For the moment a horrible sickening fear took possession of Dorothy when she found herself thrust into such a very prominent position. It was quite bad enough to have to pass through that scene of pillage and riot, but to pose as the partner of an excitable half-breed in the execution of the Red River jig was more than the girl had bargained for. The fantastic shuffling and capering of the long-legged metis were wonderful to behold. The tassel of his long red tuque dangled and bobbed behind him like the pigtail of a Chinaman trying to imitate a dancing Dervish. His flushed face, long snaky black locks, and flashing eyes all spoke of the wild fever in his blood and his Gallic origin. Still, the girl noted he was not what might be termed an ill-looking fellow; he did not look bad-natured, nor was he in drink. He was merely an excited irresponsible.
The barbaric, musical rhyme on the cat-gut took a fresh lease of life; the delighted spectators clapped their hands in time, and supplemented the music with the regulation dog-like yelps. The Red River jig consists of two persons of opposite sex standing facing each other, each possessed with the laudable ambition of dancing his or her partner down. As may readily be imagined, it is a dance necessitating considerable powers of endurance. When one of the dancers sinks exhausted and vanquished, another steps into the breach. When Dorothy had made her appearance, a slim and by no means bad-looking half-breed girl had been unwillingly obliged to drop out of the dance. The bright eyes of the new arrival had caught Pierre La Chene's fancy, and, after the manner of his kind, he had made haste to secure her as a partner. Pierre was a philanderer and an inconstant swain. The dark eyes of Katie the Belle flushed with anger as she saw this strange girl take her place. She noticed with jealous eyes the elegant fur coat which the other wore, the dainty silk-sewn moccasins, the natty beaver cap, and felt that she, herself a leader of fashion among her people, had yet much to learn.
Dorothy stood stock still for a moment while her partner and the spectators shouted to her to begin. A wrinkled old dame remarked, in the flowery language of her people, that, as the figure of the girl was slender as the willow, and her feet small and light as those of the wood spirits that return to the land in the spring, surely she could out-dance Pierre La Chene, who had already out-worn the light-footed Jeanette and the beautiful Katie. Pierre shouted to his partner to make a start. Surely now she must be discovered and undone!
Then something that, when one comes to think of it, was not strange, happened—Dorothy rose to the occasion. She had danced the very same fantasia many a time out of sheer exuberance of spirits, and the love of dancing itself. She must dance and gain the sympathy of that rough crowd, in the event of her identity being discovered. There was nothing so terrible about this particular group after all. They were merely dancing while the others were going in for riot and pillage. There was something so incongruous and ludicrous in the whole affair that the odd, wayward, fun-loving spirit of the girl, of late held in abeyance, asserted itself, and she forgot all else save the fact that she must do her best to dance her partner down.
Her feet caught the rhythm of the "Arkansaw Traveller" —that stirring, foot-catching melody without beginning or ending—and in another minute Dorothy was dancing opposite the delighted and capering half-breed, and almost enjoying it. With hands on hips, with head thrown back, and with feet tremulous with motion, she kept time to the music. She was a good dancer, and realised what is meant by the poetry of motion. The fiddler played fairly well, and Pierre La Chene, if somewhat pronounced in his movements, was at least a picturesque figure, whose soul was in the dance. So amusing, were his antics that the girl laughed heartily, despite the danger of her position.
It was evident that Pierre was vastly taken with his partner. He rolled his eyes about in a languishing and alarming fashion; he twisted and wriggled like a contortionist, and occasionally varied the lightning-like shuffle of his own feet by kicking a good deal higher than his own head. He called upon his partner to "stay with it" in almost inarticulate gasps. "Whoop her up!" he yelled. "Git thar, Jean! Bravo, ma belle! Whoo-sh!"
It was a very nightmare of grotesqueness to Dorothy. The moonlight night, the black houses and pines looming up against the snowy landscape, the red glare in the immediate foreground caused by the burning buildings, the gesticulating figure of her half-breed partner, the excited, picturesque onlookers, the vagaries of the fiddler and the never-ceasing sound of the Indian drum, all tinged with an air of unreality and a sense of the danger that menaced, made up a situation that could not easily be eclipsed. And she was dancing and trying to make herself believe she was enjoying it, opposite a crazy half-breed rebel! She recognised him now as the dandy Pierre, the admiration of the fair sex in his own particular world on the Saskatchewan. If only any of her people could see her now, what would they think of her?
But was this wild dance to go on for ever? Already she was becoming warm in her fur coat, despite the lowness of the temperature. There was a limit to her powers of endurance, albeit she was stronger than the average girl. The onlookers, charmed with the grace of this unknown dancer, were noisy in their applause. She must feign fatigue and drop out, letting some one else take her place.
With an inclination of her head to her partner she did so, but he, doubtless captivated by the dark, laughing eyes he saw gazing at him above the deep fur collar, did not care to continue the dance with some one whose eyes might not be so bewitching, and dropped out also. The half-breed girl, his former partner, who up till now had contented herself by gazing sulkily from lowering brows upon this strange rival, was at last stirred by still deeper feeling. She came close up to Dorothy, and gazed searchingly into her face. At the same moment they recognised each other, for often had Dorothy admired the full, wildflower beauty, the delicate olive skin, and the dark, soulful eyes of this part descendant of a noble Gallic race and a barbaric people, and spoken kindly to her. The half-savage Katie had looked upon her white sister as a superior being from another world, and had almost made up her mind that she loved her, but she loved Pierre La Chene in a different way, and when that sort of love comes into one's life, all else has to give place to it With a quick movement she drew down Dorothy's fur collar, exposing her face.
"Voila!" she cried; "one of the enemy—the daughter of Douglas!"
It was as if the rebels had suddenly detected an embodied spirit that had worked evil in their midst, for the music stopped, and the excited crew rushed upon her. But Pierre La Chene kept them back. Those proud, defiant eyes had exercised a singular charm over him, and when he saw her face he almost felt ready to fight the whole crowd—almost ready, for, like a good many other lady-killers, Pierre had a very tender regard for his own personal safety. Still, he cried—
"Prenez garde—tek caar!Ma foi, but she can dance it! Let us tek her to Louis Riel. He is at the chapel. We may learn much."
With her keen instincts, Katie saw the ruse.
"She has the evil eye, and has bewitched Pierre!" she cried, and made as if to lead her old lover away.
But Pierre's response was to thrust her violently from him. Katie would have fallen but that Dorothy caught her.
"Oh, Katie, poor Katie!" was all she said.
And then the half-breed girl realised the evil she had wrought, and shrunk from the kindly arms of the sister she had betrayed.
"To Riel with her!—to Riel with her!" was the cry of the fickle malcontents, and, with a yelling following at her heels, Dorothy was led away.
Now that Dorothy knew the worst was about to happen, she, strangely enough, felt more self-possessed than she had done before. These rebels might kill her, or not, just as the mood swayed them, but she would let them see that the daughter of a white man was not afraid.
