In the struggle over the bodies, others fell, but the main pack swerved wide, and commenced their circling attack.
“Donald, my revolver is empty,” suddenly cried Jean.
“Cartridges in my left pocket,” cried the man, and the girl, with trembling fingers, reloaded the weapon, while the man held the brutes at bay.
Suddenly, from the left, a dark form shot into the air. McTavish ducked, and the wolf passed over him. But Mistisi, all his pent-up fury released, rose on his hind legs, his great mouth open, his eyes fiery. With a ferocious snarl, he met the savage attack, and his jaws closed upon the hairy throat in an inexorable death-grip.
Came a great shouting in the forest, and a score of men broke cover from the depths of the woods. The firing grew swiftly to a fusillade, and in three minutes the snow was covered with the dark forms of the wolves. The few that remained turned tail, and sped silently across the snow-plain, pursued by a parting volley.
A silence followed, broken only by a death-rattle here and there on the ground; then, the sound of hysterical weeping, as Jean Fitzpatrick broke down under the reaction.
“Here you, whoever you are!” cried Donald. “Come and help us out of this.” And the next minute they were surrounded, and friendly hands lifted them up.
“By heaven! It's Captain McTavish and the girl,” cried a hearty voice. “Now, I guess the old man'll get well.”
It was with a strange mixture of emotion that Donald McTavish approached the rough log cabin where lay Angus Fitzpatrick. The morning was one of bitter cold, and the smoke from the campfires hung low about the tops of trees, a sure sign of fearful frost. During the past night, he had slept as of old, his feet to a blaze, other men snoring about him. Jean had been led away as soon as they reached the camp. Their innocent, childlike play at keeping house was over; those two inexpressibly sweet weeks would never be repeated, yet their sacred associations would be forever in his mind, like some beautiful thing caught imperishably at the moment of its full expression. When would he see her again? Not even a parting hand-clasp had lightened the separation of the night before. She had gone to her father; he to the camp-fire and the rough men.
Pleading exhaustion, he had refused to tell his story in reply to eager questions. Where had he found her? How? When? The thought of even sketching to these plain-minded fellows the ground-work on which had been reared such a structure of poetry seemed sacrilege. No, he would keep silent.
At the door, a loafing trapper, smoking a pipe, greeted him by name. The factor, even in this wilderness, maintained some show of his rank, and demanded a guard to his dwelling. No doubt the diplomatic and silent Tee-ka-mee was inside. McTavish waited until the sentry had announced his presence, and had returned with the word for him to enter.
The interior scarcely offered fitting surroundings for the lord of a domain as big as England. Unsoftened, squared logs formed the walls, and the roof consisted of slabs and branches which, with the sifted and frozen snow, formed an impenetrable covering. In the corner away from the wind, a bunk, made soft with blankets and spruce-boughs, supported the factor.
Donald was struck by the autocrat's appearance. The old buffalo-head, with its shaggy white hair and beard, did not seem to have the poise of former times; the cheeks were hollow, and the whole body thinner. But the eyes, burning as of old, looked fiercely out from under their beetling white brows. Evidently, the grief over Jean's disappearance had eaten away the body, although the spirit burned like a flame, proud, strong, invincible.
Tee-ka-mee, who had just turned away from his master, greeted McTavish with his pleasant smile, and then went outside, closing the rough door. The two men were face to face.
For a little while, there was silence, as the older one pierced the younger with his glance.
“I have so much to say to you, Captain McTavish, that I hardly know where to begin,” he said finally, speaking in a calm, but strong, voice. “I see you here under most peculiar circumstances.”
“Yes, sir, you do, and, because of their nature, I am both glad and sorry.”
“I am only sorry,” came back the stern reply. “However, I have been busy thanking heaven all night that you were deserted in the right spot to drag my little girl from the water, and save her life. It was a brave act, McTavish, and I appreciate it.”
“Thank you, sir. I thought I was saving Charley Seguis until afterward.”
“You would have been a fool not to throw him back in the water, if it had been he.” The factor's tones dripped venom like a snake's mouth at the mention of the half-breed. “But will you kindly explain to me why you broke out of Fort Severn?
“Because I considered my imprisonment there an injustice. But that is only my feeling in the matter. There was, also, a duty side to the question. I could not remain there longer, and feel that I was a man.”
“And what was this duty, pray?” The voice was sarcastic.
“The finding of J—your daughter.”
“What right have you to consider yourself so duty-bound in that direction that you overturn discipline, disregard my commands, and make a laughing-stock of me?”
“Only the right of a lover, Mr. Fitzpatrick. To that right, I set no limits.”
“You are very quick to find an imagined right, young man,” Fitzpatrick said, grimly. “How about myself, the girl's father, the one who, most of all, should give up everything to such a search? Did I leave the Company's business to take care of itself?”
“No, but it is well I did, or else you would never have seen Jean again. I don't think, Mr. Fitzpatrick, that there is anything gained arguing in this circle. What else have you to say to me?”
“My daughter has told me everything,” went on the factor painfully, shifting on his rough bed. “In fact, she got quite excited over your chivalrous treatment of her, while you were together. Of course I believe my daughter, and, when she tells me that you acted merely as friends, I take her word. At the same time, Captain McTavish, there does not come to my mind the slightest reason why you should have forced yourself into the same cabin with her.”
Donald briefly explained the situation, outlining the treachery of Maria and her Indian son, Tom, who should, by this time, be safe in Fort Severn.
“If I had not done as I did, I should have frozen to death,” he concluded.
“Better you should,” cried the factor passionately, “than that my little girl should be ruined for life before the whole world.”
“How will she be ruined?” demanded the young man, crisply. “No one knows the story except Braithwaite and his two men, and I think we can keep their mouths closed easily enough.”
“It is impossible!” said the other. “You know yourself that Napoleon Sky's tongue is swiveled two ways, and is the only successful perpetual-motion machine ever invented. If we bribed them, we could be held up regularly for blackmail, and even that would fail; the news would leak out somewhere. I know these wild places; I know what rumor can do. Perhaps, the wind whispers it; perhaps, the birds carry it, or the streams call it out at night. Whatever is done, I know this: that rumor will leap across a practically uninhabited country like wild-fire, and, by the time thebrigadescome down in the spring, I could not hold my head up among the curious eyes, jerked thumbs, and tongues in cheek. What I want to know, Captain McTavish, is, what can you do about it?”
“Is the Reverend Mr. Gates in the camp?”
“Yes.”
“I'll marry Jean this afternoon, providing she will have me?”
“You shall not!” cried the factor suddenly, with great fierceness, turning his fiery eyes upon the younger man in an expression of hate. “You shall not—ever!”
“Really, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” replied Donald, gently, “I cannot agree to that, and I might as well tell you now that I intend to marry Jean somewhere, some time, if human effort can bring it about, and the sooner the better.”
