The half-breed boy hastened along without hesitation, scarcely thinking of the trail itself, but with eyes and ears open for signs of other human beings. That travelled way must lead, he felt sure, to some more or less permanent camp. Had Hugh fallen into Ohrante’s hands or into those of some tribe of permanent inhabitants of Minong? Blaise hoped heartily that it might be the latter. Even if they were inclined to be hostile, he feared such an unknown people less than he did the too well known Iroquois.
Going noiselessly, with every sense alert, the boy caught sight of something moving among the trees ahead. Instantly he dropped to the ground and slipped like a snake among trees and bushes and through undergrowth to the left of the trail. Behind a dense clump of balsams that had sprung up about a parent tree, he lay motionless. When he thought he had waited long enough, he crept cautiously back towards the trail. Moving bushes a little distance away in the direction from which he had come, a glimpse of a black head told the boy he had just missed an encounter.
A short distance farther on, the trail turned to the right and plunged down an abrupt descent. Then the way wound up and down over low ridges, the outer slopes of which were steep to abruptness, and through boggy ravines with thick growth and treacherous moss and mud. Following a general downward trend, the trail led at last to almost level ground. Now Blaise went forward with the utmost caution, for he felt that the end must be near at hand. On this lower ground, near the water, the village or camp must be situated. Presently the lad stopped, stood still and sniffed the air. He smelled smoke.
Hugh’s fall stunned him for a moment, and that moment was his undoing. When he came to himself, he was propped against the tree, his knife and hatchet gone. Two Indians were binding his wrists with a rawhide rope. Dizzy, his head spinning, he fought to free himself, but to no avail. The knots were tied, and he struggled to his feet to confront the malicious grin of the young Indian whom he had first encountered, and the ugly, lowering face of another, older savage of short, squat figure. It must have been this fellow’s long, strong arms that had seized and thrown the boy. Recovering himself a little, Hugh looked desperately about for a way of escape. His captors understood that glance. The squat man seized his arm in a grip that almost made the boy cry out, while the young fellow, who had picked up his long gun, raised it threateningly.
In spite of his aching head, the sickness at his stomach and a general feeling of misery and despair, physical and mental, the boy made an heroic effort to stand erect and, with calm and impassive face, look his enemies in the eye. He knew that to show weakness or fear would only make matters worse. He must assume an indifference and unconcern he was far from feeling, at the same time keeping alert for any chance of gaining an advantage.
He was not left long in doubt of his captors’ immediate intentions. With a guttural grunt, the man who held his arm turned him about and led him around the jackpine, the other following, musket ready. They went through the woods, and came out into an open rock lane bordered with trees and bushes. There they turned to the right. It was of no use to struggle. Hugh had no chance to get away. Even if he had been able to break loose from the iron grip of the squat man, or, by thrusting out a foot, trip him and twist himself from the Indian’s grasp, he could not hope to escape the fellow with the gun. The latter would most certainly have shot him or clubbed him into unconsciousness.
Hugh went in silence, until they entered a trail leading from the open lane. Then he attempted a question. “Where do you take me, to whom?” he asked.
Receiving no answer but the young fellow’s singsong “Ne compr’ney” and a sullen grunt from the older savage, the boy made another attempt. Loudly and vigorously, to make his anger clear by his voice and manner, he uttered an indignant protest. What did they mean by such treatment of a white man of peaceable and friendly intentions, who had never done wrong to them or to any other Ojibwa? He voiced his indignation in both English and French, apparently without effect, except to cause the squat Indian to tighten his grip and the grinning one to prod the captive in the back with his musket.
Curiously enough, that prod, instead of frightening the lad, made him blaze with anger. The blood surged to his face. With difficulty he restrained himself from turning to give battle. But one cool spot in his brain told him that such an act would be suicide. He must keep his wrath under control and use guile instead of force, if he was ever to see Blaise again and escape with their joint inheritance. So he controlled himself and went quietly where his captors led him. Questions and protests were worse than useless.
It was not a path they were following, merely a trail trodden down more or less by use. As Indians and woodsmen always go single file, the way was narrow. The squat Indian went ahead, the end of the rawhide that bound Hugh’s wrists wrapped about his hand. He went rapidly, and Hugh, his arms extended in front of him, had to step quickly to keep from being dragged. Behind him the other man gave him an occasional reminder by touching him between the shoulders with the gun barrel. Every time he felt that touch, wrath surged up in Hugh. The boy would have been less than human if he had not been afraid of the fate in store for him, but he was proving himself the true son of his father. Every threat or insult produced in him a hot anger that, for the moment, completely blotted out fear. Yet he strove to hold himself in check, to keep calm and silent and to appear unconscious of the fellow behind him.