In that short walk to the chapel she reviewed her position. She hoped that by this time the others had managed to reach the Fort. If they had, then she could face with comparative equanimity what might happen to herself. Her only fear was what her father, in his distress on hearing of her capture, might do.
Fortunately it was not far to the chapel which Riel had converted into his headquarters. Indeed, he was only paying a hurried visit there to exhort the faithful and long-suffering metis and Indians to prompt and decisive action. He intended to go off again in a few hours to Prince Albert to direct the siege against that town. Only those who had witnessed the wantonness and the capture of the "white witch" followed. Most of the rebels were too busy improving the shining hour of unlimited loot. A half-breed on one side and an Indian on the other, each with a dirty mitt on Dorothy's shoulder, led her to the Judgment Hall of the dusky prophet, Louis David Riel, "stickit priest," and now malcontent and political agitator by profession. This worthy gentleman had already cost the Government a rebellion, but why he should have been allowed to run to a second is one of those seeming mysteries that can only be accounted for by the too clement policy of a British Government.
Dorothy and her captors entered the small porch of the chapel and passed into the sacred edifice. For one like Riel, who had been educated for the priesthood in Lower Canada, it was a strange use to put such a place to. The scene when they entered almost defies description. It was crowded with breeds and Indians armed to the teeth with all manner of antiquated weapons. Most of them wore blue copotes and kept on their unplucked beaver caps or long red tuques. Haranguing them close to the altar was the great Riel himself, the terror of the Saskatchewan.
He did not look the dangerous, religious fanatic that he was in reality. He was about five feet seven in height, with red hair and beard. His face was pale and flabby, and his dark grey eyes, set close together, glowed when he spoke and were very restless. His nose was slightly aquiline, his neck long, and his lips thick. His voice, though low and gentle in ordinary conversation, was loud and abrupt now that he was excited.
He was so carried away by the exuberance of his own eloquence when Dorothy and her captors entered, that he still kept on in a state of rapt ecstasy. His semi-mystical oration was a weird jumble of religion and lawlessness, devout exhortation, riot, plunder, prayer, and pillage. He extolled the virtues of the murderous Poundmaker and Big Bear. He said that Mistawasis and Chicastafasin, the chiefs, and some others, were feeble of heart and backsliders, for they had left their reserves to escape being drawn into the trouble. Crowfoot, head chief of the Blackfoot nation, was protesting his loyalty to the Lieutenant-Governor, and his squaws would one day stone him to death as a judgment. Fort Pitt, Battleford and Prince Albert must shortly capitulate to them, and then the squaws would receive the white women of those places as their private prisoners to do with as their sweet wills suggested. Already many of the accursed whites had been slaughtered, as at Duck Lake, for instance, but many more had yet to die. They must be utterly exterminated, so that the elect might possess the land undisturbed.
At this point he caught sight of the newcomers. At a sign from him they approached.
"Ha!" he said, with an unctuous accent in his voice, and rubbing his hands like a miserable old Fagin, "Truly the Lord is delivering them into our hands. What are you, woman?"
But beyond her name Dorothy would at first tell him nothing. Her captors briefly stated the little they knew concerning her presence in the town. The self-constituted dictator tried bombast, threats and flattery to gain information from her, but they were of no avail. His authority being thus disputed by a woman, and his absurd self-esteem ruffled, he gave way to a torrent of abuse, but Dorothy was as if she heard it not. It was only when Riel was about to give instructions to his "General," Gabriel Dumont, and more of the members of his staff and "government" to instantly cause a search to be made in the camp for those who might have been with the girl, that she said he might do so if he chose, but it would be useless, as her friends must have entered the Fort an hour ago.
"Hear to her, hear to this shameless woman!" cried the fanatical and self-constituted saviour of the metis, gesticulating and trying, as he always did, to work upon the easily-roused feelings of his semi-savage following. "She convicts herself out of her own mouth; she must suffer. She is young and fair to look upon, but she is the daughter of Douglas, the great friend of the English, and therefore evil of heart. Moreover, she defies me, even me, to whom St Peter himself appeared in the Church of St. James at Washington, Columbia! Take her hence and keep her as a prisoner until we decide what fate shall be hers. In the days of the old prophets the dogs licked the blood of a woman from the stones—of a woman who deserved better than she."
With a wave of his hand the arch rebel, who was yet to pay the penalty of his inordinate vanity and scheming with his life, dismissed the prisoner and her captors. He instructed an Irish renegade and member of his cabinet, called Nolin, to see to it that the prisoner was kept under close arrest until her fate was decided upon—which would probably be before morning. Nolin told some of Katie's relatives to take charge of Dorothy. He himself, to tell the truth, did not particularly care what became of her one way or the other. Already this gentleman was trying to hunt with the hounds and run with the hare.
Dorothy looked around the improvised court-house in the vague hope of finding some one whom she might have known in the days of peace, and whose intervention would count for something. But alas! the vision of dark, cruel and uncompromising faces that met her gaze, gave her no hope. They had all been wrought up to such a high pitch of excitement that murder itself was but an item in their programme. Her heart sank within her, but still her mind was active. She was not one of the sort who submit tamely to what appears to be the inevitable. She came of a fighting stock—of a race that had struggled much, and prevailed.
Katie's male kinsman, the huge half-breed and the officious redskin, again seized Dorothy and hurried her away, followed by the curious, straggling mob. Arrived, at length, at a long, low log-house on the outskirts of the town, they hammered on the closed door for admittance.
Dorothy noticed that there was a light in the windows of this house, and wondered how it was that the occupants seemed to be quietly staying at home while evidently all the half-breed inhabitants of the town were making a night of it. She also noticed that when her guides had knocked they drew somewhat back from the doorway, and that the motley crowd which had been pressing close behind followed their example. They also ceased their noisy talk and laughter while they waited for the door to be opened. Only Katie, the flouted belle who had been following them up, did not seem to possess the same diffidence as the others, but stood with one hand on the door, listening. Dorothy became strangely curious as to the inmates of this isolated house.
A strange shuffling and peculiar deep breathing were heard in the passage; a bolt was withdrawn, Katie drew quickly back, and next moment the door was thrown open. A flood of light streamed out, and two weird and startling figures were outlined sharply against it. Instinctively Dorothy shrank backwards with a sense of wonder and fear. Standing on its hind legs in the doorway was a bear, and by its side a dwarf with an immense head covered with a great crop of hair, and with long arms and a broad chest which indicated great strength.
"Whur-r! What you want here and at this hour of night, you cut-throats, you?" asked the outspoken manikin in a voice of sufficient volume to have equipped half-a-dozen men.
"A sweetheart for you, Pepin. A sweetheart,mon ami" answered the big breed, in a conciliatory voice.
Dorothy nearly sank to the ground in horror when she heard this rude jest.