“You wouldn't dare say that to me, if I weren't laid up,” hissed Fitzpatrick, his hands clenching and unclenching.
“Yes, sir, I would! I have never said it before, because I hadn't the right. Jean loves me, and will marry me; that is all I want to know.”
“And you leave me, her father, out of it? You don't even ask my permission?”
“Why should I? You said I should never marry her. If that is your attitude, I don't care to consult you; I shall go ahead with this matter in my own way.”
“Look here, McTavish!” The voice was suddenly calm, but itstimbreheld a note that drew Donald's immediate attention. “Do you realize, when you say that, that you are deliberately, and to my face, riding over all authority, not only from the Company's standpoint, but from a father's? I am talking to you now in coolness, and I ask well-considered replies. Do you realize that you are damning yourself forever in my sight by your words and your attitude?”
“I am sorry, sir,” replied the other, with genuine regret; “but, in matters of this kind, I can only consult my own feelings and determinations. You ask what is impossible of me; I ask what is impossible of you. I think we had better separate while outwardly calm to avoid any more useless and bitter words.”
“I am glad to know your attitude,” retorted the factor, dryly. “Now, let me put to you one more question. I beseech you, for your own good and happiness, to answer it as I wish. You may have a week, if you like to think it over. I ask you, for the last time: Will you give up all hope or thought of ever marrying Jean? Will you promise never to see her or communicate with her again? Will you retire to your post, and stay there until I can get you shifted to the West?”
With the lover, there could be but one answer, but, for some almost occult reason, he hesitated. The tone, grave, portentous, almost menacing, the paternal, kindly attitude, the pleading that unconsciously crept through the other's words; all these gave Donald to know that some crisis was at hand. For an instant, he thought of the silent, heavy moment before the breaking of a summer thunder-storm; and, mentally, he prepared himself for some sort of a shock—what, he did not know. Then, finally, he answered the factor's questions.
“I do not need a week, a day, or an hour, to think these matters over,” he said. “All I can give is a final and inclusive, 'No!' to all of them.”
The factor stirred in his place, as much as his wounded shoulder would permit. All the paternal was gone from him now, and all the pleading. The eye that regarded the young man glittered balefully, and the lips were parted in a cruel smile.
“Well, sir,” he cried, almost triumphantly, “I shall have to tell you then that it is impossible for you to marry Jean under any circumstances.”
“Why?”
“Because, sir, you are not the legitimate son of Donald McTavish, chief commissioner of this company. You have no standing, and can inherit no money. If you are lucky, you may marry the daughter of a half-breed some time; but a white girl, even a poor white trapper's daughter, wouldn't have you.” He stopped, and watched cunningly the effect of his words... This was the sweetest moment of his life.
Donald, for his part, smiled easily. This was merely the fabrication of a feverish brain, he told himself.
“Will you kindly explain your assertion, sir?” he asked. “You haven't yet made yourself quite clear.”
“I mean,” said Fitzpatrick bluntly, “that, before your father married your mother in Montreal, he had contracted a previous marriage in the hunting-ground; a marriage amply attested, of which the certificate still exists. That, of course, makes his second marriage in Montreal illegal, makes him a bigamist, and you illegitimate. Moreover (and this is the best joke of all), unknown to him a son was born, to his first marriage, and that son, according to law, should inherit the family wealth and position. Now—”
“Stop! Stop! You fiend!” shouted Donald, his hands to his ears, and a look of fury on his face. “Oh, God! If you weren't lying there, if your white hairs didn't protect you, I swear to heaven I'd kill you, if I swung for it. What you have made of my mother! What you have made of her!” It was characteristic of his nature that he thought of some one else in a crisis. So it had been in his boyhood; so it was now when the structure of his life came tumbling about his ears, just when it had seemed for a little while most beautiful.
The triumph died out of Fitzpatrick's face, and was supplanted by an expression of fear. But few times had he ever felt fear, bodily fear. This was one of them. Yet, since there was nothing to say, he kept silent. Donald walked up and down aimlessly, until he had won some measure of control over himself, his body shuddering with the struggle. Then, he faced his persecutor.
“How do you know this?” he asked, in a thin voice he scarcely recognized as his own. “What proof have you? Where did you learn it? If you can't show indisputable proofs for every word you say, I'll have you bounded out of the Company like a dog. I'll hound you over the face of the earth. I'll never let you rest, until you drop into your grave, and then I'll keep your stinking memory green as long as I live.”
Fitzpatrick smiled evilly beneath his mustache.
“And, if you do,” he asked, “how about—Jean?”
Trapped by his own vindictiveness, Donald could only groan aloud.
“Jean, Jean!” he muttered in desolation of spirit, “I wish she were here now.” Then, to Fitzpatrick: “You said there was a certificate. Where is it? Who has it? Who is the woman?”
“That I won't tell you.”
In one bound, Donald had leaped to the side of the bunk. He seized the factor by his wounded shoulder, and shook savagely, growling between his teeth: “You won't, eh, you won't tell me? I'll see about that!”
The old man, in mortal agony, strove to writhe out of the iron clutch. He tried to call for help, but the pain was too great for words. Finally, a bellow like that of a wounded bull escaped from between his grinding teeth.
“Ye-es, stop—I'll tell—oh, my God—stop!”
Donald released his hold, and the factor, with closed eyes, dropped back, half-fainting, upon the bunk, where he lay breathing stertorously.
“Speak! Who is the woman?” Donald commanded.
“Maria, the old squaw,” came the gasping reply.
“Has she the certificate?”
“Yes, I think so; I'm not sure. She had it last summer.”
“And this—this son you speak of, is—?” Donald could not say the name.
“Charley Seguis.”
Bewildered, distraught, blinded, Donald turned on his heel, and, groping for support, staggered from the cabin.
Into the minds and hearts of the folk who live their lives in the wild, there are bred certain animal traits. The good trapper learns that, like rabbit or bob-cat, he must be able to freeze into statuesque immobility at the sudden appearance of danger. Nature, who does her best to protect her children, sees to it that the trapper's costume soon resembles nothing so much as a hoary tree-trunk. And the men who tramp the wild gradually assimilate the silent, furtive ways of the intelligent forest folk. The wounded caribou drags himself to some inaccessible thicket, there either to gain back strength or die unobserved and alone. Sickness and feebleness are the only inexcusable faults of wild animal life, and offer sufficient reason for death if hunger is fierce. Unconsciously, Donald McTavish had absorbed the trait of mute sufferings from his years in the heart of nature. Not only had he absorbed it, but it had been handed down to him through generations of wilderness-loving McTavishes; it was part of his blood, just as the hatred of wolves as destroyers of fur-bearing game was part of it.