Had Hugh not been active and light-footed, he could not have kept pace with his guards on the rough and winding trail. The squat Indian showed not the slightest consideration for his captive. Hugh knew that if he lagged, tripped or fell, he would be dragged along regardless of his comfort. In addition he would probably be kicked or prodded by the man behind. So he exerted himself to keep up the swift pace with truly Indian agility.
The trail turned to the right and led to the edge of an abrupt decline. The older Indian let go his hold of the boy, to climb down, but the other man kept the muzzle of his gun between Hugh’s shoulders. The lad wondered if the two expected him to go down that almost vertical descent with bound arms. He was still wondering when the Indian in front reached the bottom. The man in the rear, without warning, suddenly seized the boy about the waist, swung him off his feet, and literally dropped him over the edge.
Hugh went sliding down, trying to save himself from too rapid a descent by gripping the rock with his moccasined feet. In a flash he saw that he would land right in the arms of the man at the bottom. If he could only strike the Indian in the stomach with enough force to knock him down, and then dodge aside swiftly before the other fellow could pick up his gun again—— Far more quickly than it can be told the plan was born in the boy’s mind. The squat Indian’s long arms were stretched out and up. His powerful hands gripped Hugh. The lad tried to throw himself forward, but the sturdy figure stood firm. The Indian swung Hugh around, and in an instant had him flat on his back in a tangle of prickly juniper. The captive’s one attempt to escape had failed.
Bruised and battered by his slide down the rocks, Hugh was jerked to his feet. The younger savage was beside him now, ready to take up his position in the rear. The two wasted no time. The older man gripped the rawhide again and the march was resumed. Speed was not slackened even in the steep places, and Hugh was put to it to keep up and not lose his footing. The general course was downward, until they reached almost level ground, thickly wooded with evergreens, where the trail led over many fallen tree trunks, decayed and moss covered. Then they went up a few feet of rise, like a low and ruinous rock wall. To his left among the trees, Hugh could see the gleam of water.
The squat Indian sprang down from the natural wall, and Hugh leaped with him, to avoid being dragged down. He found himself almost on a level with the water, among scattering broad-leaved trees and bushes. A few steps farther and, rounding a clump of mountain ash, he came in sight of a small birch bark lodge, of the conical wigwam form sometimes used by the Ojibwas for temporary dwellings to be occupied a few days or a week or two. The more permanent lodges were commonly of a different shape with rounded roofs. In a moment another, slightly larger wigwam came in view. A thin curl of smoke rose from the remains of a fire, and a canoe lay on the sand beach. No human beings were to be seen.
The two Indians marched their captive to the cleared spot where the fire smouldered. Then, before the boy realized his intention, the squat man turned quickly, put his arm about Hugh’s waist, tripping him cleverly at the same time, threw him backwards to the ground and sat upon him. Without a word spoken, the grinning savage dropped his musket, seized a strip of rawhide and set to work to tie the prisoner’s ankles together. Hugh attempted to kick, but the squat man prodded him unmercifully in the stomach. The boy realized that he could not help matters by struggling. The younger Indian completed his work, rose to his feet and grinned down at him derisively. The older man tested the cord on Hugh’s wrists, pulled it a little tighter and got to his feet, to the great relief of the sore and suffering captive. The squat Indian was heavily built, and Hugh felt that a few moments more of that weight on his middle would crush him flat. He strove to control his features, however, and not to let his misery, indignation and despair show in his face.
Evidently the pair considered their work completed, or perhaps they had tired of tormenting the prisoner. At any rate they left him to himself. For a time Hugh lay perfectly still, too miserable for effort of body or mind. His head still pained him from the fall against the tree, he had several sore bruises on his body, his arms and shoulders ached from being held so long in one position, the thongs cut into his wrists and ankles, and he was sick at the stomach from the treatment he had just received. As he lay on his back, his captors were no longer within his range of vision, but he did not flatter himself that he was unwatched. That the two were not far away he knew from the sound of their voices that came to him at intervals from somewhere down by the water. There was no need for them to watch him closely, he thought bitterly. Bound as he was and unable to even raise himself to his feet, he had not the slightest chance of escape.