"Bah!" cried the manikin, "it is another female you will want to foist off upon me, is it? Eh? What? But no,coquin, Pepin has not been the catch of the Saskatchewan all these years without learning wisdom. Who is she—a prisoner? Eh? Is not that so?"
"That is so, Pepin, she is preesonar, and Riel has ordered her to be detained here. Your house is the only quiet one in the town this night, and that is why we came. Tell Antoine to be so good as to stand back."
Antoine was the bear, which still stood swaying gently from one side to the other with a comical expression of inquiry and gravity on its old-fashioned face.
Pepin surveyed the mob with no friendly scrutiny.
"What you want here, youcanaille, sans-culottes?" he demanded. And then in no complimentary terms he bade them begone.
The crowd, however, still lingered, with that spirit of curiosity peculiar to most crowds; so the dwarf brought them to their senses. Suddenly poking Antoine in the ribs, he brought him down on all fours, and then, brushing past Dorothy and her captors, and still leading the bear, he charged the mob with surprising agility, scattering it right and left. It was evident that they stood in wholesome dread of Pepin and his methods. Then, coming back with the bear, he put one hand on his heart, and with a bow of grotesque gallantry, bade Dorothy enter the house. The Indian he promptly sent about his business with a sudden blow over the chest that would probably have injured a white man's bones. The red man looked for a moment as if he meditated reprisals, but Pepin merely blinked at the cudgel, and Man-of-might, with a disgusted "Ough! ough!" changed his mind and incontinently fled. Dorothy's captor, Pierre La Chene, and Katie, alone entered the dwarf's abode.
It suddenly occurred to Dorothy that this was the Pepin Quesnelle of whom and of whose tame bear Rory was wont to tell tales. Dorothy noticed that Katie had a brief whispered conference with the truculent Pepin before entering. The result of it was somewhat unexpected; the half-breed girl took Dorothy by the arm and led her into a low room, which was scrupulously clean, at the end of the passage. There was no one in it. Katie seemed strangely nervous as she shut the door, and the girl wondered what was about to happen. Then the half-breed turned suddenly and looked into her eyes, at the same time placing one hand upon her wrist.
"Listen," she said, "I thought I loved you, but you have made me mad—so mad this night! Now tell me true—verite sans peur—you shall—you must tell me—do you love Pierre?"
If it had not been for the tragic light in the poor girl's eyes, Dorothy would have laughed in her face at the bare idea. As it was, she answered in such an emphatic way that Katie had no more doubts on that point. Then Dorothy asked the latter to send Pierre to her and to be herself present at the interview.
Katie at first demurred. She was afraid that the interview might prove too much for the susceptible frail one. But she brought him in, and when Dorothy had spoken a few words to him, the fickle swain was only too anxious to make it up with his real love. This satisfactory part of the programme completed, Katie packed him off into the next room, and then, with the emotional and demonstrative nature of her people, literally grovelled in the dust before Dorothy. She stooped and kissed her moccasined feet, and called on the girl to forgive her for her treacherous conduct But Dorothy raised her from the ground and comforted her as best she could. To her she was as a child, although perhaps her passion was a revelation that as yet she but imperfectly comprehended. But Katie was to prove the sincerity of her regret in a practical fashion.
"Where are your friends?" she asked. "Tell me everything—yes, you can trust me. By the Blessed Virgin, I swear I will serve you faithfully!" She raised her great dark tear-stained eyes to Dorothy's.
The girl instinctively felt that Katie was to be trusted. The only question was, could she count upon her discretion? She felt that she could do that also; she knew that in a matter of intrigue the dusky metis have no equals. The chances were that the others had reached the Fort; if so, no more harm could be done. Briefly she told Katie about those who had started out with her to steal through the rebel lines to the English garrison.
"If Jacques and the women went in the direction you say," said Katie, "the chances are they have got to the Fort. It matters not about the Police and Rory—they can look after themselves. I doubt, however, if your father and the sergeant have got through. You will stay in this house while I go and see. I have many friends among our people; the hearts of some of them not being entirely with Riel, they will help me. I shall take Pierre. Pepin and his mother you need not fear—they are not of the rebels; they have lived too long at Medicine Hat with the whites."
And then she went on briefly to explain how Pepin was a man renowned for his great wisdom and his cunning, as well as for the bodily strength which had once enabled him to strangle a bear. Still, his one great weakness was conceit of his personal appearance, and his belief that every woman was making a dead set at him. He also prided himself upon his manners, which were either absurdly elaborate or rough to a startling degree, as the mood seized him, and as Dorothy had seen for herself. His mother, whom she would see in the next room, was rather an amiable old soul, whose one providentially overpowering delusion was that Pepin was all that he considered himself to be. She regarded most young unengaged women with suspicion, as she fancied they looked upon her son with matrimonial designs. Katie knew that the old lady was at heart a match-maker, but, with the exception of herself, who, however, was engaged, she had found no one good or beautiful enough to aspire to an alliance with the Quesnelle family.
Dorothy felt vastly relieved at hearing all this. Then Katie took her by the hand, and, telling her to be of good courage, as she had nothing to fear led her into the next room.
"A good daughter for you, mother," she said smilingly to the dame who sat by the fire.
The old white-haired woman, who was refreshingly clean and tidy, turned her dark eyes sharply upon the new arrival. Whether it was that Dorothy was prepossessed in her favour and showed it, and that the old lady took it as a personal compliment, or that the physical beauty of the girl appealed to her, is immaterial; but the fact remained that she in her turn was favourably impressed. She motioned to a seat beside herself.
"Sit hyar, honey," she said. "I will put the kettle on the fire and give you to eat and drink."
But the girl smilingly thanked her, and said that she had not long since finished supper. In no way loth to do so, she then went and sat down next the old dame, who regarded her with considerable curiosity and undisguised favour. Katie, seeing that she could safely leave her charge there, spoke a few words in a strange patois of Cree and French to Pepin, and, calling Pierre, left the house.
Dorothy glanced in wonder round the common sitting-room of this singular family. It was a picturesque interior, decorated with all kinds of odds and ends. There were curios in the way of Indian war weapons, scalping knives, gorgeously beaded moccasins and tobacco pouches, barbaric plumed head-dresses, stuffed birds and rattlesnakes, butterflies, strings of birds' eggs, and grinning and truly hideous Indian masks for use in devil and give-away dances. At the far end of the room was a rude cobbler's bench and all the paraphernalia of one who works in boots, moccasins, and harness. Thus was betrayed the calling of Pepin Quesnelle.