So, now, with this burden upon his heart almost greater than he could bear, he hurried through the camp, seeing no one, not even hearing the greetings of friends who had not spoken to him before. At his tent, he mechanically fastened on his snowshoes, and strode away into the depths of the forest with his hurt, like a wounded animal. When, finally, the sounds from the camp no longer reached him, he sat down on a fallen tree that broke through the surface of the snow. For a long while, he did not reason: reason was beyond him now. He felt as though something had been done to his brain that rendered it stunned and helpless. Even yet, he did not fully realize the thing that had come to him.
“That fiend lies, curse him; he lies, I say!” he muttered, presently.
“But yet, if it wasn't true, he wouldn't dare,” was the unanswerable reply.
He knew Angus Fitzpatrick well enough to realize that the old man never took a step without being sure it would bear his weight. He had always been so. It was not likely that he would change now, particularly when there was so much at stake.
And yet, what had he, Donald himself, done? Nothing! If this accusation were true, it only reflected on his father and his father's past. The son winced at that, for he and the commissioner had always been the best of companions. He could not believe that the fine, tall, distinguished gentleman of his boyhood tottered thus on the brink of ruin. If so, that father's ideals, his training, his life, had been one long hypocrisy.
Personally speaking, this sin on the part of his father seemed utterly impossible to Donald. Theoretically speaking, it was probable enough, for men in the wilds were still men, with the call of nature strong in them, and it was the usual thing for young fellows in distant, lonely posts to marry the daughters of chieftains. In fact, there was not a post in all the Hudson Bay's territory of which he had ever heard but what had a similar romance in its records. And, while in Donald's generation the practise had fallen off greatly, yet in those before, it had been considered nothing out of the ordinary.
Pondering thus, at last the realization came that, although his father had done these things, yet it was he, the son, who must pay for them. Old Fitzpatrick would never dare beard the commissioner in his high lair; if that had been his aim, he would have done it long since. Why, then, had the factor withheld his bolt until now?
Because McTavish loved Jean? Possibly. That, at least, had brought the matter to a head. But there was something else, deeper, and this affair with the girl had given opportunity to strike.
Donald thought back. Now that he had a tangible motive in view, his mind shook off its paralysis and worked more easily; he was more his former self. He remembered that, when Fitzpatrick had first gone to Fort Severn, the elder McTavish had soon followed as factor at York. The former was the senior as regarded age, but the latter was the bigger man in every way. Consequently, when promotion came, McTavish had been elevated over the head of Fitzpatrick. As was natural with any man in Fitzpatrick's position, there must have been heart-burning and jealousy.
How much more so, if that man were narrow, choleric, and filled with a blind sense of loyalty and service? Donald had no doubt now that the old factor had hidden the gall of disappointment all these years, letting it poison his vitals until he was venom to the very marrow against the clan of McTavish. His sense of duty and reverence for office had forbade his acting against the new commissioner, personally. But, when the commissioner's son came out into the calling of his ancestors, no barriers opposed the wreaking of his long-delayed vengeance. For more than three years, Donald had been in the present district. He was convinced that during all this time Fitzpatrick had been rooting among the archives of his father's past in an endeavor to unearth something he might use. The search had been unsuccessful until late in the summer, when one of his spying Indians had produced Maria and her claim from the far-off Kaniapiskau section in Ungava.
Since then, the machinery had worked smoothly under Fitzpatrick's direction, and now the stroke had fallen. But though his own suffering must be the more intense, Donald knew that the blow had been aimed to glance from him full into the face of his father. For the elder McTavish had no higher dream in this world than that his only son should rise to honor and distinction in the traditional family profession.
“If I am chief commissioner,” he reasoned, “there is every opportunity for my son to become governor, achieve a baronetcy, and found an English line.” This was the dream of his life, and he had intimated as much to Donald on their last meeting, two years before.
It was the foundation of this dream that Fitzpatrick was now prepared to sweep away. Already, the flood of rumor and ill repute was tearing at the base of it. For a time, Donald forgot his own misery in the realization of what it would all mean to his father. More clearly, now, he saw the careful plans, the perfect details, the inevitable conclusion.
“If only murder weren't against the law!” he muttered, twisting his fingers together until they cracked.
And, then, there came to him the one possible solution to the whole difficulty. He could sweep everything away by his own sacrifice. Now, in fifteen minutes, he could still these evil voices by going back to Fitzpatrick and accepting the old man's conditions, never to communicate with Jean again and to be transferred to the far West.
Never to communicate with Jean again! Never to touch her hand or her hair! Never to hear her voice! To go on thus for a week, for a month, for endless weeks and months and years—forever! heaven! He could not do it! Had he no rights? Was he to be the helpless manikin worked by every string of evil circumstance and voice of ill?
Yet, what other way was there? He could not wantonly haul the figure of his father down from its pedestal of blameless life. And his mother and sister! Theirs would indeed be a frightful position. No, there was no other way out.
What explanation of his desertion would ever be vouchsafed to Jean, he did not know. He would try to communicate with her before he went. It would be hard on her, this separation, particularly if reasons could not be given. She would never understand. She would go through life blaming him, perhaps, in the depths of her heart... As for himself, his own future was the thing that concerned him least. He would start again, he supposed, and work up once more. Nothing mattered much, now.
Resolved to have another immediate interview with Fitzpatrick, Donald got slowly to his feet, and began to retrace his steps to the camp. He had not gone a dozen yards when a sharp voice called out, “Halt!”
McTavish swung around, and found himself looking into the muzzle of a rifle that projected from behind a tree-trunk.
But he had no sooner turned than a joyful cry rang out, and a man appeared running toward him. A moment later, he recognized Peter Rainy. Glad beyond words to see a friendly face, Donald put his arms about the faithful old Indian, and clung to him desperately, as a frightened child clings to its mother.
“Master, master, what is it?” cried Peter, amazed and frightened.
But the young man did not reply for a while. Then, he sat down with his comrade of many trails.
“Tell me what happened to you, first, and then I'll give you the queerest half-hour you ever had,” he said.
And Rainy told his story: The night Maria struck down Donald, she did as much for Peter, but with a different purpose. No sooner had he been rendered helpless than he had been bound to one of the sledges. Then, both dog-trains had been harnessed, and a midnight march begun. Where they had gone, for days Rainy did not know, and his companions did not enlighten him. At last, one morning when it was snowing heavily, the Indians did a characteristic thing. They tied him securely to a tree with ropes, the ends of which were in the campfire. A little powder was sprinkled here and there to aid the flames that slowly crawled toward the captive. Beside him they put a rifle and some ammunition, along with a small pack of provisions; but they took both dog-trains. The idea was that, when the ropes had been eaten away by fire the falling snow would have covered the tracks of the flying pair, so that Rainy could not pursue them.
