad; all same black bear. Ugh!"
Then she started violently, and laid a sudden hand upon Madeline's arm.
"Hark!" she gasped. "Dey meet Big Lakes! Dey shoot! Dey fight!"
Listening, Madeline could hear faint rifle reports away in the distance. That there was trouble she had no doubt. But what did it matter to her? It made little difference which side won. She might as well live with the Big Lakes as among the Hishus. If they killed her the sooner would her troubles end. But this terrified woman appealed to her. She felt sorry for her, and longed to do something to calm her distress. And, besides, it might do herself good to move around a little, for she felt stronger now.
"Nancy," she said. "I want to get up. Are my clothes dry?"
"Clothes no dry," the native replied, slowly shaking her head.
"But did you hang them by the fire?"
"Ah, ah, me hang 'um."
"Right after you put me here?"
"Ah, ah."
"Surely, Nancy, they must be dry by this time. Has there been a good fire on ever since?"
"Ah, ah, good fire."
"Well, then, Nancy, I'm going to see for myself," and Madeline started to rise.
"No! no!" cried the old woman. "No get up!"
"But why?" insisted Madeline. "Why do you not want me to get up?"
"Heem say she stay in bed. She no get up."
"Who told you that?"
"De meesion man."
"Oh, I see. So you thought you would make me stay here by saying my clothes were not dry?"
"Ah, ah."
Madeline's heart was touched by this woman's faithfulness to her master's orders.
"Well, look here, Nancy," she at length remarked. "I am going to get up anyway. You have done your best to make me stay in bed, so your master cannot blame you, see?"
"Ah, ah, me see."
"Bring my clothes, then, Nancy, or I shall go for them myself."
After a brief hesitation the old woman shuffled across the room, and a few minutes later returned with the dried garments.
"Thank you, Nancy. You are very kind," said Madeline. "Will you help me now, for I do not feel very strong yet."
After Madeline was dressed she walked for a few minutes slowly around the room, examining the pictures more closely, but especially Nadu's. Her eyes rested on the papers lying upon the table. A Bible lay open where the missionary had left it. The papers contained writing which she could not understand, but which she surmised to be a translation of the English into the Indian dialect. The portion upon which the old man had been working when Nadu had watched him through the window the night before was the latter half of the tenth chapter of St. Matthew's Gospel. It was not finished, and he had ceased with the thirty-ninth verse. He had sat meditating upon the closing words for some time: "And he that loseth his life for My sake shall find it." He had remained for a while lost in thought ere retiring to rest. Madeline next went into the kitchen, and was looking out of one of the small windows at the log buildings beyond, when she saw a man hurrying toward the house bearing something in his arms. She started as she recognised Buckskin Dan, and knew that his burden must be none other than Donnie. Moving to the door she opened it just as thetrapper was about to knock. The latter uttered not a word as he placed Donnie upon the floor, and wiped the perspiration from his forehead with his sleeve. Instantly Madeline caught the child in her arms, and pressed him close to her breast.
"Donnie, Donnie!" she cried. "Oh, thank God, you are safe!"
She could say no more. Words would not come as she placed her face against the boy's soft cheek and held him tight. Donnie squirmed a little, freed his arms, threw them about Madeline's neck, and kissed her lips.
"I love 'ou, Malin," he simply said. "Don't leave me again. Don't let the bad men det me. I'm hungry, Malin."
Dan watched the two in silence for a few minutes. He was not accustomed to such a scene, and he hardly knew what to say. He was delighted to see Madeline alive and so well, but he wondered what effect the news he brought would have upon her. He wished to prepare her, but how should he begin? Twice he cleared his throat in an effort to speak, but the words would not come. It was Madeline who at length helped him out of the difficulty.
"You did well," she said, turning to the trapper and placing Donnie upon the floor. "Did you have much trouble? And where is—?"
She hesitated, and her face flushed. It had been the first thought which had flashed into her mind when she saw Dan from the window. She longed to ask him the moment he entered the building, but something held herback. Why should she inquire? Why should she care? She did not intend to speak about him, but the question partly came almost before she was aware of it. Dan noted her hesitation and the flush which suffused her cheek.
"This ain't none of them craturs," he said to himself. "She's as innocent as any babe, I kin tell that at a glance. An' she cares fer 'im, too. Poor lassie, it'll be hard for her when she hears."
When Dan did not answer Madeline's question immediately, the colour fled her cheeks, and taking a step forward she laid her hand lightly upon the trapper's arm.