But it was the man himself, with his extraordinary personality, who fascinated Dorothy. He was standing with his hands behind his back and his legs apart, talking to the sulky, uncompromising half-breed who had brought her there. He was not more than three feet in height, and he seemed all head and body. His arms were abnormally long and muscular. He had a dark shock head of hair, and his little black moustache was carefully waxed. His forehead was low and broad, and his aquiline nose, like his jet-black, almond-shaped eyes, betrayed an Indian ancestor. His face betokened intelligence, conceit, and a keen sense of sardonic humour; still, there was nothing in it positively forbidding. To those whom he took a fancy to, he was doubtless loyal and kind, albeit his temperament was of a fiery and volatile nature. In this he showed the Gallic side of his origin. It was very evident that, despite his inconsiderable size, his hulking and sulky neighbour stood in considerable awe of him.
"Pshaw! Idiot! Pudding-head!" he was saying. "But it is like to as many Muskymote dogs you are—let one get down and all the others attack him. What, I ask, did your Riel do for you in '70? Did he not show the soles of the moccasins he had not paid for as soon as he heard that the red-coats were close to Fort Garry, and make for the States? Bah, you fools, and he will do so again—if he gets the chance! But he will not, mark my words, Bastien Lagrange; this time the red-coats will catch him, and he and you—yes, you, you chuckle-head—will hang all in a row at the end of long ropes in the square at Regina until you are dead, dead, dead! Think of it, Lagrange, what a great big ugly bloated corpse you'll make hanging by the neck after your toes have stopped twitching, twitching, and your face is a beautiful blue. Eh?Bien!is not that so, blockhead?"
And the dwarf grinned and chuckled in such a bloodthirsty and anticipating fashion that the girl shuddered.
Bastien Lagrange did not seem to relish the prospect, and his shifty eyes roamed round the walls.
"But the red-coats, how can they come?" he weakly asked. "Where are they, the soldiers of the Great Mother? Riel has said that those stories of the cities over seas and the many red-coats are all lies, and that the Lord will smite the Police and those that are in the country with the anthrax that kills the cattle in the spring. Riel swears to that, for St. Peter appeared to him and told him so. He said so himself!"
"Bah, idiot!" retorted Pepin, "if it is that Riel is on such friendly terms with St. Peter, and the Lord is going to do such wonderful things for him, why does not the Saint give his messengers enough in advance for them to pay the poor men who make for them the moccasins they wear? Why does he suffer them to steal from their own people? Pshaw, it is the same old tale, the same old game from all time, from Mahomet to the present down-at-heel! But courage,mon cherBastien! I will come and see you ch-chk, ch-chk!"—he elongated and twisted his neck, at the same time turning his eyes upwards in a horrible fashion—"while your feet go so … so,"—he described a species ofpas-seulwith his toes. "Is that not so, Antoine? Eh?—you beauty, you?" and here he gave the great bear, that had been gravely sitting on its haunches watching him like an attendant spirit, a sudden and affectionate kick.
To Dorothy's horror the great brute made a quick snap at him, which, however, only served to intensely amuse Pepin, for he skilfully evaded it, and, seizing his stick, at once began to dance up and down. The cunning little black eyes of the beast watched him apprehensively and resentfully.
"Aha, Antoine!" he cried. "Git up, you lazy one, and dance! Houp-la!"—the huge brute stood up on its hind legs—"Now, then, Bastien, pick up that fiddle and play. That's it, piff-poum—piff-poum! Houp-la! piff-poum!" and in another minute the man and the bear were dancing opposite each other. It was a weird and uncanny sight, the grotesque dwarf, with his face flushed and his hair on end, capering about and kicking with his pigmy legs, and the bear with uncouth waddles waltzing round and round, its movements every now and again being accelerated by a judicious dig in the ribs from Pepin's stick. Bastien Lagrange fiddled away as if for dear life, and the old dame, her face beaming with pride and admiration, clapped her hands in time to the music. Every minute or two she would glance from her son to Dorothy's face to note what impression such a gallant sight had made.
"Is it notmagnifique?Is he not splendid?" she asked the girl.
"He is indeed wonderful," replied Dorothy, truthfully enough.
Despite the suggestion of weirdness the goblin-like scene created in her mind, the grimaces and antics of the manikin, and the sulkily responsive movements of the bear, were too absurd for anything. She thought of Rory's story of how the "b'ar" resented being left out of its share in Pepin's castor-oil; and was so tickled by the contrast of their present occupation that, despite herself, she broke out into a fit of laughter. Fearful of betraying the reason of it, she began to clap her hands like the old lady, which action, being attributed by the others to her undisguised admiration, at once found favour in their eyes. Dorothy began to imagine she was getting on famously.
"Honey," cried the old lady, raising her voice and stooping towards the girl, "I like yer face. Barrin' Katie, you're the only gal I'd like for Pepin. I reckon we'll just stow you away quietly like, and then afterwards you kin be his wife."
But the prospect so alarmed Dorothy that her heart seemed to stop beating again. At the same moment Pepin showed signs of fatigue, and the music stopped abruptly. Antoine, however, in a fit of absent-mindedness, kept on waltzing around on his own account, until Pepin gave him a crack over the head and brought him to his senses.
"Come hyar, Pepin," cried the old dame. "Mam'selle is took wid you. I think she'd make you a good wife, my sweet one."
Dorothy grew hot and cold at the very thought of it. She really did not know what these people were capable of.
Pepin approached her with what he evidently intended to be dignified strides. For the first time he honoured her with a searching scrutiny. Poor Dorothy felt as if the black eyes of this self-important dwarf were reading her inmost thoughts. She became sick with apprehension, and her eyes fell before his, In another minute the oracle spoke.
"No,ma mere, Dorothy breathed again, but, true to the nature of her
sex, she resented the disparaging allusions to her nose
and eyes—even from Pepin. What a conceited little freak
he was, to be sure! And to tell her that shewould not
do!At the same time she felt vastly relieved to think
that the dwarf had resolved not to annex her. The only
danger was that he might change his mind. His mother had
taken his decision with praiseworthy resignation, and
tried in a kindly fashion to lighten what she considered
must be the girl's disappointment. Meanwhile Lagrange,
judging by his lugubrious countenance, was evidently
pondering over the pleasant prospect Pepin had predicted
for him. The dwarf himself was engaged in trying to
force the fragments of the stick down Antoine's throat,
and the latter was angrily resenting the liberty. Dorothy was becoming sleepy, what with the fatigue she
had undergone during the day and the heat of the fire,
when suddenly there came three distinct taps at one of
the windows. It was fortunate for Antoine the bear that the taps at
the window came when they did, for Pepin with his great
arms had got it into such an extraordinary position
—doubtless the result of many experiments—that it would
most assuredly have had its digestion ruined by the sticks
which its irate master was administering in small sections.
To facilitate matters, he had drawn its tongue to one
side as a veterinary-surgeon does when he is administering
medicine to an animal. On hearing the taps the dwarf
relinquished his efforts and went to the door. The bear
sat up on its haunches, coughing and making wry faces,
at the same time looking around for moccasins or boots
or something that would enable it to pay its master out
with interest, and not be so difficult to swallow when
it came to the reckoning. The dwarf went to the door, and, putting one hand on it,
and his head to one side, cried— "Hello, there!Qui vive?Who are you, and what do you
want?" "All right, Pepin, it's me—Katie." The door was thrown open, and the half-breed woman entered.