What with the fear of bob-cats and panthers, the Indian had passed a harrowing half-day, and, as soon as loosed, he started straight for Sturgeon Lake. The reason Maria had traveled around with him so long, Peter explained, was that they wanted to be sure of McTavish's death before the old trapper should be released, and could start in search of his master.
When the narrative of danger and duplicity was finished, Donald took hold of Peter's arm.
“How long were you with my father?” he asked.
“From the time he came to York factory until he was married in Montreal. I stayed a year with him there, but found I was dying of homesickness for the woods, and had to get back to them. But I went up when you were born, and saw him and you regularly every year after that, until he was ready to send you into the woods in the summer-time.”
“But before he came to York factory? Do you know anything of his life then?
“Only hearsay. Stones of his brave deeds and big hunting on the Labrador and westward! He had a sense of game that comes very rarely; he moved with the animals instinctively, so that the best pelts were always his. And he had luck. One year, he brought in three of the six silver-fox skins taken that winter in the whole of Canada. He was a wonderful hunter.”
“But, Peter, did you ever hear anything about his relations with the Indians?” Donald demanded. “Was he ever fond of a chiefs daughter? Did he ever mar—?” One look at the old Indian's face stopped the question, for, caught unaware, the rising of this skeleton shook Rainy to the depths.
“No, master, no, n-o, n-n—”
“Peter, don't lie to me! You've never done it yet. I'm in too much trouble to be lied to. I know the truth now, despite your denials, so you might as well admit it. Didn't my father marry old Maria at one time?
“Yes,” said Peter simply. “But how did you know it?”
Then, Donald told his story in full, closing with his determination to go to the factor and accept the conditions imposed.
But, at that, Peter Rainy protested violently.
“No,” he cried, “never! Put no trust in that old wolf, Fitzpatrick. Once he has got you under his heel, he'll grind and grind, until there's not as much as powder left. What good for you to go away West, eh? He'll let you get started well, and then along will come queer rumors and unexplained things about you. At last, something will drive you away, and you'll start again. Once more, you'll be driven out, and so it will go. Do I not know? Have I not seen it work?
“But I can't resist him, and have my whole family dragged through the mud, can I?” Donald remonstrated, in despair.
“Yes, this man Fitzpatrick is bound to drag it through the mud anyway. He hasn't waited all these years for his revenge to let it slide through his hands that easily, has he, do you suppose? His whole happiness in life now rests on your disgrace and that of your family. It will come, whatever you may do, and it's much better to fight to the last wolf than put your trust in a man like the factor.”
So, they talked for more than an hour, Peter Rainy heartening his young master in this desperate plight. The old Indian declared that a woman as malicious as Maria must have her vulnerable spot, that she might be bribed; in fact, that a hundred ways of removing the obstruction might be come at. Presently, Donald caught a little of his companion's fire, and began to warm to the project.
“Peter,” he cried finally, “I'll do it on one condition, and that condition may be the death of you.”
“What is it?”
“That you start to-night for Winnipeg, and bring my father North. Upon him really rests the burden of blame and of proof; if he wants to save himself and the rest of us, he must come out here and do it.”
“Wisely spoken, my son. The thought was in my mind. When I arrive in Winnipeg, your father will know I have crossed the wastes for only one thing—and he will come.”
“Then, you go willingly?
“I should never forgive you, if I hadn't been sent.”
“Brave old Peter!” McTavish put his arm across the old Indian's shoulders affectionately, as had been his custom when, a boy, he had gone on his first, short canoeing expeditions. “If it weren't for you, where would the McTavishes be? If we come out of this safely, you can have a house and servants of your own the rest of your life.”
“I know; your father has told me that for the last ten years; but I can't stand it, Donald. My little money in your father's hands has grown big the way white men make it grow in banks, but I shall never touch it. The wild is too much part of me. I'd rather battle with winter's cold under anabuckwan, and running my line of traps, than live in the finest house in Winnipeg. Some time, when I'm old, and the winter winds shake me to the marrow, I'll build a little cabin by a fishing stream or lake, and live happily until the coming of the shadow. Many young men and maidens will look after me, for I'm rich. So, I'll never want for anything in my old age, except the sight of my master, who will then be gone from the forest trails.”
“Good old Peter!” Donald exclaimed, huskily. He rose suddenly, the tears in his eyes. He fumbled with his gun uncertainly while the Indian filled a pipe. Then, he gave his directions.
They were far enough from the camp for Rainy to remain unobserved all day. McTavish would return among his companions, and buy a dog-train if he could get one, giving as an excuse the fact of his own being drowned. He would secure provisions, and meet Rainy on the edge of the camp at night. He specified where.
Both knew that to get the Indian off unknown and unseen on his long journey would be a desperately difficult thing to do, particularly as the young man would be watched; but, as the need was great, so was the determination, and Donald started for the camp with a light heart.
Four hundred and fifty miles southwest of Sturgeon Lake, as the hawk flies, is Winnipeg—formerly the Fort Carry of Hudson Bay fame, and before that the Fort Douglas of battle, murder, and sudden death. As Peter Rainy expected to make the journey, the distance was nearer seven hundred miles. From Sturgeon Lake, he would strike east to the north branch of the Sachigo, and follow that down to its junction with the main river. Then, turning south, for two hundred miles, his would be a straight course up the Sachigo and through a chain of lakes that almost would carry him to Sandy Lake. Southwest, he would rush through Favorable Lake, Deer Lake, Little Trout, and unimportant waterways, until he reached Fort Alexander on a thumb of Lake Winnipeg (that three-hundred-mile terror). Discounting blizzards, he could make seventy-five miles a day down that fine waterway to the mouth of the Red River, and, from there, thirty-five miles would land him in the thriving capital of Manitoba.
Such was the course that McTavish pricked for him on a map, and the old Indian studied it all that day, until it was a part of the vast lore that lay behind his expressionless eyes.
Night fell, and a pure moon rose out of the east, spreading a flood of light over snow-fields and through forest aisles. Peter Rainy cursed heartily at the misfortune, and, as if the sky spirits were afraid of him, a great mass of solemn clouds bulked out of the northwest, and extinguished the gay young moon forthwith. They brought with them a bitter wind and a snowstorm, so that when he finally struggled down the blast, Donald almost overran his objective point. With him were a sledge, dog-train, and provisions. In answer to Rainy's inquiries, he merely said:
“I'm on parole, and can go anywhere, and, as for these things—I have friends in the camp!”
Loath to part with his faithful companion, he accompanied the Indian a little way on the journey, and then returned to the camp, happier and more hopeful than he had been in many hours.
Because of the storm, shed-tents had been set up, and the men were gathered under them for the night. Entering that of the trappers with whom he had camped the night before, Donald comfortably lighted his pipe, and started in to satisfy his curiosity in regard to the campaign that had already been carried on against the Free-Traders' Brotherhood. His companions, one of whom was Timmins, a clerk in the Company's store at Fort Severn, and the other a trader at the warehouse, enlightened him.