"Tell me," she began, in a voice scarcely above a whisper, "what has happened."
"Thar was a fight, miss, an' the old man who ran out atween the Injuns went down."
"Oh! Is he dead?"
"Can't tell fer sartin."
"But did no one go to help him?"
"Yes, me pardner leaped out like a wildcat, an'—oh, well."
"He was shot, too," Madeline interrupted, as Dan floundered around in an attempt to find some suitable word. "Don't be afraid to tell me. I saw it in your face."
"Why bless ye, miss, so ye did. I never thought of that. It's wonderful what sharp eyes some people have."
"So you left him there, did you, without tryingto find out whether he was dead or alive, and came away?"
Across Dan's face spread a crimson flush. Madeline's words cut deeper than she imagined. Did she think that he was a coward and would leave a partner to die? He had been accused of many things in the past, but never of that! How he loathed even the name. And here was this beautiful woman standing before him with flashing eyes saying as much.
Madeline saw the injured look upon his face, and hastened to explain.
"Forgive me," she said. "I spoke too quickly. I should have waited to hear more."
"Sartin, miss, I fergive ye. But yer words stung hard. If ye'd been a man I know what the answer 'ud have been, but what kin one say to a woman? When I saw me pardner fall I was agoin' after 'im like a whirlwind. But jist then several Injuns jumped forward, with Hishu Sam in the lead. It was lucky fer 'em that the Big Lakes stopped firin'. Whether their ammunition gave out, or whether their hearts took a sudden kink of marcy, I can't tell. Anyway, Sam an' the ones with 'im got me pardner an' the old man out from behint the rocks, an' are bringin' 'em in. I grabbed the kid, and hiked on ahead. I wasn't sure that you was livin', but if I foun' ye was, a bit of warnin' wouldn't be outer the way."
"Thank you, it was good of you," and Madeline placed her hand to her forehead. Suppose Norman were dead! How could she bear to look upon him?
"Malin, I'm hungry."
She stooped and put her arms about the child.
"Poor little lad," she replied, "I forgot all about you. Nancy will give you something, will you not?" and she turned to the Indian woman who was standing by the stove trying to comprehend the meaning of the conversation. Hunger the native could understand, so going to a small pantry she brought forth a piece of cold meat and a slice of bread.
Dan's eyes looked longingly upon the food, and he was about to ask Nancy for some, too, when Madeline gave a cry and rushed to the door. Through the window she had caught a glimpse of several Indians approaching the house, bearing some heavy burden between them. Ere they reached the building she had the door open, and was standing watching them with fast-beating heart. There were four men, and Hishu Sam was one of them. Madeline stood aside to let them enter. Questions were unnecessary, for she saw at a glance Norman's unconscious form in their arms. Quickly and without a word they glided over the threshold, and placed their burden upon the small cot near the wall—the same one upon which Madeline had been laid by Grey the day before.
As the Indians stepped back Madeline moved swiftly forward and looked down searchingly into Grey's face. How he had changed since the evening he had brought Donnie to Old Meg's. His beard was days' old, and his face drawn and haggard. His eyes were closed, and he had all the appearance of a dead man. Madelinestooped and put her ear close to his face, but could detect no sign of life.
"He is dead!" she cried, turning suddenly to the men standing near. "Oh, he is dead!"
At once Dan stepped to the cot and placed his fingers upon Grey's wrist.
"No," he replied, "thar's life in 'im yit, but it's mighty weak. We must examine 'im a bit an' see what's wrong."
Then he paused and looked intently at something.
"See," he said, "thar's the trouble, right on the side of his head. That's whar the bullet grazed 'im an' knocked 'im out. My! it was a close call that. Sixteenth of an inch more an' it 'ud have shattered his skull. As it is, it burnt away some hair, an' has left a nasty, bloody scar. Ye'd better step inter the next room, miss, while we undress the poor chap an' put 'im to bed. I'm somewhat handy at docterin', havin' had to do quite a lot of it to meself an' the Injuns, so if ye'll jist leave me fer a while I shall see what I kin do."
Madeline realised the wisdom of this injunction, although it grieved her to quit Norman's side for even a few minutes. Entering the next room and closing the door she walked slowly up and down, listening anxiously for the faintest sound which came from the kitchen. She was surprised at her own strength, for the weakness she had felt upon rising from the bed seemed to have left her entirely. Her mind was upon Norman. She thought of nothing else. "Was he to die?" she asked herself over and over again. "Wouldhe never look upon her more, nor open his lips to speak to her?"