At her heels came a man who was so muffled up as to be
almost unrecognisable. But Dorothy knew him, and the next
moment was in her father's arms. The dwarf hastened to
close the door, but before doing so he gazed out
apprehensively. "You are quite sure no one followed you?" he asked Katie,
on re-entering the room. "No one suspected," she replied shortly. "Jean Lagrange
has gone to look out for the others. I fear it will go
hard with the shermoganish unless you can do something,
Pepin." Dorothy had been talking to her father, but heard theIndian word referring to the Police. "I wonder if Mr. Pasmore has got through to the Fort,
dad!" she said suddenly. "I was just about to tell you, my dear, what happened,"
he replied. "I was going quietly along, trying to find
some trace of you, when a couple of breeds came up behind
and took me prisoner. I thought they were going to shoot
me at first, but they concluded to keep me until to-morrow,
when they would bring me before their government. So they
shut me up in a dug-out on the face of a bank, keeping
my capture as quiet as possible for fear of the mob taking
the law into its own hands and spoiling their projected
entertainment. I hadn't been there long before the door
was unbarred and Pasmore came in with Katie here. He told
me to go with her, and, when I had found you, to return
to where we had left the sleighs, and make back for the
ranche by the old trail as quickly as possible. He said
he'd come on later, but that we weren't to trouble about
him. Katie had made it right, it seems, with my jailers,
whom I am inclined to think are old friends of hers." "But why couldn't he come on, dad, with you?" There was something about the affair that she could not
understand. "I suppose he thought it would attract less attention to
go separately. I think the others must have got safely
into the Fort. It seems that since they have discovered
that some of the English are trying to get through their
lines they have strengthened the cordon round the Fort,
so that now it is impossible to reach it." "It's not pleasant, dad, to go back again and leave the
others, is it?" "It can't be helped, dear. I wish Pasmore would hurry up
and come. He said, however, we were not to wait for him.
That half-breed doesn't look too friendly, does he?" "Pepin Quesnelle is, so I fancy it doesn't matter about
the other," replied Dorothy. The rancher turned to the others, who had evidently just
finished a serious argument. "Pepin," he observed, "I'm glad to find you're not one
of those who forget their old friends." "Did you ever think I would? Eh? What?" asked the manikin
cynically, with his head on one side. "I don't suppose I ever thought about the matter in that
way," said Douglas, "but if I'd done so, I'm bound to
say that I should have had some measure of faith in you,
Pepin Quesnelle. You have known me for many years now,
and you know I never say what I do not mean." "So!… that is so.Bien!" remarked Pepin obviously
pleased. "But the question we have had to settle is this.
If we let your daughter go now, how is Bastien here to
account for his prisoner in the morning? He knows that
one day he will have to stand on the little trap-door in
the scaffold floor at Regina, and that he will twirl
round and round so—like to that so"—picking up a hobble
chain and spinning it round with his hand—"while his
eyes will stick out of his head like the eyes of a
flat-fish; but at the same time he does not want to be
shot by order of Riel or Gabriel Dumont to-morrow for
losing a prisoner." "Yees, they will shoot—shoot me mooch dead!" observedBastien feelingly. "So we have think," continued the dwarf, "that he should
disappear also; that he go with you. I will tell them
to-morrow that the girl here she was sit by the fire and
she go up the chimney like as smoke or a speerit, so,
and that Bastien he follow, and when I have go out I see
them both going up to the sky. They will believe, and
Bastien perhaps, if he keep away with you, or go hide
somewhere else, he may live yet to get drown, or get
shot, or be keel by a bear, and not die by the rope. You
follow?" "Where ees ze sleighs?" asked the breed, taking time by
the forelock. They told him and he rose with alacrity. "Zen come on quick, right now," he said. Douglas was pressing some gold into the old dame's hand,
but Pepin saw it. "Ah, non!" he said. "There are bad Engleesh and there
are good Engleesh, and there are bad French, but there
are also good French. The girl is a good girl, but if
Pepin cannot marry her he will at least not take her
gold." The old dame as usual, seconded him. "That is right, Pepin," she said, "I cannot take the
monies. Go, my child; you cannot help that my son will
not have you for a wife. Some day, perhaps, you may find
a hoosband who will console you. Adieu!" Dorothy had again put on her fur coat, and, bidding the
good old lady an affectionate farewell, and also thanking
Pepin, they prepared to set out again for the deserted
homestead in the bluffs. "You will send the sergeant on at once if he comes here,
won't you, Pepin?" said Douglas to the dwarf. "Perhaps
it is as well to take his advice and get back as quickly
as possible." "Come now," remarked Pepin, "you must go. If you wait
you may be caught Bastien will lead you safely there.
Adieu!" He opened the door and looked out Antoine moved to the
door with a moccasin in his mouth. Dorothy said good-bye
to Katie, who would have gone with her, only Pepin would
not allow it. As Dorothy passed the latter he was evidently
apprehensive lest she might be anxious to bid him a
demonstrative farewell, for he merely bowed with exaggerated
dignity and would not meet her eyes. "There are lots of other men nearly as good as myself,
my dear," he whispered by way of consolation. By this time the last of the frenzied mob was looking
for somewhere to lay its sore and weary head, so the open
spaces were comparatively clear of rebels. In a couple
of hours another dawn would break over that vast land of
frozen rivers and virgin snows to witness scenes of
bloodshed and pillage, the news of which would flash
throughout the civilised world, causing surprise and
horror, but which it would be powerless to prevent. By
this time the stores which had burned so brilliantly on
the previous night were dully glowing heaps of ashes.