After a while he began to feel better, and his hopes rose a little. Turning his head from side to side, he looked about for some way to help himself. He could no longer hear the voices of the Indians nor could he catch any glimpse of them. Everything about him was quiet, except for the ripple of the water on the sand and gravel of the beach, and the occasional cries of a small flock of gulls.
There was something familiar about this spot, this stretch of sandy ground, with its sparse growth of trees and bushes, and its curving beach. Beyond and above, the tree-covered ridges towered. Hugh managed to roll over on his side, and looked across a narrow blue channel to another thickly wooded shore, where the trees ran down to the water. He knew the place now. On that stretch of sand and pebbles, Captain Bennett had beached theOtter. Hugh himself had helped to clear the very spot where the wigwams now stood. The place looked somewhat different, to be sure, with all the ice and snow gone and the trees and bushes in full summer green.
Hugh’s thoughts turned from the memory of that other camp to the present situation. He pulled at the thongs that bound him and tried to loosen them by wriggling his hands and feet, but it was of no use. The cords, instead of loosening, only cut into his wrists and ankles more painfully. He was just about to attempt to sit up, when the gruff voice of the older of his captors sounded close by, just beyond his head. Hugh composed himself to lie still. The Indian came near and looked down frowningly on the lad, then seated himself at a little distance and went to work on a piece of deerskin he was fashioning into moccasins. Hugh was familiar enough with Indian ways to grasp the significance of the fact that the man was making his own moccasins. That was women’s work, if there were women about. It was evident that in this camp there were no squaws, or the braves would not be doing squaws’ work.
Growing tired of watching his guard at his task, Hugh closed his eyes. The sun was warm and in this sheltered place there was little breeze. He felt very tired and all things around him conspired to make him drowsy. In a few minutes the captive had fallen fast asleep.
The sound of voices waked Hugh. He opened his eyes to find, looking down on him, the young Indian and a repulsive fellow with a strip of dirty red cloth bound about his black hair. The latter had evidently just come from visiting his snares, for he was carrying two rabbits. When he saw that Hugh was awake, he turned away, the young fellow, after favoring the boy with another of his malicious grins, following him. From the position of the sun Hugh knew that he had not slept long, but his head felt better and the sick feeling had passed.
Long and tedious hours of waiting followed. At least one of the Indians was in sight and hearing every moment. Hugh was hungry, but he was offered no food, thirsty, but he disdained to ask for a drink. He strove to lie quiet and to keep his feelings of discomfort, anxiety and apprehension from his face. The ground was hard, the sun beat down upon his head and face, and he could not move to a more comfortable spot. Only with difficulty could he roll over on his side. His mental suffering, however, was far worse than his physical discomfort and pain.
Why was he treated in this way? Into whose hands had he fallen? What were they going to do to him and for what or whom were they waiting? The one possible explanation of his treatment was that he had fallen into the hands of Ohrante’s little band of outlaws. Why should even they want to take him prisoner? Was Ohrante looking for the hidden cache? A cold chill ran up Hugh’s spine, as he remembered the packet in the breast of his shirt. If he had only had sense enough to leave that packet with Blaise! It must surely come to light should his captors strip him to torment or torture him. Torture! He recalled the fiendish scene in the firelight. Was that what it meant to fall into the hands of the giant Iroquois? The boy dared not think of that. He tried to assure himself that the outlaw had nothing against him. At any rate he must not give way to fear. If he could keep cool and alert, he might yet find some way out of the perils that threatened him. Hemustfind a way.
With such thoughts running through his head, the time dragged painfully. Late in the afternoon, the younger Indian renewed the fire and hung over it an iron pot of water. Into the pot he put several handfuls of wild rice and rabbit meat cut into small pieces. The odor was tempting to Hugh’s nostrils, but he strove to keep his hunger from showing in his face.
Sunset came. The stew was ready, but the pot was not unslung. The three Indians sat about the fire, the younger one whiling away the time by playing on a crude native flute with three holes. The sounds produced were mournful and monotonous and did not inspire cheerfulness. The other two savages sat idle, eying the seething mixture in the kettle, but none made a move to dip into it. They were certainly waiting for the return of the rest of the band. Unusually well disciplined savages, Hugh thought them, to postpone their own supper until their chief arrived.
The squat man turned his head, gave a little grunt, rose and walked away towards the beach. The young fellow ceased his flute playing and followed, the other remaining to watch the stew. Hugh heard a canoe grate lightly on the gravel, a few words exchanged. He rolled over on his side, and saw, striding towards him—Ohrante. There could be no mistaking that huge form, looking more gigantic than ever as it towered over the prostrate lad.