“For a week now,” said Timmins, spitting into the fire contemplatively, “there hasn't been much doing. But, before that, shots popped around here considerable. Fitzpatrick thought, and still thinks, I guess, that the only way to nip this free-trader business in the bud was to go at it in the old-fashioned way, with bullets. So, as soon as we had a camp here, we started after those fellows. But they were ready for us, and, when it was all over, three or four of our men were wounded, and nothing was accomplished. The factor got a touch himself, as you know, and, since that, there hasn't been much doing. The old bear is trying to work out a scheme that'll finish things once and for all.”
“I expect there'll be action pretty soon, won't there?” Donald asked.
“Yes, I reckon there will. Now that you've brought Miss Jean back, and the old man's mind is easy, I imagine he'll have a brand new way for us to die worked out in a short while.”
“What are these fellows free trading for, anyhow? Don't we treat them right?” Donald questioned, with loyal indignation.
“Aw, sure we do,” drawled Buxton, the trader; “too right, I guess. If they had the old discipline in force, I guess they'd know who was good to them. These fellers have got a grand idea of their own importance, that fellow Seguis especially, and they've bargained with a French fur company, as far as I can gather. The Frenchies have been successful in the Rockies and on the Mackenzie, and they're figuring on starting a post or so in this territory. Of course, they offer better terms than we do—more tobacco and flour and truck for a 'beaver' of fur—but I don't think they can make headway—at least, not against old Fitzpatrick. He's as set as a hill, as tough as an old oak limb, and as cussed as a stoat.”
From time immemorial in the fur trade, all bartering has been carried on in terms of “beaver.” That is, a prime beaver skin is the unit of currency between the Company and its hunters. Not long since, an otter skin equaled ten “beaver,” twenty rabbit equaled one “beaver,” one marten equaled two and a half “beaver”; and so on down, or up, the scale. ... This, from the Company's point of view.
From that of the hunter, a “beaver” in trade (usually represented by a stamped leaden counter), was worth so much in merchandise—a large red handkerchief, or a hunting-knife, or a looking-glass. Two “beaver” would buy an ax, twenty a gun of a certain quality, and so on through the list of necessities.
When a hunter brings in his bales of fur, he takes them to the warehouse, where they are assorted and appraised by the chief trader, after much haggling. When the value is determined, the trader pushes over the counter as many “beaver” (lead pellets), as the furs are worth. The hunter takes these to the store, and, after much travail and advice, exchanges them for winter supplies and gewgaws that strike his fancy. In this primitive way is wrought the gigantic trade that covers woman with fur, from queens with their ermine to the shop-girl with her scraggly muskrat or rabbit.
As the talk went on around him, McTavish recognized the old story of the free-traders, men who hunted and trapped without any definite allegiance to one company or another, and disposed of their catch to the best advantage. As he had known all his life, the “barrens” about Hudson Bay remained the only country that had successfully kept the independents at bay. There had been other attempts at intrusion, many of them; but none so well organized or determined in spirit as this present one. The old, inbred loyalty to the Company told him that free-traders must be got out of the way. As far as he was concerned, he hoped action would come quickly—he did not wish too much time by himself to think.
Finally, Timmins yawned, and suggested that they turn in. But McTavish was restless. He slipped on his snowshoes, declared he would be back shortly, and left the tent. The nervous reaction of all the excitement of the last day was in him, and he felt that he needed the physical battling and buffeting of the storm to calm the throbbing of his brain and settle him for the night. Drawing hiscapoteclose around his face, he bent to the blast, and shuffled along. Suddenly, he felt the nearness of a presence, and raised his head, just in time to prevent going full into the wall of a log cabin. He recoiled with a muttered curse, for there was only one cabin in the settlement, and that belonged to Fitzpatrick.
Yes, it belonged to Fitzpatrick, and now it belonged to some one else also—some one for whom longing had gnawed at McTavish's heart all day. Once, during the afternoon, when he was secretly arranging for Peter Rainy's supplies, he had seen her at a distance, and she had waved to him, happily. What did she know? he wondered. Had her father done his worst, and told her? Now, his arms yearned for the feel of her slim, straight body; he yearned to hear her voice, to look into her face.
Suddenly, some one bending to the storm as he had done, bumped full into him, and he heard a sweet voice:
“Oh, I beg your pardon!
“Jean!” he cried joyously, and she raised her head.
“Donald!”
The next Instant, she was in his arms, clinging to him with an abandon of passion he had never suspected in her. It thrilled him from head to foot. Presently, he led her from the proximity of the cabin to the shelter of a large tree at the edge of the camp.
“Oh, I couldn't sleep; I couldn't even try, so I told father I was going to take a turn or two down the main 'street' of tents,” she cried, in answer to Donald's question. “And to think of meeting you! I'm so glad!”
“Are you really glad, princess?” he asked, trying to pierce the gloom and the storm to see the expression of her face. “Hasn't he told you?”
“Who told me? What?”
“Your father. This morning, he and I had a very unpleasant interview, in which he opened up all his big guns. He finally silenced me entirely. What the trouble was, and what influences he brought to bear, I can't tell you, Jean. If he wants you to know, he'll tell you. It is his object to ruin me in your sight. He has the facts, and, I fear, the proofs, that make marriage between us almost an impossibility; at any rate I'm sure your father would shoot me before he would let the event take place.”
“Oh, what is it, Donald? You frighten me!” cried the girl. “You frighten me with these indefinite hints and uncertainties. I beg of you to tell me what the trouble is. I'll stand by you through anything. Do you suppose I care whether my father will allow us to marry or not? No, no, Donald; I think for myself now, as you once said I should. Perhaps, I think too much. I—I—”
“What do you mean, dearest?” The girl had stopped, as though embarrassed.
“I mean—I know you'll be ashamed of me, I mean—couldn't we, to-night—Mr. Gates is in camp, and he will—”
“Marry us?”
“Yes, Donald.” And she hid her face against him, a face that flushed hotly and excitedly.
He caught her close during a delicious moment, for the storm held a privacy that was almost impenetrable. Then, with a groan, he released her.
“Jean,” he said earnestly, “I can't do it. I would sell my soul to marry you to-night—yes, actually sell it to the devil; but, as a man who pretends to be honorable in his dealings, I can't. Oh, it simply kills me, this refusal; but the fact of it is that I love you too much to risk your future happiness.”
“Oh, boy, boy!” she cried pitifully. “What can be happiness for me but the having of you always? If you've done wrong, I want you. Whatever this awful thing is that is ruining our lives, I don't cafe. I only know one thing, and that isI want you!”