The tom-toms had ceased their hollow-sounding monotones
so suggestive of disorder and rapine, and the wild yelpings
of the fiend-like crew had given place to the desultory
howling of some coyotes and timber-wolves that had ventured
right up to the outskirts of the village, attracted by
the late congenial uproar. They were now keeping it up
on their own account. Farther away to the east, in the
mysterious greyness of the dreary scene, lay the Fort,
while in the ribbed, sandy wastes around, and in the
clumps of timber, the cordon of rebels watched and waited. As the fugitives looked back at the edge of the bluffs
to catch one last glimpse of a scene that was to leave
its mark on Canadian history, a rocket shot high into
the heavens, leaving behind it a trail of glowing sparks
and exploding with a hollow boom, shedding blood-red
balls of fire all around, which speedily changed to a
dazzling whiteness as they fell. It was a signal of
distress from the beleaguered Fort to any relieving column
which might be on its way. Then away to the north, as if
to remind man of his littleness, the Aurora borealis
sprang into life. A great arc or fan-like glory radiated
from the throne of the great Ice-king, its living shafts
of pearly, silvery and rosy light flashing with bewildering
effect over one half of the great dome of the heavens,
flooding that vast snow-clad land with a vision of
colouring and beauty that brought home to one the
words—"How marvellous are Thy works." No wonder that
even the Indians should look beyond the narrow explanation
of natural phenomena and call such a soul-stirring sightthe dance of the Spirits! But there was no time to lose, for should they be taken
now their lives would surely pay for their rashness. They
threaded their way among the wooded bluffs, avoiding the
homesteads, and once they nearly ran into a rebel outpost
standing under the trees near which two trails met. They
made a detour, and at last, on crossing over a low ridge,
they came upon the deserted homestead where they had left
the sleighs, horses and dogs. Everything seemed quiet as they silently approached, and
Bastien seemed considerably astonished when he caught
sight of the signs of occupation by the enemy. He,
however, felt considerably relieved, for Pepin's pleasant
prognostications were weighing somewhat heavily upon his
mind. As for Dorothy, she felt strangely disappointed
when she found that Sergeant Pasmore had not put in an
appearance, for somehow she realised that there was
something mysterious in his having stayed behind. They
were passing an open shed when suddenly a not unfamiliar
voice hailed them. "The top av the mornin' t'ye," it said, "an' shure an'I thought I'd be here as soon as you." It was Rory, who, after many adventures in dodging about
the village, and seeing Jacques and the two women servants
safely past the lax cordon of rebels, without taking
advantage of the situation to take refuge in the Fort
himself, had come back to his beloved dogs with a
presentiment that something had gone wrong with the
others, and that his services might be required. He was
singularly right. Bastien nearly jumped out of his blanket suit with terror
when he heard this strange voice. He had seized poor
Dorothy with reckless temerity on the previous night when
he was surrounded by his own people, but now that he had
to deal with a white man he was not quite so brave. But
Douglas speedily reassured him, and he busied himself in
hitching up a team. The rancher and Rory speedily compared notes. "It will be light in another hour," said Douglas, not a
little impatiently, "and I can't make out why Pasmore
doesn't come on, unless he's got into trouble. As you
tell me, and as he would know himself, it would be useless
trying to get to the Fort. I don't like the idea of going
on ahead, as he told me to be sure and do, while he may
be in need of help." "It's mortal queer," observed Rory, "that he didn't come
on wid you." He turned and addressed Bastien, who, having
hitched up two teams, seemed in a great hurry to be off.
"Eh, mister, an' what may you be sayin' to it?" "I tink eet ees time to be what you call depart," was
the reply. "Eet ees mooch dead ze metis will shoot us if
zey come now." He glanced apprehensively around. "It's the other man who came with Katie to the place
where they had me prisoner, and who remained behind,"
explained Douglas. "He told me he'd come on." The half-breed looked surprisedly and incredulously at
the rancher. Dorothy had now joined the group, and was
listening to what was being said. "Mon Dieu!" exclaimed Bastien, "but ees eet possible
that you not know! Katie she haf told all to me. Ze man
you declare of he will no more come back. Ze man who made
of you a preesonar, have to show one on ze morrow, but
eet matter not vich, and dey arrange to showze ozer
man!He take your place; he mooch good fellow, and zey
shoot him mooch dead to-morrow!" And all at once the truth—the self-sacrifice that Pasmore
had so quietly carried out—flashed upon them. It was a
revelation. Douglas understood now why it was the sergeant had told
him to hurry on, and not wait. There was a dead silence for about thirty seconds after
the half-breed had revealed the truth regarding Pasmore's
non-appearance. Douglas wondered why he had not suspected
the real state of affairs before. Of course, Pasmore
knew that his guards had only consented to the exchange
on condition that he was handed over to the bloodthirsty
crew on the morrow! As for Dorothy, she realised at last how she had been
trying to keep the truth from herself. She thought of
how she had almost resented the fact of Pasmore having
more than once faced death in order to secure the safety
of her father and herself, although the man was modesty
itself and made it appear as if it were only a matter of
duty. True, she had thanked him in words, but her heart
upbraided her when she thought of how commonplace and
conventional those words must have sounded, no matter
what she might have felt She knew now that Katie must
have found and spoken to him, and that her father's
liberty probably meant his—Pasmore's—death. How noble
was the man! How true the words—"Greater love hath-no
man than this, that a man lay down his life for his
friend." It was Douglas who first broke the silence; he spoke like
a man who was determined on a certain line of action,
and whose resolve nothing should shake. "I feel that what this fellow tells us is true, Dorothy,"
he said; "but it is utterly impossible that I can have
it so. Pasmore is a young man with all his life before
him, and I have no right to expect a sacrifice like this.
I am going back—back this very moment, and you must go
on with Rory. Pasmore can follow up. You must go on to
Child-of-Light, who will take you safely to some of the
settlers near Fort Pitt. As soon as the soldiers get here
they will crush this rebellion at once. After all, I
don't believe they will harm me. As for Pasmore, if they
discover that he is one of the Police, he is a dead man.
Good-bye!" The girl caught him by both hands, and kissed him. "You are right, father, you are only doing what is right,"
she said, "but I am coming with you. I could not possibly
think of going on alone. We will return together. You
will go on and take Pasmore's place—it will be all one
to his guards so long as they produce a prisoner—and he
can make good his escape. Lagrange here, who had charge
of me before, can imprison me along with you, and the
chances are they will be content to keep us as prisoners.
It will also save Lagrange from getting into trouble
later on." "Ah! that ees mooch good," broke in the breed, who had
caught the drift of the last proposal. "Oui, that ees
good, and then they will not shoot me mooch dead." Old Rory gave a grunt and eyed the hulking fellow
disgustedly. "It's nary a fut ye'll be goin' back now,
an' I'm tellin' yees, so it's makin' what moind ye have
aisy, sez Oi." He turned to the rancher and there was grim determination
in his eyes. "An' as for you goin' back now, shure an' it's a gossoon
ye'll be takin' me for if ye think I'll be lettin' yees.
It's ten chances to wan them jokers'll have changed their
sentymints by the time ye git thar, and will hould on to
the sarjint as well as to you. It's mesilf as is goin'
back if ye juist tell me where the show is, for I knows
the whole caboodle, an' if I can't git him out o' that
before another hour, then Rory's not the name av me. You
juist—" But he never finished the sentence, for at that very
moment two or three shots rang out on the still night.
They came from the neighbourhood of the town. "Summat's up," exclaimed Rory. "Let's investigate." The three men seized their rifles and ran up the ridge
that overlooked the bend of the trail They peered into
the grey moonlit night in the direction of the township. At first they could see nothing, but a desultory shot or
two rang out, and it seemed to them that they were nearer
than before. At last, round a bend in the trail, they
caught sight of a dark figure running towards them. "It must be one of the Police or Pasmore," said the
rancher. At last they saw this man's pursuers. There were only
three of them, and one stopped at the turn, the other
two keeping on. Now and again one of them would stop,
kneel on the snow, and take aim at the flying figure.