For an instant Hugh forgot all else in wonder at the Indian’s size. Ohrante was not less than seven feet in height, with proportionate breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. Then, as he gazed into the face looking down on him, a veritable panic of fear shook the lad. It was not an ugly face. In its outlines and proportions, its strongly cut, regular features, it was unusually handsome for an Indian. But there was an inhuman hardness about it, a fiercely piercing quality in the eyes, cruel lines about nostrils and lips, a general expression of bitter and vindictive malevolence that appalled the boy. A shudder passed through him, yet, fascinated, he could not take his eyes from the dark, piercing ones.
Ohrante spoke, and Hugh gave a start of surprise. It was not the words that amazed him. All the Indian said was, “Who are you, white man? How come you here?” A simple question in curiously accented English. It was the voice that surprised Hugh. Weak, high pitched, almost squeaking, such a voice as the boy had never heard in an Indian before, it was ludicrously incongruous with the size and appearance of the evil giant. Instantly the spell in which Ohrante had held him was broken. So great was the revulsion of feeling that Hugh actually wanted to laugh. Luckily he realized that to take any notice of the giant’s weak point would surely arouse his bitterest hatred. Self-possession regained, Hugh controlled his features and answered steadily. He had had plenty of time that long afternoon to plan the story he was to tell.
“I am Hugh McNair. I came here by accident. High winds drove me out of my course and against the great rocks yonder.” He jerked his head in the direction of the mouth of the bay. “My canoe was wrecked, all my winter supplies lost, my comrade drowned.” He paused, rather surprised at the readiness with which he told his false tale. Ordinarily Hugh was truthful, inclined to regard a lie as a coward’s refuge, but he had no intention of divulging his true name and purpose to his father’s bitterest enemy.
Ohrante seemed to consider the reply. Then he spoke again. “Minong far from mainland,” he said in his bad English. He was suspicious of the tale, but the boy was prepared for doubt.
“We were going from the New Fort at the Kaministikwia,” Hugh went on to explain. “We had sold our furs and had all our supplies for the winter. Also we were very sleepy. We had drunk deep and we did not take care where we went. Then came the wind.”
Hugh was watching Ohrante’s face closely, but he could not tell whether the Iroquois believed the story or not, or indeed how much of it he understood. He made no reply except a queer little sound in his throat. Because of his high-pitched voice, that sound could not be called a grunt, and Hugh was at a loss to know whether it meant assent, disbelief or contempt. Before he could add anything more to his story, the giant turned abruptly away, walked over to the fire and seated himself on a log.
Immediately one of his followers removed the pot, and, with a long-handled, crudely carved wooden spoon, ladled out a generous portion of the stew into a birch bark dish. The chief received the dish in silence and commenced to eat, picking out the bits of meat on the point of his knife, and taking up the rice on the flat of the blade. After he had finished the more solid part of the food, he drank the soup and passed the dish back to be refilled.
The other Indians, eight in number, stood or sat about in silence. Not until the chief had finished his second portion and had signified, by turning the empty dish upside down on the ground, that he had had enough, did they venture to approach the kettle, each with his own bark or wooden bowl. Ohrante said something to the squat man who had been one of Hugh’s captors, pointing to the boy as he spoke. At once the man, carrying his own dish of stew, went over to the captive, seated himself cross-legged beside him, took up a piece of meat on the point of his knife and held it to Hugh’s lips. In this way he fed the lad about half the contents of the dish, reserving the rest for himself for fear the kettle might be empty. Neither the wooden dish nor the knife blade was very clean, but Hugh was too hungry to be particular. He could have eaten more, but he was thankful to get anything. Whatever the fate in store for him, he was apparently not to be starved to death. He risked asking for a drink, making signs to explain his meaning, and the Indian brought him some water from the lake in a bark cup.
Ohrante did not speak to Hugh again that night, or show any further interest in him. He was left lying bound and was not even given a blanket. Early in the evening, Ohrante retired alone to the smaller of the two wigwams, and a little later the others, all except the young fellow with the malicious grin, crowded into the larger dwelling. The young Indian, rolled in a dirty blanket, lay down on the opposite side of the fire from the prisoner.
Hugh’s arms and legs had grown so numb that he no longer felt the galling of the cords, but he was very sore and uncomfortable from lying on the hard ground. He had no wish to sleep, he was too eager to find some means of escape. If he could bring his bonds in contact with a coal from the fire, he might burn them enough so that he could pull them apart. He hitched nearer the flickering blaze and turned on his side towards it. The light was full on the face of the Indian beyond. Hugh could see that the man’s eyes were open and fixed upon him. His lips were grinning in the evil fashion the boy knew all too well.