Had he known women as some men know them, Donald would have taken her tone and her passion as passports to heaven, and hunted up the fat and spectacled Mr. Gates then and there, and this story would have ended. But he did not. He was straightforward and unsophisticated in a manly way, and knew his duty; and he also knew it was not now that Jean might regret her step, but at that important point of life Pinero has so aptly named “mid-channel,” when the fire of youth has burned out, and the main concern is with the ashes remaining.
So, with the perfume of happiness in his nostrils, he put the temptation from him, and told Jean over and over that she must believe him to be acting for the best when he laid their lives out on such lines of misery. And she, after a while, believed, as he desired, and asked no more. Then, he told her that to know the things against him would make her still more unhappy, since they were not of his doing.
“You'll hear many things about me that are not true, and never could be,” Donald said at the last; “but don't believe them. For I have done nothing wrong. All I ask is your faith and trust in me. With them, I'll willingly go through the valley of the shadow, that in the end, some time, somewhere, we may be happy.”
“Those you shall have always,” was the reply; “and something else, too, whenever you want it.”
“What is that?”
“A wife.”
He kissed her full upon the lips, and reluctantly let her go.
Through the storm a faint, muffled report sounded, as though a rifle had been fired; the two listened intently. But they heard nothing more, and Donald miserably watched Jean push open the rude door of the little cabin. Only when Fitzpatrick's voice sounded did he turn away.
Next morning, the sky had cleared, and there was a considerable show of activity in the camp, as though some secret orders had been issued. The men had not much more than finished breakfast when a trapper, who had been out still-hunting game at sunrise, came running in at the top of his speed, waving his rifle over his head. No sooner was he within reach than he was surrounded by a circle of the curious.
“There's the deuce to pay for somebody, boys,” he cried, “for I just found the body of Indian Tom, old Maria's son, out there in the woods. A bullet hole in the back did the trick. He was carrying a gun, but it's still loaded and his cartridge-belt's full, so he couldn't have done the job himself. I reached him just as he rattled off, so it wasn't very long ago. Now, I don't know who had it in for him. He was 'way beyond the sentry lines, and we're twenty miles from the other camp. ... I wonder it any of the boys were out in the woods last night?”
Donald, who had not heard the first of the speech, caught the last sentence, and made inquiries. When he learned the facts, he laughed shortly.
“Well, boys,” he remarked, “I was out in the woods last night; in fact, I heard the shot that finished Indian Tom off.”
“Out in the woods? What were you doing out in the woods in a storm like that, McTavish?” someone demanded.
Donald hesitated, and bit his lip with vexation. He was trapped. It was next to the last thing in his mind to let Peter Rainy's departure and goal become known, and it was the last to let Jean's name be brought into any of his doings. But he was not a good liar, and he groped frantically for an adequate answer.
“Come on—out with it! Is it so hard to remember?” drawled Buxton.
Still, Donald could not say anything. He laughed uneasily, and a flush mounted to his hair.
“I guess, boys,” he finally blurted out, “I'd rather not say; it was a private matter.”
The men looked at one another, and were silent. Finally, one, bolder than the rest, cleared his throat.
“Didn't you give Tom an awful thrashing a little while back?” he asked, significantly.
The flush became deeper on McTavish's face.
“It's none of your darned business, my friend,” he replied, acidly. “But I'll answer your question. I did give him a good licking, and he deserved it. How did you find it out?
“I dunno. It's just one of those things that drifted in. I couldn't tell you now who sprung it. But I'm mighty sorry you did it.”
“Why?”
“Because, Captain McTavish, there is nothing to do but hold you on suspicion. That's the least charge that can be made against you. Andrew, go tell the factor what's happened, and say we'll bring McTavish in shortly.”
“Look here, boys, you're not going to try and put that Indian's death on me, are you?” Donald cried, aghast.
“Sorry, Mac; but what you yourself have admitted is enough to lock you up, accused of murder in the first degree.”
“Heaven!” groaned Donald to himself. “Can anything else come to me?”
A little later, as he looked down upon Angus Fitzpatrick, lying on the bed of boughs, it seemed as though the old man had had a turn for the worse. Donald recalled his grip on that wounded shoulder, and smiled inwardly with pleasure, for his spirit was still bitterly vindictive.
“Really, McTavish,” was the factor's firm greeting, “I never knew any one to come up before me as regularly and for as many varieties of crime as you do. Too bad you don't devote that splendid ingenuity to something worthy.”
Donald smiled pleasantly, and inquired after the injured shoulder, a question that turned the old man's sarcasm into fury, for he had scarcely slept the night before, what with the pain of his wound, and the nervous shock of the day.
“Well,” he snarled to the others, “what brings him here now?”
A spokesman told what had already occurred outside, and Fitzpatrick listened intently. With a few rapid questions, he made certain that Indian Tom could not have perpetrated the deed himself, either purposely or accidentally. Then, he turned to the accused.
“Just where were you when you heard the shot, as you claim?” he inquired, curtly.
Donald declared he had been at the edge of the camp, naming a certain spot, and the man who had found the body identified the place as well within gun-shot of the scene of the tragedy.
“Do you believe,” Fitzpatrick asked the hunter, “that a shot from the tree where McTavish was could have reached and killed Indian Tom?
“There's no doubt of it, sir.”
“Now, Captain McTavish, do you admit having had a personal encounter with this Indian not long since?
“I do.” And Donald detailed the incident, ending with this remark: “It would seem to me only ordinary common sense that Tom should go gunning for me, and not I for him.”
“Yes, but a great many people, when they know an Indian is on their trail, prefer to end matters themselves, rather than live in constant suspense and fear.”
“I have yet to live in suspense or fear of any man,” returned Donald significantly.
“Now, Captain McTavish,” the factor said, “will you please state what took you to the edge of the camp last night during a storm of such fierceness?”
“It was a private matter, solely, and I do not care to divulge it,” was the unsatisfactory reply.
“More may depend upon this than you think,” warned the factor, pawing at his beard with the old, familiar gesture. “I advise you to tell.”
“I refuse to do so, but give you my word of honor that I had no thought of Tom in mind. In fact, I had forgotten all about him. But I did hear the shot. It was not very distant, and I was not sure what the noise was. I waited for another, but none came.”
For another half-hour, the factor grilled his victim for further information. But in vain. Then, furious at his failure, he ordered McTavish placed under guard without parole, and in the next breath commanded a second log cabin to be built as a jail wherein to confine the prisoner.
“You have defied me long enough, McTavish,” he snarled, his eyes gleaming with an ugly light, “and, by the eternal, you shall pay for this. I'll make an example of you that the North country will not forget in years. Already, you deserve punishment for breaking out of Fort Severn; this is the last straw. We'll see whether the Company can be set at naught by every underling in its employ.”
“What do you intend to do?” Donald asked.
“I shall try you on this charge of murder.”
“How can you try me on such a charge when you are here avowedly at war? Tom, being the half-brother of Charley Seguis, naturally is an enemy. Men at war can't be tried for murder, if they kill an enemy.”
“Indian Tom wasn't killed in battle; he was far beyond our sentry lines. Your technicality has no weight,” retorted the factor, grimly. “I am resolved that this crime shall not go unpunished, just as I am resolved that Charley Seguis shall pay the penalty for the death of Cree Johnny, if I can ever lay hands on him. You shall have a fair trial, as is your due; but justice shall run its course.”
“How soon will this travesty take place?” asked McTavish bitterly.
The factor restrained his temper with difficulty.
“As soon as possible,” he declared savagely. Then, turning to the others present, he ordered: “Take him away.”
Already, outside, Donald could hear men attacking dead trees with their axes for material to build the little cabin that was to be his prison. His heart sank, for he felt instinctively that the shanty would be his last earthly habitation. At length, the factor had found what he wanted—an opportunity of legalizing the murder for which his heart lusted.
Donald's morbid fancy could see the skeleton of the gibbet and the hollow square of witnesses. He could feel the rope scratching his neck. He could both see and feel, most hideous of all, the piercing triumph in that dread hour of Fitzpatrick's gimlet eyes.
Charley Seguis entered the council chamber of the huge log house in the free-trader's camp at the lower end of Sturgeon Lake, and looked about him with satisfaction. Now, the square, bare-floored room could scarcely hold the men when he called them into meeting because of the bales of fur that were piled everywhere.
It had indeed been a successful winter for the free-traders, notwithstanding opposition; and, as is the case in so many new enterprises, there had been an enthusiasm and devotion to the cause that had given speed to snowshoes and accuracy to the aim of rifles. The catch was extraordinary.
Passing out into the open again, he met one of his men.
“The Frenchies ought to be here with their supplies pretty soon, chief,” the latter remarked; “we're running mighty low on flour and tea and tobacco.”
“I expect them any day,” was the reply. “Can we hold out a week longer?”
“No more than that, and, even so, we'll have to go on short rations.”
Although the situation was as yet not grave, it gave Seguis some concern. The negotiations with the French company that had bargained for the free-traders' furs were, this first winter, carried on under difficulties, for the company had not as yet been able to build a post for regular trading.
Arrangements had been made, however, to send a great dog-train of ten sledges north, loaded with supplies, that the hunters might replenish their failing stores. Because of the unsatisfactory trading arrangements, the men had not ventured far afield; and, now, because of the shortness of staple food, they had gathered at the settlement to restock before circling out on the hunt again. The opportunities for game at this time were the worst in the winter. Moose had “yarded up”—that is, gone into winter seclusion in some snowy corral farther north—and bears were enjoying their five or six months' nap beneath cozy tree-roots and five or six feet of snow. Caribou, always hard hunting, unless “mired” in deep snow, were few and far between.
The only real source of fresh food was the lake, where a number of men were constantly employed fishing through the ice. And even this was unsatisfactory, because a considerable amount was needed to keep so many men and dogs supplied. There was, however, an air of contentment and satisfaction in the camp, and the men waited patiently, though hungrily, for the arrival of the trains from the south.
When the commissary had left him, Charley Seguis's brow clouded with annoyance as he saw a bent, wizened female figure approaching him. The only woman In the camp, old Maria, had not fallen into obscurity for a moment. She always wanted something, and haggled and nagged until she got it. Seguis, the sterling white blood ascendant in him, could not always find the pride for her in his heart that a mother might wish of her son. Now, she fawned upon him and whined.
“Are you a man or a stick,” she complained, “that you let the blood of your brother go unavenged? It's nearly three weeks since some coward shot him, and you haven't made a move to find the guilty man.”
“Nor will I, until the business here is settled,” Seguis retorted, in a tone of finality. “Do you expect me to leave this camp when the traders are expected, and go on some wild-goose chase out of personal revenge? For my part, I think Tom would have been sorrowed over a little more if he hadn't been such a fool. Why he went gunning for McTavish out of pure spite, I don't see. We need every man we can get in this camp.”
Seguis was a remarkably fine-looking half-breed. He had the proud carriage and graceful movements of the Indian, combined with the bright eyes and more attractively shaped head of a Caucasian. His hair was smooth and black, but lacked the coarseness of his mother's race, while his brain and method of thinking were wholly that of his father. With this endowment there had come to him, early in life, an aspiration to rise above his own sort, a desire to be a thorough white man. And in this he had always been supported by his mother, who, knowing her past, carried in her heart bitterness fully the equal of Angus Fitzpatrick's. It was only when her elder son had reached manhood, and bore easily, as by right, the manners of the superior race that the idea of carrying him upward ruthlessly had come to her.
Catherine de' Medici placed three successive sons on the throne of France. Old Maria was less ambitious, but none the less unscrupulous, and her methods revealed an uncanny natural knowledge of diplomacy and statecraft. Her whole life was bound up in the achievements of Charley Seguis, and she rarely, if ever, considered the question of personal perquisites should her schemes result successfully. She was content to be the background of his operations; and the background of a picture, although it be subordinate to the main object, rarely goes absolutely unnoticed.
The strangest part of her plan lay in the fact that as yet Seguis was totally unaware of his parentage. In the cunning scheme she had evolved, it was her intention to remove Donald McTavish completely, though unostentatiously; then could come the great revelation and the noise of conquest. Reasoning thus, she had taken her story to Angus Fitzpatrick, anxious, hesitant, and fearful. But in him, to her great joy, she had found an arrogant and eager, ally. This had been during the summer. It was now the first of March, and time was flying. The work must be completed before the spring thaws. The loss of Tom was not the grief to her that she made pretense it was. Her references to it this morning had a deeper purpose. She continued the conversation, despite Seguis's tone of annoyance.
“Tom may have been a fool,” she croaked, “but you're hardly the person to say so. Perhaps you'd have changed your song, if he'd put that dog, McTavish, out of the way—curse his charmed life!”
Seguis laughed harshly.
“You did your best, and Tom did his; I suppose it is up to me next. But why do you imagine I would be so glad if the captain was disposed of? I've nothing against him.”
“No? What's the matter with you? You're as soft as a rotten tree! What were you hanging around Fort Severn for all last summer, without a look for the Indian girls? Why were you singing love-songs under the trees of nights? Why did you cease to eat, and carry around a face as long as a sick fox's, eh? Ah, you are angry, and you shift! And, yet, you ask me what you have against this McTavish! With him out of the way, there's no reason why you shouldn't—”
“Hush, hush, mother! There are men coming. Don't talk so loud!” Seguis moved uncomfortably. “Leave me, now. There's some truth in what you say. I'll think it over.”
Old Maria, bent and shriveled, hobbled off, croaking, to hide the expression of malignant triumph on her leathery face. Her words had bitten deeper than Seguis cared to admit, even to himself. The short summer months, the hunter's love- and play-time, had been a season of misery for him, because of Jean Fitzpatrick's pure and beautiful face. Subconsciously, he knew that in mind and spirit he was her equal; the white strain in him, which now governed all his thoughts and actions, felt the call of its own blood. Hence, it had been with sad, rather than bitter, feelings that he witnessed Donald's courtship of the girl. More fiercely than ever, he realized the limitations of his kind. The bar sinister was a veritable millstone around his neck which dragged him down to a level he abhorred.
It was with a kind of gnawing hopelessness that he had gone away from the fort in the fall, and endeavored to forget his misery in the thousand activities of the free-traders' brotherhood. For McTavish personally, he had always retained a strong feeling of friendship, as was shown on the occasion of sending the Hudson Bay man forth on the Death Trail. But, now, the old hunger returned strong upon him at his mother's words, and he resolved to give himself every opportunity for contemplation of the dangerous theme.
Night came without the appearance of the looked-for French supply-trains, and, as usual, the camp retired early. As many of the men as possible used the small rooms in the great log house, which occupied two-thirds of its length. It was in one of these that Donald had been confined during his stay among the free-traders.
A high wind was blowing, and it was intensely cold. Suddenly, during the most terrible hours of the night, a frightened cry rang through the camp. Men, with heads and faces buried under mountainous blankets or in sleeping-bags, did not hear, and the shivering wretch who had tried to give the alarm ran frantically from room to room, rousing the sleepers. Those who were sheltered by shed-tents awoke to see a rosy light spreading across the snow where they lay—a light that was not the aurora. Then, upon the rushing wind sounded an ominous roar and a mighty crackling. The great log house was afire, and the wind exulted in the flames, tossing them back and forth and upward with fiendish glee. Shouting hoarsely, the trappers leaped, wet and steaming, out of their covers, and ran to the conflagration.
How the blaze had started was no mystery, for, in the little rooms the men occupied, each was permitted his tiny fire for cooking. Perhaps, the uneasy foot of a sleeper, perhaps a gust of wind between the chinks, had sent an ember underneath the inflammable logging of the walls.
Charley Seguis, although heavy with slumber, was among the first to run out of the building. In an instant, he took in the situation. With a lake like rock, and but one or two buckets, it was utterly impossible to check the flames with water; one or two men were making a desperate attempt to throw snow on the fire; but the wind whirled this away as fast as it was shot into the air. The building was doomed.
“Save the furs! Save the furs!” Seguis commanded at the top of his voice, and set an example by plunging into the council chamber, to reappear in a moment with two small bales of pelts. Instantly, the others followed his example.
Fortunately, the fire had started at the opposite end, so there was a fighting chance to save the valuable skins, although the flames were leaping along the beams with lightning rapidity. Presently, it was seen that the crowding of men endeavoring to pass in and out at the same time would be fatal to the contents of the wareroom, and Seguis, with a few rapid commands, formed a chain from the interior to a point well beyond the danger zone. He himself took the post of hazard in the midst of the piled pelts, and with quick thrusts of his arms kept a steady stream of bales flowing.
Such men as could not get on the pelt-brigade, he soon had rescuing bedding, traps, and other valuables from the little rooms, some of which were already seething infernos.
Urged by the high wind, the flames licked hungrily at the dry logs, and presently such a terrific heat radiated from the fire that the snow fled away in tiny rivulets, and the iron ground was laid bare. Fast as they worked, the men could not outspeed the devouring element. Flying embers clattered upon the tindery roof, and in a moment the whole top of the long structure was ablaze.
Charley Seguis, grabbing bales and passing them with both hands, suddenly brushed a six-inch ember from the pack of otter in front of him with a curse, and looked up. Here and there spots of fire dropped among the furs. He said nothing, but redoubled his efforts. In fifteen minutes, three-quarters of the work was done, and the drops of fire from above had become a steady rain.
“Get the chief out of there!” yelled someone. “The walls will fall on him!”
The man who was standing next the entrance shouted to Seguis, but all he got was a round cursing and a command to stay where he was. The half-breed was fighting now for more than a few bales of furs; he was fighting for the very existence of the free-traders. For, should their skins be lost, their value as an organization would be gone; and gone, too, all the labor of months, with its accompanying intrinsic worth.
Now, there were but twenty bales left; now, but fifteen. Seguis's hands were raw from burns, his fur cap smoldered in half-a-dozen places. But the man at the door was brave, and Seguis kept on. Ten—five! Could he hold out? Three—two! One! ... Swearing horribly with agony, drenched with perspiration, Seguis burst out of the narrow doorway just as the walls collapsed inward from both sides.
Quick hands wrapped blankets about him, and beat out the fire in his cap. Still holding the last bale in his hand, he stood grimly, watching the destruction of the only free warehouse within five hundred miles. Higher and higher the flames mounted; the circle of men was driven slowly backward by the fearful heat; the surrounding snow was eaten away for fifty yards on every side.
Some activity was necessary lest the flying brands do damage to the shed-tents and the priceless bedding, but the work required only a few hands.
“Well, thank heaven, we saved the furs!” exclaimed the chief, at last.
“You saved 'em rather,” said a voice admiringly. Seguis interrupted, roughly.
“Tell the cook to make a couple of buckets of tea, and serve it around as soon as possible.”
“Pardon!” said the functionary referred to; “but there's no tea, or any other kind of provision in the camp. What little stock remained was stored in the far end of the building where the fire took hold first. I tried to get to it, but it was no use. There's no food.”
This was a serious state of affairs, for without his eternal hot tea the woodsman is almost as wretched as though tobacco had ceased to grow. And, now, it was almost a matter of life and death, for the men were mostly without shelter, and worn out with their long struggle. Charley Seguis walked up and down briskly for a while, thinking. The fire tumbled in upon itself with a great roar and geyser of sparks, throwing distant trees and forest aisles into quick relief. The first indications of dawn, almost obliterated by the brilliance of the blaze, now made themselves definitely evident. A few of the men, with rough fishing-tackle and axes, had already started toward the edge of the lake for the morning's catch.
Seguis watched them with somber eyes, pausing for a moment in his walk. Fish, fish, fish; nothing between starvation and life for forty men except that staple of fish. And suppose the French traders did not get through! Suppose something had gone wrong in that five hundred-odd miles to civilization!
Where, then? Where in this wilderness could he turn for abundant supplies easily secured—except one place. A grim smile set his face into hard lines. ... Yes, he would go there. His mother's words of the day before returned to him. Perhaps he wouldsee her!He called a man to him.
“Tell the boys to get ready to march. I'll leave five here to guard the furs. The rest of us are going up to the Hudson Bay camp, and get food. If we don't, we'll starve to death, or get scurvy, or something. Tell everybody to be ready at ten o'clock.”