But moonlight is terribly deceptive, and invariably makes
one fire high; moreover, when one's nerves are on the
jump, shooting is largely chance work. "'Pears to me," remarked Rory, "thet this 'ere ain't what
you'd 'xactly call a square game. Thet joker in the lead
is gettin' well nigh played out, an' them two coves
a-follerin' are gettin' the bulge on 'im. Shure an' I'm
thinkin' they're friends av yourn, Lagrange, but they
wants stoppin'. What d'ye say?" "Oui, oui—oh, yiss, stob 'em! If they see me ze—what
you call it—ze game is oop. Yiss, they friends—shoot
'em mooch dead." The tender-hearted Lagrange was a very Napoleon in the
advocating of extreme measures when the inviolability of
his own skin was concerned. "It's a bloodthirsty baste ye are wid yer own kith an'
kin," exclaimed Rory, disgustedly; "but I'm thinkin' the
less shootin' the better unless we wants to hev the whole
pack after us. No, we'll juist let thet joker in the lead
git past, an' then well pounce on thim two Johnnies before
they can draw a bead, an' take 'em prisoners." No sooner said than done. They ran down the shoulder of
the ridge, and, just where the trail rounded it, hid
themselves in the shadow of a great pine. In a few minutes
more a huge figure came puffing and blowing round the
bend. They could see he had no rifle. The moonlight was
shining full on his face, and they recognised Jacques.
He did not see them, so they allowed him to pass on. In
another minute his two pursuers also rounded the bend.
One of them was just in the act of stopping to fire when
Douglas and Rory rushed out. "Hands up!" they shouted. One of them let his rifle drop, and jerked his hands into
the air at the first sound of the strange voices. But
the other hesitated and wheeled, at the same moment
bringing his rifle to his shoulder. But Douglas and Rory had sprung on him simultaneously.
His rifle was struck to one side, and he received a rap
on the head that caused him to sit down on the snow
feeling sick and dizzy, and wondering vaguely what had
happened. On hearing the commotion behind him, Jacques also stopped,
and turned. He came up just in time to secure the better
of the two rifles. The gentleman who had sat down against
his own inclination on the snow, was hauled on one side,
and while Douglas, Jacques and Lagrange stood over the
prisoners, Rory again ascended the ridge to find out
whether or not any more of the enemy were following. In a few words Jacques told Douglas his adventures since
he had left them on the previous night He and the women
had reached the British lines in safety, and shortly
afterwards the Police also arrived. The Fort, however,
was most uncomfortable. There were about six hundred men,
women, and children all huddled together in the insufficient
barrack buildings. After waiting for a few hours, Jacques
began to wonder what was delaying the others, and to
think that something must have gone wrong. He was not
the sort to remain inactive if he knew his services might
be required, so he evaded the sentries and stole out of
the Fort again to find his missing friends. Luck had so
far favoured him, and he had wished many of the rebels
good-night without arousing any suspicion as to his
identity, when unexpectedly he stumbled against a picquet.
It had doubtless got about that there were spies and
strangers in the town, for when they challenged him his
response was not considered satisfactory, and they ordered
him to lay down his rifle and put up his hands. He made
off instead, and, by dodging and ducking, managed to
escape the bullets they sent after him. He had lost his
rifle by stumbling in the snow, but he was fleet of foot,
and soon managed to get ahead of his pursuers. He knew
where there was a rifle if only he could reach the sleighs.
He had hardly expected such good fortune as to fall in
with his party again, having feared that they had been
captured by the rebels. He advised Douglas to get back
to the ranche by a little-used circuitous trail, as now
it was pretty certain that the whole township was aroused,
and the rebels would be out scouring the countryside for
them in another hour or less. The only consolation that
lay in the situation to Jacques was that he would now
have an opportunity of seeking out and finally settling
his little difference with hisbete noire, Leopold St.
Croix. Rory came down from the ridge and reported that it would
now be madness to attempt to carry out their programme
of going back, as the entire settlement was aroused, and
there was evidently some little fight going on amongst
the rebels themselves. Douglas, he said, could not return
to Pasmore's guards and offer to exchange himself, trusting
to their friendship for Katie, for every one now would
see them; they might only precipitate Pasmore's fate,
and probably get shot themselves. They must get back to
Child-of-Light. It was certainly a distressing thing to have to do after
all they had gone through, but the worst part of the
whole affair was the thought of having to return leaving
the man who had risked his life for them at the mercy of
the rebels. But it was folly on the face of it to go back to Battleford.Still Douglas hesitated. "It's too much to expect one to do to leave him," he
said, "but I'm afraid we're too late to do anything else." As for Dorothy, she looked sick of it all, to say the
least of it. "It's too terrible, dad; too terrible for words, and I
hardly thanked him for what he had done!" "Nonsense, Dorothy! He knew we were people who didn't go
about wearing our hearts upon our sleeves. Besides, the
chances are that Pepin or Katie will stand him in good
stead yet. Besides, they may take it into their heads to
hold him as a hostage." "Pardon,mon ami," said Jacques. "I think it is this
of two ways. Either we go as Rory here says, or we stop
and go back. As for myself, it matters not which—see"—he
showed some ominous scars on his wrists—"that was
Big-bear's lot long time ago when they had me at the
stake, and I was not afraid then. But I think it is well
to go, for if Pasmore is not dead, then we live again to
fight, and we kill that idiot St. Croix and one or two
more.Bien!Is not that so?" "Thet's the whole affair in a nutshell," said Rory. "Now
the question is, what we're going to do wid them beauties?
It would hardly do to leave 'em here, an' as for Lagrange,
he knows that them in Battleford won't be too friendly
disposed to him now, so 'e'd better come, too." "That's it," said the rancher, "we'll make these two
breeds drive in front of us with the spare sleighs—they
can't leave the trail the way the snow is—and anyhow
we've got arms and they haven't, so I fancy they'll keep
quiet. When we get some distance away we may send them
back as hostages for Pasmore. Let us get ready." The horses were speedily got into the sleighs, and in a
few minutes the procession was formed. As for Rory, he
had some little trouble in starting, for his dogs, in
their joy at seeing him, gave expression to it in their
own peculiar way. A big Muskymote knocked down a little
Corbeau and straightway began to worry it, while a Chocolat
did the same with a diminutivetete-noire. The order was given to pull out, and away they went again
in the early dawn. Rory had not gone far in his light
dog-sleigh before he pulled alongside the rancher. "I say, boss," he said, "I ain't juist agoin' wid you
yet awhile. I know iviry hole an' corner of them bluffs,
an' I'm juist makin' for a quiet place I knows of, close
by, where I'll be able to find out about Pasmore, and
p'rhaps help him. As for you, keep right on to
Child-o'-Light. I'll foller in a day or so if I kin, but
don't you trouble about Rory. I'se know my way about,
an' I'll be all right, you bet." Before Douglas could make any demur, Rory had switched
off on to another trail and was driving quickly away. "Rory is as wide awake as a fox," said Douglas to his
daughter. "He's off at full speed now, and I don't suppose
he'd turn for me anyhow, if I did overtake him." "Let him go, father," said the girl. "Rory would have
been dead long ago if there had been any killing him.