Hugh settled himself as comfortably as he could and closed his eyes. After what seemed a long time, the deep breathing of the guard seemed to prove that he slept. The captive opened his eyes and, cautiously and with painful effort, rolled nearer to the fire. There was a low grunt from the Indian. He rose, came over to Hugh, seized him by the shoulder and roughly dragged him back from the fire. Then he passed a skin rope about the boy’s body under the arms and tied it to a strong young birch. The rope was long and did not prevent Hugh from lying down and turning from side to side, but it effectually anchored him too far from the fire to put his plan into operation. His guard had probably divined his intention. So ended the captive’s attempt to escape. There was nothing left for him but to sleep, if he could, and gather strength and courage for whatever the morrow might bring. It was long before he slept, however, and the discomfort of his position waked him frequently. At last the chill of early dawn refused to let him sleep longer.
He had not long to wait before the camp was stirring. The man with the scarlet head band set about preparing a breakfast of boiled fish. Hugh’s guard of the night took his gun and went away somewhere. Breakfast was eaten at sunrise, and this time Hugh’s hands were unbound that he might feed himself, but he was left tied to the tree. It was some time before the numbness wore off so that he could use his hands freely. His first attempts to manage his food amused the Indians, and the boy felt the blood rise to his cheeks at their grins and unintelligible gibes.
Breakfast was over when the young fellow with the grin returned. He talked with Ohrante, and afterwards the chief came over to Hugh and began to ask questions. Again the boy was almost moved to mirth at the contrast between the giant’s appearance and his voice. As Ohrante went on with his questioning, however, Hugh almost forgot the ludicrous voice. His replies kept his wits busy. The Iroquois wanted to know whether Hugh trapped for himself or traded with others for furs, whether he sold to the Old Company or to the New, where he intended to winter and other particulars. Hugh had believed that he had his story well planned, but several of the questions were unforeseen, and he was obliged to think quickly and invent as he replied. Telling a false tale was not such a simple matter this morning, and he was not at all sure that he made his convincing. After Ohrante turned away, Hugh was left wondering if his answers had allayed the giant’s suspicions or aroused them.
Hugh had expected to learn his fate that morning and had braced himself for the ordeal, but Ohrante paid no further attention to him. With six of his band the Iroquois left the camp. From where he sat propped against the birch trunk, Hugh could see the two canoes start up the bay. His wrists had been bound again and he was tied to the tree. The squat man and the ugly fellow with the scarlet head band, who had remained to guard the captive, evidently considered him so secure that he did not need close watching. Shortly after the canoe had disappeared, both men went off somewhere out of sight and hearing.
Now was his chance, thought Hugh, if he could only find some way to loose his bonds. He pulled and wriggled and twisted, but to no avail. His captors had done their work too well. His struggles only drew the knots tighter. He sank back inert and disheartened.
“Take heart.”
The whisper was so low Hugh doubted his ears. He turned his head. Prone on the ground in the shadow of a willow lay a slim figure, the black head raised ever so little.
“Blaise!”
The head shook in warning. Wriggling like a snake, Blaise drew close.
“Untie me,” Hugh breathed.
“No, not till night. The guards are too near. When all sleep, I will come again.”
“That may be too late,” Hugh protested.
“They will do nothing to-day. Ohrante wishes to take you to the mainland, and to-day the lake is rough. Keep a strong heart, my brother.”
Blaise wriggled back to the shelter of the willows, and was gone without a sound. He was out of the way none too soon. The guttural voice of the squat man came to Hugh’s ears. In a few moments both guards were back, carrying a birch basket of fish.
That day was even longer to Hugh than the preceding one. The sun climbed and descended so slowly it seemed almost to stand still. Though his guards left him alone several times, he neither saw nor heard anything more of Blaise. That did not worry Hugh. He knew that somewhere, not far away, his younger brother was hiding, awaiting the coming of darkness. The knowledge put new heart and spirit into the prisoner. If only the Indians did not capture Blaise, there was a good chance of getting away safely. Hugh felt sure that he did not need to fear violence from his captors just yet. Blaise had said that Ohrante meant to carry the prisoner to the mainland. The lad must have had some good reason for thinking that. Probably he had overheard the Indians’ conversation. In this manner the captive, propped against the birch, in the thin shade of its foliage, speculated on the movements and plans of his captors and his rescuer. To speculate and plan was all he could do.