As she slowly walked, heeding nothing around her, a small soft hand slipped gently into hers. She started, and looked quickly down. It was Donnie, standing there, with a mute, wistful appeal upon his small shrunken face. He appeared like a little old man instead of a mere child. His eyes were unnaturally large, and the fear of a hunted creature lurked in their clear depths. Stooping, Madeline placed her arms about the boy and drew him close to her.
"Poor laddie," she said, "I'm so sorry I forgot you. But I won't do so any more."
"You'll 'tay wif me, Malin?" he whispered, looking up into her face. "You won't leave Donnie any more?"
"No, no, dearie. Nothing shall separate us until you get back to your mother."
"Will 'ou take me to my mamma, Malin? Oh, I'm so glad!"
"Somebody will take you, Donnie. You are sure to go back to her now."
"But 'ou must tum, too, Malin. 'Ou must go wif Donnie. Will 'ou?"
"I should like to go, dearie. But then you will not want me. You will have your mother to take care of you. You will not need Malin any more."
The thought of going back to Big Glen brought to her no gladness. Why should she go? Why should she leave the wilderness? Would it not be better for herto throw in her lot with the Indians? She shuddered at the thought. If Norman got better he, too, would go away, and then what would life contain for her? What would she do in Big Glen? She had no money, and no friends. People would hear in some way about her. They would shake their heads, and shun her. Donnie's parents would thank her, no doubt, but they would not care to have much to do with a woman about whom there were strange stories.
"Malin."
"Yes, dearie."
"Why do 'ou look dat way, Malin? 'Ou make me 'fraid."
"Do I, darling? I'm sorry," and Madeline gave the boy a closer hug.
"An' 'ou won't leave me, Malin? 'Ou won't let the bad men det me?"
"No, no, Donnie. You are safe with me. So don't be afraid."
"Dis is a funny house. I was never here before. Whose house is it, Malin?"
"A good man lives here. He will take care of us."
"Will he tum soon? I want to see 'im. Maybe he'll take me to my mamma an' papa."
Madeline did not answer. She was thinking of what Dan had told her about the missionary. She had not forgotten him. But why had he not been brought back to the house? she wondered. Where had they taken him? Would he ever return? Had he given his life for the sake of the Indians?
And even as these thoughts filled her mind a knock sounded upon the door. Opening it she saw Dan standing there. She looked keenly into his face. But it told her nothing.
"Ye may come now, miss," he said. "I've done me best; the good Lord'll have to do the rest."
Madeline said not a word as she hastened to Norman's side, and looked down anxiously into his face. She had hoped to behold some sign of returning consciousness, to see him look up and recognise her. But she saw no change, nothing but that deep, terrible stupor which seemed so much like death.
Dan had carefully washed the wound and applied bandages which the Indian woman had procured from a small closet where the missionary kept his medical supplies. It was a rough, clumsy bandage, but Madeline felt grateful to the trapper for the trouble he had taken. She little knew how anxiously he had examined the wound, washed it, and applied some soothing oil he found among the neatly arranged bottles on the shelf. His hands had trembled as he wound the bandages around Grey's head, and he wondered why his fingers were so awkward as he tied the ends together. He thought little of the scratch; it was the blow which worried him.
"It's a wonder, miss," he remarked, "that he escaped at all. It sartinly 'ud be a pity to see sich a fine feller knocked out. I haven't seen his like in many a day. He's got real spunk, an' is all man."
"Do you think he will recover?" Madeline asked as she turned toward the trapper. "Isn't there anything that we can do?"
"Wall, I'm hopin' he'll come outer this stupor. But if he doesn't we must try to git 'im back to Big Glen, whar he will have treatment from the doctors. I understan' they have purty skilful ones thar."
"But when can we start? How can we take him all the way over that hard trail?"
"We can't leave jist yet, miss; thar's important work on hand. We must lay that poor old man to rest, an'—"
"Oh! is he dead? Do you mean to tell me that he was shot?"
"Yes, miss; it's only too true. A bullet passed through his body, an' he went down like a log. I'm mighty sorry."
Madeline pressed her left hand to her heart. It did not seem possible that the venerable man who had talked so kindly to her but a short time before should now be lying cold in death. What would happen next!
"Where is he?" she faintly asked. "Why did they not bring him in here?"