Besides, he may really be of some use to Mr. Pasmore—one
never can tell. Do you know, dad, I've got an idea that
somehow Mr. Pasmore is going to come out of this all
right I can't tell you why I think so, but somehow I feel
as if he were." The rancher's gaze seemed concentrated on the tiny
iridescent and diamond-like crystals floating in the air.
There was a very sober expression on his face. He only
wished he could have been honestly of the same opinion. The sun came out strong, and it was quite evident that
Jack Frost had not many more days to reign. Already he
was losing that iron-like grip he had so long maintained
over the face of Nature. The horses were actually steaming,
and the steel runners glided smoothly over the snow, much
more easily, indeed, than they would have done if the
frost had been more intense, as those accustomed to
sleighing very well know. There was a great silence all round them, and when on
the open prairie, where the dim horizon line and the cold
grey sky became one, they could almost have imagined that
they were passing over the face of some dead planet
whirling in space. Only occasionally, where the country
was broken and a few stunted bushes were to be met with,
a flock of twittering snow-birds were taking time by the
forelock, and rejoicing that the period of dried fruits
and short commons was drawing to a close. And now Dorothy saw that her father was struggling with
sleep. It was not to be wondered at, for it was the third
day since he had closed an eye. Without a word she took
the reins from his hands, and in a few minutes more had
the satisfaction of seeing him slumbering peacefully with
his head upon his breast. The high sides of the sleigh
kept him in position. When he awoke he found it was about
eleven o'clock, and that once more they were in the wooded
bluff country. "You have let me sleep too long, Dorothy," he said. "It's
time we called a halt for breakfast Besides, we must send
those breeds back." He whistled to Jacques, who called to Bastien, and in
another minute or two the sleighs were pulled up. The
prisoners were then provided with food, and told that
they were at liberty to depart By making a certain cut
across country they could easily reach the township before
nightfall. One would have naturally expected that the two moccasined
gentry would have been only too glad to do as they were
told; but they were truculent, surly fellows, both, and
had been fretting all morning over the simple way in
which they had been trapped, and so were inclined to make
themselves disagreeable. Bastien Lagrange, who had always
known them as two particularly tricky, unreliable customers,
had preserved a discreet silence during the long drive,
despite their endeavours to drag some information out of
him. From what they knew of Douglas they felt in no way
apprehensive of their personal safety, so, after the
manner of mean men, they determined to take advantage of
his magnanimity to work out their revenge. Of Jacques,
however, they stood in awe. They knew that if it were
not for the presence of the rancher and his daughter that
gentleman would very soon make short work of them. The
cunning wretches knew exactly how far they could go with
the British. They began by grumbling at having been forced to accompany
their captors so far, and asked for the fire-arms that
had been taken from them. One of them even supplemented
this modest request by pointing out that they were
destitute of ammunition. Jacques could stand their
impudence no longer, so, taking the speaker by the
shoulders, he gave him an unexpected and gratuitous start
along the trail. The two stayed no longer to argue, but
kept on their way, muttering ugly threats against their
late captors. In a few minutes more they had disappeared
round a turn of the trail. The party proceeded on its way again. After going a few
hundred yards they branched on to a side trail, which
led into hilly and wooded country. Passing through a
dense avenue of pines in a deep, narrow valley, they came
to a few log huts nestling in the shadow of a high cliff.
There was a corral [Footnote: Corral = yard.] hard by
with a stack of hay at one end. They approached it
cautiously. Having satisfied themselves that the huts
concealed no lurking foes, it was resolved that they
should unhitch, give the horses a rest, and continue
their journey a couple of hours later. Jacques put one of his great shoulders to the door of
the most habitable-looking log hut and burst it open.
Dorothy entered with him. The place had evidently belonged
to half-breeds. It was scrupulously clean, and in the
fairly commodious kitchen, with its open fire-place at
one end, they found a supply of fuel ready to their hand. Whilst Jacques assisted the rancher and Lagrange in
foddering the horses, Dorothy busied herself with
preparations for a meal. It was pleasant to be engaged with familiar objects and
duties after passing through all sorts of horrors, and
Dorothy entered cheerfully on her self-imposed tasks.
She quickly lit a fire, and then went out with a large
pitcher to the inevitable well found on all Canadian
homesteads. She had to draw the water up in the bucket
some forty or fifty feet, but she was no weakling, and
soon accomplished that. To fill and swing the camp-kettle
across the cheery fire was the work of a minute or two.
She then got the provisions out of the sleighs, and before
the three men returned from looking after the horses she
had laid out a meal on the well-kept deal table, which
she had Covered with an oilcloth. The tea had been made
by this time, and the four steaming pannikins filled with
the dark, amber-hued nectar looked truly tempting. The
rude benches were drawn close to the table, and the room
assumed anything but a deserted appearance. It would have been quite a festive repast only that the
thought of Sergeant Pasmore's probable fate would obtrude
itself. Certainly they could not count upon the security
of their own lives for one single moment. It was just as
likely as not that a party of rebels might drive up as
they sat there and either shoot them down or call upon
them to surrender. Dorothy, despite her endeavours to
banish all thoughts of the situation from her mind, could
not free herself from the atmosphere of tragedy and
mystery that shrouded the fate of the captured one. Her
reason told her it was ten chances to one that the rebels
would promptly shoot him as a dangerous enemy. Still, an
uncanny something that she could not define would not
allow her to believe that he was dead: rather was she
inclined to think that he was that very moment alive,
but in imminent peril of his life and thinking of her.
So strongly at times did this strange fancy move her that
once she fully believed she heard him call her by name.
She put down the pannikin of tea from her lips untasted,
and with difficulty suppressed an almost irresistible
impulse to cry out. But there was no sound to be heard
outside save the dull thud of some snow falling from the
eaves. They had just finished their meal when suddenly a terrible
din was heard outside. It seemed to come from the horse
corral. There was a thundering of hoofs, a few equine
snorts of fear, a straining and creaking of timber, a
loud crash, and then the drumming of a wild stampede. The men sprang to their feet and grasped their rifles. "The horses!" cried Douglas; "some one has stampeded
them! We must get them back at any cost." "Don't go out that way," remonstrated Dorothy, as they
made for the door. "You don't know who may be waiting
for you there. There is a back door leading out from the
next room, but you'd better look out carefully through
the window first." The wisdom of the girl's advice was so obvious that they
at once proceeded to put it into execution.
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