About the middle of the afternoon one of the canoes returned with Ohrante and two of his followers. The men who had remained behind prepared a meal of the fish they had brought in that morning, boiled in the big kettle. Hugh was given a portion and his hands were again untied that he might eat. His pleasure in the fresh lake trout was rather spoiled by its having been sweetened with maple sugar. He had grown well used to eating his meat and fish without salt, but he had not learned to enjoy the Indian custom of using sugar instead.
After the meal, Ohrante again approached the boy. For a few moments the big man stood looking down at him fixedly and in silence, and Hugh strove to meet the piercing gaze boldly. Presently the giant began to speak. His English was bad and interspersed with Indian words, at the meaning of which Hugh could only guess. His speech, as well as the boy could make it out, was something like this:
“White man, whether the tale you tell is true or false I know not. When I look at you I think of a white man I knew and hated and took revenge upon. Yet you are not like him. Your hair, your eyes are pale. It matters not. I hate all white men. White men are my enemies. When a white man falls into my hands I treat him as a great chief should treat his enemies.” He paused to let the words sink in, his dark face hard as stone.
The impressiveness and dignity of the chief’s deliberate address were rather spoiled in effect by his ridiculously weak and broken voice, like the changing tones of a boy, but Hugh could not fail to perceive the threat conveyed.
“You are mistaken, great chief,” he replied quietly, using as a bit of flattery the title Ohrante had given himself. “The white men are not the enemies of the Indians. They wish the Indians no evil, only good. The white men know no reason why the peace between themselves and the Ojibwas should not last forever.”
“Ojibwa!” Ohrante made a gesture of contempt. “The Ojibwa may be a slave of the white men if he wishes. I, Ohrante,”—he drew himself up a little straighter, keeping his fierce eyes on the boy’s face to observe what effect the name had—“I, Ohrante, am no Ojibwa. I was born a Mohawk of the great six nations. Now I and my braves have taken another name, a name not for the white man’s ears or lips, the name of the ancient race of warriors and giants who once lived on Minong, the blood of whose chiefs flows in my body. We will draw others to us, build up a strong nation, and drive the white men from all the lands about the great waters.” He made a sweeping gesture with one long, big-muscled arm.
Hugh could scarcely believe his ears. The giant Indian must be insane to be the victim of such an illusion of greatness. Hugh knew nothing of any ancient race upon Minong, although Baptiste had told him that the Indians, in days gone by, were supposed to have come to the island from time to time for copper. For all he knew, Ohrante might be a direct descendant of those old miners, but his speech was none the less absurd. Its vanity and pomposity were in such violent contrast to the weak, nasal voice in which it was uttered that the boy forgot his own peril in his desire to laugh. He controlled himself and for a few moments made no answer. Ohrante also remained silent. As the two gazed into one another’s eyes, a daring idea entered the lad’s head. Ohrante’s talk of the ancient race of warriors and giants recalled the tales told by Baptiste and Blaise and the trick he and his brother had already played upon the big Mohawk.
“You speak,” Hugh said, “of the ancient race who once lived on this island. I have heard that the inhabitants of Minong were not human at all, but were, and indeed still are, spirits and fiends and frightful creatures unlike man or beast. Once I laughed at those tales, but now that I am on Minong, I laugh no more. I myself have seen and heard strange things on this island. If I were not a good Christian, I should be sore afraid of this enchanted land. Have you seen or heard aught of those strange beings, great chief?”
Hugh’s eyes were fastened on Ohrante. When he mentioned the spirits and fiends he noticed a slight change in the huge man’s face. As the boy went on, Ohrante’s composure was so far shaken that he drew a quick breath and one of his big hands clenched with a convulsive movement. Hugh was pleased with his strategy. He had found the giant’s weak spot. Brave he might be in contact with his fellow men, but of unearthly beings he was superstitiously afraid. Hugh feigned not to notice, and in a moment Ohrante had covered his agitation with a show of indifference.
“No, white man,” he lied proudly, “I have heard nothing and I fear nothing.” Then he changed the subject. “When the waves go down in the lake out there, we leave Minong. We go to the place of vengeance, where Ohrante puts all his prisoners to death. On the Island of Torture both white men and Ojibwas may find the signs and learn how the Chief of Minong takes vengeance on his enemies. Prepare for the torture, white man, for not even your white God can save you.” And turning, the big chief strode away.
“Yet I think He will save me,” Hugh said to himself, “through my brother Blaise.”