"They've taken 'im inter the church, miss. The Injuns thought it would be the best place. I guess I'll have to read the Burial Service to-morrer. My! it was a sight to see 'im stand thar in the midst of that rain of lead, an' try to git them Injuns to stop their fightin'! I've seen some brave deeds in me life, miss, an' thingsthat 'ud make yer blood turn to icicles. But that scene beat 'em all."
"And were you hemmed in by the Indians the whole day?" Madeline questioned.
"Only fer part of the night and mornin'."
"How did you manage to find Donnie and get back to the cave?"
"It was this way, miss," and in a few words Dan related the experience through which they had passed the night before. It was a simple tale, told in his own quaint style, with all embellishment left out. It thrilled Madeline's heart, and she looked fondly into the honest, rugged face. She had known him only as Buckskin Dan, the trapper. Formerly he had figured little in her thoughts. But she saw beneath his rough exterior now and knew him as never before.
"And you did all that for the little child!" she mused when he had finished. "You risked your own life to find him and to bring him back to his mother! You are a noble man."
"Tut, tut, miss; that was nothin'. Anyone 'ud have done that much, an' more. But come, we've been talkin' too long, seems to me. This poor chap needs grub. He hasn't tasted a bite fer some time."
"Nor you, either," interposed Madeline.
"Oh, I kin stand it, miss, although I do feel somewhat holler. Mebbe that Injun woman out thar in the yard will be able to throw some stuff together."
"No, I intend to do it myself," Madeline calmlyreplied. "You call for Nancy. She can show me where the provisions are kept, and will be able to give me a hand. I shall feel better when doing something. It will keep me from worrying too much."
With the Indian woman's aid Madeline was soon busy at the sheet-iron stove. From the larder, which led off from the kitchen, were brought several pieces of moose meat, and these were soon sizzling in the frying pan. Cold beans were warmed up, and some desiccated potatoes prepared, with a little water and salt added. Tea, too, was found, and a loaf of sour-dough bread. For Norman a piece of meat was placed in a kettle upon the stove, for the preparation of soup.
With admiring eyes Dan sat back and watched Madeline moving about the room. He noted her lithesome figure, the erect poise of her head, and the flush which now animated her face, caused partly by the heat, and partly by the exercise. He saw, too, how occasionally she glanced toward the unconscious form lying upon the cot, and the look of deep concern expressed in her eyes.
"She's a good woman," he said to himself; "thar's nothin' wrong about her. She's been badly treated in some way. That's clear as light. Eyes an' face sich as hers speak fer themselves."
It suited Madeline to be busy. She could not bear to remain quiet and watch Norman lying there so very still with that blank look upon his face. And yet her heart was somewhat fearful. Suppose he should open his eyes, see her, and turn away his head in disgust!When the food was prepared she placed it upon the table, and sat near watching the hungry trapper as he ate.
"My, this is fine!" he ejaculated. "I haven't enjoyed sich grub in a long time. It was sartinly good of ye, miss, to think of an old man like me. I don't desarve it."
"You deserve more than I can ever do for you," Madeline replied. "Just think what you have done for me and that poor child. The Lord will reward you, I am sure of that. I cannot imagine why you have done so much for us. We were such strangers to you."
"Don't say that, miss; please don't. Why shouldn't I do it fer you an' the kid? Didn't I once have a lassie of me own, long years ago it was, an' ye remind me much of her. But she was taken away from me, an' I was left all alone. I did it at fust, miss, fer her sake, an' also to help me pardner out. But now I'd do anything fer yer own sake, 'cause I know yer worthy of it."
"And you thought I was not a true woman?" questioned Madeline. "You imagined I was one of those poor fallen creatures who so often come North?"
"I had me doubts, miss. Sometimes I thought ye was, an' ag'in I thought ye wasn't. But I couldn't tell fer sartin. Appearances was ag'in ye."
"I know it! I know it!" Madeline cried almost fiercely. "Everything has been against me for the last six years. Oh, my life has been terrible!"
"I believe ye, miss. I believe ye. But thar's anend to that now. I'll take ye outer this, an' back to yer own people."
"But what will he think?" and Madeline glanced toward the cot. "Oh, if you only knew! If you only understood!"
"I do understand somethin', miss. I know a thing or two."
"And did be really tell you? Did he explain?"
"He told me a little, an' I guessed the rest."
"And did he think I had fallen; that I was a disgrace to womankind?"
"He didn't know what to believe, miss. Poor feller, I was sorry fer 'im. He took it mighty hard."
Madeline was leaning anxiously forward now, with her eyes fixed full upon Dan's face.
"Did he say that he loathed me, that he had cast me off forever?"
It cost her an effort to ask this question, which for days had been beating through her brain.
"No, miss, he said nuthin' of the kind. His heart was almost broke when he found that ye was livin' with Old Meg. But he thought mebbe ye was thar cause ye wanted to be. He wasn't sartin, however, an' said he was agoin' to find out. If he larned that ye was thar of yer own free will he would jist leave ye alone. But if he discovered that ye was thar ag'inst yer will he said nuthin' on arth 'ud stop 'im from savin' ye."
"Oh!"
Madeline drew a deep breath of relief as she listenedto these words. So he did care. He wanted to know the truth.
"Yes, miss," Dan continued, "never ye doubt that young man alyin' thar, an' if ye'll excuse a rough old trapper I'll jist tell ye that his love fer ye is like a blazin' fire. Haven't I watched 'im fer days now, an' heerd him murmur yer name in his sleep? I tell ye he was most wild when he found that the Injuns had stole ye away."
Madeline asked no further questions just then. She wished to think over what Dan had told her. A new hope and joy came into her heart. So Norman really cared for her after all. She repeated the words to herself time and time again.
Dan finished his meal, and pushed back the stool upon which he was sitting.
"I'm agoin' to leave ye fer a while, miss," he said, slowly drawing his pipe from his pocket. "I've been a wonderin' what them Injuns are up to over thar, an' so I'll jist stroll cautiously around an' size things up a bit."
"Do you think the Indians will continue their fighting?" Madeline anxiously asked.
"Can't tell what them varmints 'ill do, miss. They're very unsartin critters. But if they do git at it ag'in an' the Big Lakes win out I'm afeered it'll go purty hard with us. We got outer their clutches by a close shave, an' I'm thinkin' they're rather sore over it. It seems to me it's that Injun woman, Nadu, wot's doin'much of the mischief. She's a vixin, that I kin tell it by her eye."
"Oh, don't speak of her!" and a shudder shook Madeline's body, while her face turned pale. "She is terrible! It was she who sent me adrift in the canoe. She hates me, and I do not know why."
"An' did she do that deed?" Dan cried. "Did she send ye through the rapids?"
"Yes; it's only too true. But please don't speak about it again. I want to forget it."
Madeline rose and examined the meat cooking upon the stove.
"I think we might give our patient a little of this soup now," she said; "it's not very strong, but he should have something nourishing as soon as possible."
"Right ye are, miss," Dan replied, as he sprang to his feet. "I'll jist hold his head up a little while ye feed 'im. Thar, that's good!" he exclaimed, when the task had been accomplished. "That's the fust taste of food he's had since I don't know when. I'll jist hike off now, an' leave ye a while on watch."
When the door had closed, and Dan's footsteps had died away in the distance, Madeline drew a stool up close to the cot. Nancy du Nord had left some time before, so she was alone with Norman. Quietly she sat by his side, and looked down earnestly into his face. How often she had seen it in her day and night dreams through those long, terrible years. It had been an inspiration to her when hope had almost fled. Oh, if he would only open his lips and eyes, speak to her, andlook upon her! She longed to tell him everything, to clear the cloud of doubt from his mind. But no sign did he give. He lay there helpless and unconscious. His right hand was lying by his side. Reaching over she held it in her own. A thrill shot through her heart as she did so, and a flush suffused her cheeks. It was the same hand that had pressed hers so fondly one night at the little garden gate so long ago, and it was the same strong, firm hand that had reached out, gripped her, and drew her from the icy waters of death. Suddenly she bent her head, lifted the hand to her lips, and kissed it fervently. Then she quickly dropped it, and looked around, fearful lest someone had seen her.
Thus she sat keeping faithful watch as the hours wore slowly away. Occasionally she arose and gave Norman some of the soup, which by this time was much stronger and contained more nourishment. When at length Dan returned she was still at her post and smiled upon the trapper as he entered the room.
"You've been away a long time," she said. "You must have found much to occupy your attention."
"Indeed I have, miss," Dan replied, glancing toward the constable. "The Injuns are havin' a big pow-wow. They can't decide whether to have peace, or fight it out. Guess they'll keep it up all night by the look of things. I watched 'em fer some time, an' made out the drift of their harangues, which are sartinly mighty long. Hishu Sam had the floor, or I should say, the ground, when I left. He's got a purty level head. Anyway I do hope it will be peace, fer I'm gittin' mightyanxious to be away an' take this poor chap back to Big Glen. I see thar's no change in 'im yit."