It was after sundown when the other canoe returned, with the four remaining members of the band. They brought with them a quantity of moose meat, the best parts of a young animal. Immediately the kettle was swung over the fire. The odor of the cooking meat was tempting to Hugh’s nostrils, but he was not offered any. His captors evidently considered that he had had sufficient food for that day. The whole band feasted on moose, and the camp did not become quiet until much later than on the previous night.
Hugh was left tied to the tree, his wrists and ankles bound. No one took enough pity on him to throw a blanket over him. This time it was the squat man who lay down by the fire. He must have been very sure the prisoner could not get away. Moreover the enormous amount of meat he had eaten made the man especially drowsy. His loud breathing soon proved that he was sleeping soundly.
Under the birch tree, beyond the light of the flickering fire, Hugh lay, tense and anxious. He heard the snores of his guard, and other sounds of heavy slumbering from the larger wigwam. Why did not Blaise come? Except the breathing of the sleeping Indians and the low ripple of the water on the beach, not a sound broke the silence of the night. Every sense on the alert, Hugh waited through the long minutes. It seemed to him hours must have passed since the guard lay down by the fire.
What was that rustle in the willows? It was the slightest of sounds, but his ear caught it. Was it only a rabbit? He felt a touch on the rope that bound him to the tree, then a sharp jerk. The rope sagged down. Fingers grasped his shoulder and sent a shiver of excitement through his body. A hand slipped swiftly down his left arm, something cold touched his wrists, slipped between them. There was another little jerk, and his arms were free. His numb hands dropped to the ground, began to tingle. He did not dare to try to raise himself to a sitting position for fear of making a noise. Then his ankles fell apart, and he knew that bond had been cut also. Yet, motionless, he waited for orders.
The hand touched his shoulder again. Lips brushed his ear, as a voice whispered in the softest of hisses, “Roll over and follow.”
Hugh obeyed unquestioningly. As he rolled over, he realized that the cord was still attached to his left wrist. There came a gentle pull, and he understood. Blaise had hold of the cord. This was his method of guiding his brother. Hugh attempted to crawl forward, but his legs and feet were so numb he found progress difficult. They dragged like logs. He could not move them lightly and noiselessly, yet he must go noiselessly to escape.
The cord on his wrist slackened. Blaise had sensed the difficulty. His shoulder brushed Hugh as he crawled back to the latter’s side. In a moment he was silently but vigorously rubbing and kneading Hugh’s calves, ankles and feet. Hot prickles of feeling began to course through the numb legs. After a few moments of stinging pain, the blood was running normally again, and the numbness was gone. Still the wigwams remained silent and the squat Indian by the fire snored on. An Indian in his wild state is commonly supposed to sleep lightly and wake at the slightest sound, and so he does if he is where there may be danger, and has not eaten or drunk too much. The Indian is human, however. A full and hearty meal, accompanied by a sense of security, can cause him to sleep as soundly as any well fed white man.
Taking the lead again, Blaise crawled cautiously and silently away from the vicinity of the fire and the wigwams. Hugh, his legs and feet once more under control, followed close behind, Blaise still guiding him by the cord attached to his wrist. The half-breed boy seemed able to glide like a snake without a sound, but Hugh was less experienced in stealth. In spite of all his care, the bushes he brushed rustled now and then. The noises were very slight, but each rustle or creak brought the lad’s heart into his mouth. Yet the Indian by the fire lay still, and no sound came from the wigwams.
At last the fugitives were far enough from the camp, and well screened by trees and bushes, so they dared go upright. Blaise had kept his sense of direction in the darkness and knew where he wanted to go. Turning to the right, he led Hugh across level ground and through open growth of birches and poplars. Then he turned again. A little farther on he paused among some alders, handed Hugh the cord, uttered a low whisper of caution, and slipped between the bushes.
Hugh carefully pushed his way through, and stopped still. Before him lay the lake, the ripples lit by the stars and moon. Glancing along the narrow strip of sand that separated him from the water, he could make out a dark shape lying above the reach of the waves. It was an overturned canoe. Blaise had circled about in the woods and had come back to the shore. A little way beyond the canoe, back from the beach and hidden from where Hugh stood by trees and bushes, was the Indian camp. This was a dangerous manœuvre of his younger brother’s and at first Hugh could see no reason for it. Why had not Blaise led straight back through the woods and up the ridge? The bateau, to which they must trust to get clear away, was on the other side of those ridges.Wasthe bateau still there or had the Indians found it?