"None," Madeline replied. "He's just the same as when you left."
"An' ye've been watchin' 'im ever since? Ye look tired, miss. Don't ye think ye should have a bite to eat, an' take a little rest? But whar's the kid? He must be hungry."
At these words Madeline sprang to her feet in alarm. So intent had she been with thinking of other things that she had forgotten all about the child. It was not natural for him to be so quiet. She had left him playing in the next room, and he had always come to her when he needed anything. Hurrying to the door she looked at the place on the floor where she had left him. He was not there. She glanced about the room until her eyes rested upon the bed, and there among the tossed blankets nestled the little lad fast asleep. Madeline gave a sigh of relief as she stood and watched him.
"Poor, wee chap," she remarked, turning to the trapper. "He was certainly worn out, and crawled into bed himself, and fell asleep."
"Ay, ay, indeed he needs rest," Dan responded. "An' so do you, miss. Jist swaller some of yon grub, an' take yerself off, or else I'll have two patients on me hands. Ye'll need all yer strength fer what lies ahead."
"I know it, I know it. You are kind to think of me," and Madeline gave the old man a bright smile of gratitude as he turned and left the room.
All through the night Dan kept watch by the constable's side. His pipe was seldom out of his mouth as he sat silently on the rough bench with his back against the wall. Twice Grey had moved a little, and once a moan escaped his lips. But otherwise there was no perceptible change. When Madeline appeared in the morning she looked much refreshed after her sleep. An expression of pleasure crossed Dan's face as he saw her standing before him. Her presence revived him after his long vigil, like the inspiring breath of dewy morn over a drowsy world. The room did not seem so close and sombre when she was present. A new spirit pervaded the place, which made it a restful abode.
That morning after breakfast Dan started forth and walked slowly to the little church. He was joined there by three natives who had returned to the village. A few moments later they came out bearing the body of Charles Nordis, the missionary. A single blanket enshrouded that stiffened form, for a coffin was out of the question. Silently they bore their burden down a gentle slope, across a narrow valley, then up a steep hill to the cemetery at the summit, for Indians choose high placesin which to bury their dead. Here a grave had been dug the day before, and by its gaping mouth they laid the body down.
Dan stood for a few moments looking at the white face of the old man lying at his feet, and then glanced at the expressionless features of the three natives standing near. Deep, bitter thoughts were surging through the trapper's mind as he stood there. Was this all that the missionary had gained? A lifetime spent in the wilderness for the sake of a wandering people, and was this all—a violent death, a lonely grave in the wild, without one mourner to shed a tear? What was the use of such a life? he mused. The Indians had not responded to his care and teaching; but seemed to be as hard and cruel as ever.
A startled exclamation from one of the Indians aroused him. He lifted his head, and saw the three men looking anxiously away to the left. Dan turned sharply around to ascertain the cause of their excitement. It was certainly a magnificent view which met his eyes. Down below stretched the valley, partly wooded. Beyond, glimpses of the river gleamed like burnished silver beneath the sun, while away in the distance towered the rugged mountains to their tapering coronets of snow. At another time Dan would have drunk in the beauty with a true lover's ardent admiration. But now something else occupied his mind. Shading his eyes with his right hand he soon discerned a long, black, sinuous line trailing out from the forest beyond the Mission House. It held him spellboundfor an instant, and then an exclamation of fear and concern burst from his lips. They were Indians, coming from their recent pow-wow, for what purpose he could not tell. Were they heading for the Mission House to carry away the woman and child? His first impulse was to rush down the hill, hurry to meet them, and guard the defenceless ones. This he at once realised would be folly. He could not get there in time, and what could one man do against so many?
He watched them with almost breathless interest as they drew near the house, and when the foremost ones had passed without turning aside he gave a deep sigh of relief. Through the village they threaded their way, then down the slope straight toward the hill upon which they were standing.
"They're comin' here!" he ejaculated, turning to his now thoroughly frightened companions. "What kin they be up to, anyway?"
His hand slipped to his hip and rested upon the butt of his revolver.
"If they're after mischief an' want me," he muttered, "they'll git a warm reception from my old comrade here. She's never failed me yit, an' I guess she won't now."
Up the hill the Indians swung with their easy, tireless gait, and soon the leaders were but a few hundred yards away. As Dan looked he drew his hand from his revolver, and meditatively stroked his long beard. Although armed the Indians showed no signs of hostility. On they came and without a word reached the top ofthe hill. Here they paused and waited for the rear to come up. Then from the midst stepped Hishu Sam. He gave one word which sounded like a command, and at once he walked over to where the dead man was lying, gave one quick glance at the cold, white face, and moved on. Others now came forward, stopped, looked, and moved away. It took them some time to do this, and Dan stood silently by wondering at the meaning of this unusual procedure.
The Hishus and Big Lakes were there—some bent and withered by the weight of years, others were young in the full strength and flush of virile manhood. But not a word was uttered, and not a movement of their impassive faces revealed the hearts within.
As the Indians moved away they turned to the right and formed in a circle several lines deep around the grave, where they stood silently leaning upon their rifles. At the end of the procession came Nadu, the Indian woman. She advanced slowly with bent head, over which a scarf had been carelessly thrown. She stopped before the body, gazed for an instant upon the face, and then sinking on her knees upon the ground remained silent for a few minutes. A stillness as deep as death pervaded the onlookers, while Dan stared in amazement. Then from the woman's lips came a low wail which steadily increased in intensity. Once Dan had heard such a sound. He had been in an Indian village where a little child had just died. He had heard the mother's cry ringing out upon the night air from the rude cabin. It had haunted him for days—thatlow, plaintive wail of a bereaved heart, which swelled to a wild, piercing shriek. Until then Dan had not believed that so much pathos and agony could be expressed in the human voice. And here was this woman kneeling on the ground giving vent to the same heart-rending cry. What did it all mean? Why should she, from Hishu, feel so keenly the death of the old man? What was he to her?
As he listened and wondered the sounds grew fainter and fainter until they ceased altogether, and she knelt as before with bowed head. For a few moments an intense silence reigned on the hilltop.
Dan was about to give orders to lower the body into the grave when Hishu Sam stepped forward and stood close to where Nadu was kneeling. His tall commanding figure was drawn to its full height as he surveyed the silent natives before him. Then he began to speak in the Hishu tongue, which made it quite easy for Dan to understand what he was saying.
"The sun shines in the sky," he began, "the mountains stand as of old, the rivers flow through the land, the fish swim in the water, the moose roam the forest; but the hearts of the Indians are sad. The Hishus and the Big Lakes are all of one family. But they have not lived as brothers. They have been always fighting as did their fathers before them. They lived for war. Their hearts were hard and cruel. They thought only of evil, of killing one another. Ten winters ago a pale face came from the great river beyond the big mountains. With his own hands he built those houses downthere. He learned to speak our language. He taught our little ones from a book he brought with him. He made more books, and he gave them to our children to read. He lived with us. When we were sick he healed us, when we were hungry he gave us food, when we were cold he gave us clothes. But our hearts were hard. He worked for us, and loved us, but when he asked us to give up fighting we laughed at him. When he would teach us a better way we would not listen. One night my little child was sick. The pale face came. He made her well. He taught me wonderful things. He told me of the Great Chief who died to save us all. I listened, and my heart, which was like a frozen river, thawed. I became a new man. The pale face came into our land. He did not come to rob us. He did not come to give us fire-water. He did not come to ruin our young women. He came to help us, to save us. And what have we done to him?" Here the speaker paused, and raised his right hand in an impressive manner. "We killed him, and he now lies before us. We were fighting. We wished to kill one another. But the pale face came between us. He tried to stop us, and he died. Now our eyes have been opened. We see what he has done for us, and how he loved us. We have had a great meeting. We have talked much. Our hearts and mouths spoke peace. We have given up fighting with one another. We have promised to be friends as long as the sun rises in the sky and the water flows in the river. We will have a big pot-latch—the tribes will all come to witness our agreement of peace. The paleface has done it. He is dead. We cannot speak to him. But if another teacher comes from beyond the great mountains we will listen."
Hishu Sam paused, and from the assembled Indians came the murmur of assent. Several others stepped forward and spoke. They were natural orators, and with much gesticulation they emphasised the greatness of their race. But they all agreed with the first speaker that they had met with a deep loss in the death of the pale face, and were anxious now for peace.
During these harangues Dan stood silently by. He was accustomed to the ways of the Indians. In his heart he was most thankful at the happy termination of the trouble. When the speakers were through he gave the signal, and the body was lowered into the ground. Seizing a handful of gravel he stepped close to the grave, and bared his head.