Blaise was moving swiftly along the beach, and, after hesitating a moment, Hugh followed. He was relieved to find that the alder bushes still screened them from the camp. They could launch the canoe without being visible from the wigwams or from the spot where the fire burned. The canoe was not one of those he had seen Ohrante’s band using, but a small craft, barely large enough to hold two men. Silently the boys turned it over, carried it down the beach and placed it in the lake. Blaise, standing in the water to his knees, held the boat while Hugh stepped into the stern. The younger boy took his place in the bow, the paddles dipped.
Hugh had expected to steer around the inner beach and on up the long bay. He was astonished when Blaise signalled him to go the other way. This was indeed a risk. The older boy would have protested, had he dared speak loud enough to make his brother hear. But they were too near the camp to chance conversation, whatever foolhardy venture Blaise might be planning. Moreover Hugh knew that the half-breed lad was far from foolhardy and must have good reason for what he was doing. The elder brother obeyed the signal and said nothing.
Crouched as far down in the canoe as they could kneel and still wield their paddles, the two dipped the blades noiselessly. A few strokes and they were out of the shelter of the fringe of bushes. They were passing the camp, where the ground was open from lodges to beach. Fearfully Hugh glanced in that direction. He could make out the dark bulk of one of the wigwams and near it the dull glow of the dying fire. His guard lay beside that fire. If the man should wake and raise his head, he could scarcely fail to see the passing canoe, a dark, moving shape on the moonlit water. A vigorous but careful stroke, and both lads held their paddles motionless while the canoe slipped by of its own momentum. It made no sound audible above the rippling of the water on the pebbles. The squat Indian slept on.
A clump of mountain ash, leafy almost to the ground, came between the canoe and the fire. The paddles dipped again. In a few moments the slight projection, scarce long enough to be called a point, had been rounded. The wigwams and the fire were hidden by trees and bushes.
Hugh drew a long breath and put more speed into his strokes. The brothers were moving down the bay, and he realized now the reason for their manœuvre. Had they struck through the woods to the ridge, they would inevitably, in spite of the greatest care and caution, have left a trail. The canoe left no tracks. When they passed out from the narrowest part of the channel, they were obliged to put strength and vigor into their paddling, for they were going almost directly against the fresh wind. They kept as close to the right hand shore as they dared, and so had some protection. Vigorous and careful handling were necessary, however, to make headway in the roughening water.
As they went by one of the shallow curves that could scarcely be called coves, Blaise uttered a little exclamation and pointed with his paddle to a black object moving on the water. As Hugh looked, the thing turned a little, and he could make out, in silhouette, great branching antlers. A moose was swimming from one shore of the little indentation to the other.
“There is meat to last us a long time,” he muttered regretfully, “if only we dared risk a shot.”
Blaise laughed softly. “We could not shoot if we wished. Neither has a gun.”
“True. When you set out to find me, Blaise, why didn’t you bring yours?”
The lad in the bow shrugged slightly. “I could not use it without a noise, and I wished not to be burdened with it. Let us not talk now. Voices carry far in the night.”
Hugh heeded the warning. As the bay widened, the force of wind and waves increased. The lads were paddling northeast, almost in the teeth of the wind. Hugh began to doubt whether they would be able to round the long point, or even keep on along it much farther. Blaise had no intention of rounding the point, however. He had another plan. As they passed the twin coves, where they had camped while they sought for the cache of furs, he turned his head ever so slightly and spoke.
“Steer into the crack where we carried out the furs.”
Hugh replied with a word of assent and steered close under the riven rock wall. The water was slightly sheltered, and the waves were running past the fissures, not into them. The canoe slipped by the stern of the wrecked bateau, projecting from the crack into which it had been driven. The narrow rift was passed. At the wider black gap, Hugh made the turn. In response to his brother’s quick “Take care,” he held his paddle steady.
The canoe glided into the gap, slowed down. Before the bottom could grate on the pebbles, Blaise had warned Hugh to step over the side. The latter found himself in the water above his knees.
“We must take the canoe well up the crack and hide it,” he said.
“And risk its discovery, which would put Ohrante on our trail? No, lay your paddle in the bottom. Turn around, but do not let go.”
Hugh did not at first grasp the half-breed lad’s intention, but he obeyed. When Hugh had turned, Blaise spoke again.
“Push out with all your strength. Now.”
Together they gave the light craft a strong shove and let go. It slid over the water, out from the mouth of the rift. The wind caught it and it was borne away in the moonlight.