"Great God in Heaven," he prayed, "listen to the words of these people. They have killed this old man, but punish 'em not fer the sin they have committed. They are sorry now, O Lord, an' want to do better. This old man has died fer 'em, an' by his death they've been united. I can't make a long prayer, O Lord, nor tell ye all that's in me heart jist now. But I ax ye to bless these Injuns fer the sake of the old man who died fer 'em, an' in their presence I commit his body to the ground, arth to arth, dust to dust, ashes to ashes, sartin that sich a man as this'll rise ag'in to the life etarnal. Hear an old trapper's words, O Lord. Amen."
Dan stood long and silently by the grave and watchedthe three Indians toss in the earth upon the body. The Big Lakes and the Hishus remained for a few moments, and then filed quickly away. When at last the grave had been filled, the trapper, too, turned and walked slowly back to the Mission House. His heart was deeply touched by what he had heard and seen. Much had been accomplished, but, oh, at what a cost! It was the story of history repeated here on this far-off frontier, that without the shedding of blood there is no advancement, no remission of sins.
After Dan had left the Mission House Madeline was kept busy for a while getting breakfast for herself and Donnie. The latter had slept soundly, and awoke much refreshed, with more of the old healthy colour in his cheeks. He opened his eyes, and looked around. Hearing sounds in the kitchen he tumbled out of bed, and standing in the doorway gave a chuckle of delight when he saw that Madeline was really there, and had not left him again. Soon he was enfolded in her arms, and his lips and cheeks showered with fervent kisses of welcome. Then he was carried off bodily to have his face and hands washed, and his tangled hair combed into something approaching order. He was hungry, too, and could hardly wait until Madeline had finished before beginning his breakfast. His little tongue wagged incessantly as he sat at the side of the table opposite Madeline. He asked many questions, especially about the unconscious man lying on the cot.
"What's the matter wif 'im?" he asked. "Why is he so still? Is he asleep?"
"He was hurt, dearie," was the quiet reply.
"Who hurt 'im, Malin?" and Donnie's eyes opened wide.
"The Indians, dear. They shot at him."
"Oh, I'm sorry. He was so dood to me. He said he loved 'ou, Malin, an' would take me to 'ou."
"Did he say that, dearie? Are you sure?" and Madeline leaned eagerly forward.
"Ya, me sure," was the simple response.
Madeline sat silently for a while lost in thought. Then it must he true, she said to herself, while a sweet joy stole into her heart. She had meditated much over what Dan had told her, and wondered if the old trapper had said those things merely to cheer her drooping spirits. But such words from the lips of a little child she could not doubt. Norman must have told him. They were surely true.
After breakfast was over Madeline washed the few dishes, put them carefully away, and then tidied up the room. This done she took her place by Norman's side. She could see no change, nothing but that deep heavy stupor. She felt now in her heart that he had loved her during those terrible days when she thought he had cast her away forever. But if he would only awake and tell her so. What joy to hear the blessed truth from his own lips.
For some time Donnie had remained seated upon the floor, looking over several picture books Madeline had found for him on one of the shelves. These satisfied him for a while, but at length, wearying of this amusement, he rose and came to Madeline's side.
"Tell me a 'tory, Malin, pleath."
"What shall it be, dearie?" was the reply, as Madeline lifted him upon her lap.
"When 'ou was 'ittle, Malin. I like dat."
It was not so hard for Madeline to tell of her old home life now. She remembered how she had first told it to Donnie on that terrible night when he had been torn from her arms. How much had happened since then! Slowly and simply she told again of her happy home across the great water, the big house, the garden with the beautiful flowers, and the many kind people she knew. To all this Donnie listened with wondering ears, his little head leaning against her arm.
"There," Madeline at length said, "I've told you enough now. Are you not satisfied?"
"I like dat 'tory, Malin. 'Ou will tell it again some time, won't 'ou?"
"Yes, dearie."
"An' 'ou will sing to me, Malin, won't 'ou?" he pleaded. "I like to hear 'ou sing. 'Ou sounds just like my mamma."
"What shall I sing, dearie? A hymn? It must be only one, and short, too, for it might hurt him," and she nodded toward the cot.
"Oh, do 'ou fink it would?" and Donnie's eyes opened wide. "But maybe a 'ittle one wouldn't hurt 'im; dat one about de star. 'Ou sang it one night when I was tired, an' I went to sleep."
"So I did, Donnie, and you shall have it now. But you mustn't go to sleep, you know. I want you to watch with me and keep me company."
"All right, Malin. I won't go sleep."
In a low, sweet voice Madeline sang the simple song she had learned years before: