Kitabı oku: «The Wilderness Trail», sayfa 13
CHAPTER XXII
SECRETED EVIDENCE
It was an hour before sunset, but so uniform had been the darkness all day that neither Donald nor his two companions realized that night was close upon them. Hour after hour they had struggled onward through the blinding, bewildering storm, shelterless and without food, straining forward to the only place where these things might be obtained – Sturgeon Lake. Now, when the blanketing night was almost fallen, they sighted the charred ruins that had once been the warehouse of the free-traders, with a sigh of relief. A shout from one of Donald's companions brought the five men who had been left out of their tents. A shriveled female form joined them, and with a clutch at his heart the prisoner recognized old Maria.
Fortune, whose plaything he had been all this day, was indeed kind to him at last, he thought. He remembered certain trite observations concerning opportunity knocking at a man's door, and the obvious duty of a man to seize such opportunity, and bend it to his own use. If this were opportunity, he said to himself, he would make the most of it.
During that all-day struggle with the storm, Donald McTavish had come into his own again. The passive acceptance of fate that had buoyed him even to the shadow of the gallows, had gone from him now. He was all energy and aggressiveness. He resolved to bring matters to a head within the next few days, or know the reason why. What motive had moved Charley Seguis to send him to Sturgeon Lake, he did not know, nor did he care. He only remembered that he was at liberty once again, in a certain sense of the word, and that he had a fighting chance. The sight of old Maria recalled to his mind the words of Angus Fitzpatrick in regard to the marriage certificate that existed as proof of his father's youthful indiscretion. On the instant, he vowed that the hag should give up the truth of the matter before she was many hours older.
As the little party entered the camp, the men who had remained there plied them with questions as to the success of the foraging party. When the meager story had been told, they shook their heads dolefully at the lack of information, and set about the work of preparing the evening meal of fish.
McTavish, as he joined the circle with a ravenous appetite, could scarcely credit the desolation he saw on all sides of him. Now that the main loghouse was down, the settlement presented a dreary and hopeless aspect. The one redeeming feature was the huge pile of rescued fur-bales. The quantity and quality of these impressed him strongly. One of the men, observing his interest in them, remarked:
“If you fellows would get down to business, instead of wasting all winter fussing about us, you might have something like that brought into the fort when spring comes, yourselves.”
“Well, you see,” returned Donald good-humoredly, “our idea is to have those brought in when spring comes. That's all we're fighting for.”
“Deuce of a chance you've got of getting those furs!” retorted the other, contemptuously. “We're sick of the H. B.'s starvation trading, and we've quit for good and all.”
“The Hudson Bay may give starvation trading, but I'd like to know where else you'll get as much.”
Donald was leading the man on, for here was very valuable information, and this babbler evidently did not know the worth of a tight mouth.
“As much!” the trapper snorted. “Why, these Frenchies'll give us half again as much for a 'beaver' as you chaps ever thought of giving. And there's no use you fellows trying to keep them out, either. This is free territory, you know, even if old Fitz' doesn't think so. I've told Seguis often enough that, if he'd wipe old Fitz' off the map, he'd do the brotherhood more good than any other hundred men.”
“I know, my good friend. But when do you suppose these Frenchies will ever connect with you? Maybe never and – ”
The other burst into derisive laughter.
“Why, you poor fool!” he cried. “If it hadn't been for this blizzard to-day, we'd have been bargaining with 'em here to-night. Ten big trains of supplies are within thirty miles of us – and you ask me if they'll ever connect! That's good!” And he roared with laughter.
McTavish bridled, but kept his temper, for it was evident who was the fool. He continued pressing the subject for some little time further, but elicited no more really valuable information. Judging his man, he came to the conclusion that the fellow knew nothing more.
Being ignorant of the events that had occurred in the Hudson Bay camp after his departure, Donald was unaware of the desperate pursuit that was going on through the howling storm, but it was no surprise that none of Seguis's party returned to the camp.
“Can't travel in this weather,” said one man, dolefully. “If this keeps up long, we won't see 'em till it's over. Honest, after this winter, I'll be surprised if I don't sprout fins, I've eaten so much fish.”
The camp was about to turn in early when a faint cry sounded outside the circle of tents. Immediately, every one turned out, hoping it was the foragers back. Rushing in the direction of the sound, the men returned, accompanying a bedraggled old man with a gray beard, after whom limped a train of spiritless, wolfish dogs attached to a battered sledge.
“Thought I was done for in that storm, boys,” said the aged voyageur wagging his head, “but I remembered this cove around the headland, and made for it. Got anything to eat?”
According to the unwritten law of Northern hospitality, Bill Thompson, for so he gave his name, was taken in, and given what the camp afforded. He seemed to be a harmless old vagrant, whose point of departure and intended point of arrival on this journey were difficult to ascertain. He talked unceasingly of nothing in particular, and delivered endless narratives of adventures that had befallen him in his lurid and distant youth.
All that night, the storm continued unabated, and the next morning when the camp aroused itself, Bill Thompson gave out the dictum that it would continue for two days more at least. McTavish and his companions congratulated themselves that they had made the camp the night before, for in such weather traveling was almost an impossibility.
At the meager breakfast Donald realized for the first time that Maria had not appeared since the night before, when he had seen her upon their arrival. When he had pulled up his belt a notch, and lighted his pipe, the trapper's substitute for a full meal, he wandered back to the tent where he had slept. He was allowed perfect liberty among these men, first, because the weather made it impossible for him to attempt escape, and, second, because they had received no orders to keep him under strict guard. Despite his wretched situation, this morning the spirit of happiness and determination that had seized him the night before was strong upon him, and he settled himself to formulating his plans. Suddenly, right beside him at the tent door, he discovered the bent form of old Maria. How she had got there he did not know, for she seemed to have risen directly out of the earth. Her presence both startled him, and filled him with a quick hatred.
This was the creature who held in her filthy, withered hand the happiness of so many persons; this was the creature that his father had lov – No! Not that, for he could only have loved the beautiful girl he had married in Montreal.
Donald looked at the old woman with a kind of pitying loathing. What a terrible thing it was that such a worthless bit of humanity should hold so much power! She was within reach of his hands. A quick clutch, a stifled squawk, a brief struggle, and she would be dead. And how much that was to come might be averted! He laughed a little at such a method of cutting the Gordian knot.
“Laugh while you can, young McTavish,” Maria croaked, suddenly. “It won't be for long.”
“Why not, old raven?” he asked, regarding her interestedly.
The certificate! That was it. She had the certificate, and he must get it.
“The right man is coming,” she replied. “The pride of his father's heart! Ha, ha! Yes, the pride of his father's heart! He'll be rich, and have the honors heaped high. You'd better go, young McTavish – go while there's yet time.”
“Why should I go? What are you talking about, anyway, old woman?
“You lie!” she yelled at him suddenly, being close. “I see it in your eyes. You know all. You know why you should go. And I warn you to go.”
“Warn me? What about?”
“If there should be blood, it would do no hurt,” she muttered, vaguely. “Then, he would come into his own, the rightful heir, my son.”
Donald glanced at the beldam with a certain uneasiness now. He felt a veiled threat, although, he told himself, she was mad. And, yet if she felt that Seguis must be recognized, what would keep her from doing incalculable harm?
“You talk a lot, but you say little,” he retorted, with a sneer. “You make plenty of moves, but you accomplish nothing. That's a squaw every time.”
The little eyes blazed upon him red, and her withered face shook with fury.
“Accomplish nothing, eh, young McTavish? We shall see. Ha! You'll wish you'd never been born – you and your father and mother, and all!”
“More talk!” he gibed. “I want proofs. If you can show me proofs of what you claim, I'll do all I can to help your son to his rightful place.”
“My son!” she taunted, in turn. “Your brother? Your brother, young McTavish! Call him brother, next time you see him.” Her shrieking mirth mingled fittingly with the anguish of the wind among the trees. But suddenly, she stopped short, and looked at him with questioning eyes.
“You'll help him, you say, if I can give the proof that I was McTavish's wife?”
“Yes.”
Donald lied heartily: the occasion demanded it. Long since, he had decided for himself that truth was not a garment to be worn on all occasions. To those he loved, he would tell the truth if it killed him, but others must depend upon the circumstances of the case. Now, he knew that, if he could get documentary proof within arm's reach, he would destroy it, though it earned him a knife between the ribs. He watched her like a hawk, although apparently totally indifferent to the conversation.
“You promise you'll help him – my son?
“Yes.”
Donald's vision suddenly became riveted upon the clawlike right hand of the hag. An involuntary muscle, following the half-ordained bidding of the brain, had moved perhaps three inches toward her breast. There, it stopped, and slipped down again.
“Look in my eyes,” the witch commanded, bending down and putting her face close.
He removed his pipe, and turned to meet her gaze. Then, he realized that never in his life had he looked into human eyes that in cruelty, keenness, and suspicion equaled these. That glare went through the retina, into the brain, and down, down to the hidden and undiscoverable recess of the soul, plumbing, searching, proving. He began to feel as though he were looking at a dazzling light… Suddenly, the light was turned off, and he heard a snarl.
“Liar! I can see the treachery in your heart! Fool, to try to deceive me! I might have put trust in your words once; but now I know!” In her fury, she seemed saner than he had ever known her hitherto, and it was then, for the first time, that he got an idea of Maria's abnormal powers of analysis. Any person who could rivet one with a gaze like that, he thought, was worth watching. For fully ten minutes, she raved, scattering words with prodigal recklessness. McTavish did not listen to the abuse. He was thinking of other things. Presently, she flung herself out of the tent, with a final shriek, and the man acted at once.
He fastened on his snowshoes and crawled awkwardly out on all-fours after her. In the driving, blinding snow, he could just see her small figure, dimly. He followed it. The involuntary motion of Maria's hand to her bosom was the one thing that he had needed. He had been afraid that some split tree, or hollow beneath a rock, might contain the thing he wanted; now, he was certain that she carried it upon her person.
On he went, away from the camp, of which the circle of tents was almost buried. Donald, veering from the path, since it might lead to an embarrassing encounter, kept his quarry always in sight, and followed. Was the woman crazy, he wondered, that she should wander aimlessly out into a death-dealing storm? But, at last, when he was on the point of turning back for fear of losing his location entirely, Maria came to the foot of an unusually large tree, and halted. The pursuer dropped behind a little drift he had just started to mount, and waited. If this were her destination, he knew she would peer about. A moment later, his suspicions were verified. But, In the quick glance of her keen eyes, she passed over the practically invisible snow-covered form that lay so near her. When the man raised his head again, she had turned her attention to the tree, and had pulled open a little, low door that allowed her to crawl into the very heart of the trunk. A moment later, the door swung to, and Maria apparently was no more.
McTavish did not wonder now why he had seen her so seldom in the camp. No doubt, she had her own supply of food safe inside, and did not come out until hunger or her inclination prompted. He looked at the tree to mark it in his mind, and observed that it was tall and bare, with practically no needles or foliage of any sort. Huge bumps and broken limbs made it one in a thousand. On the leeward side of the tree, he thought he noticed a glow of light. He brushed the snow from his eyes, and looked again. This time, he was sure. He guessed that this was an air-hole bored through the wall of the trunk, and that Maria was building a fire inside. For a moment, he envied her coziness. Then, he crawled stealthily forward, until within ten feet of the big hollow pine. The air-holes, he noticed now, were not made on the north and west sides of the tree. Evidently, she counted on the suction of the wind to draw out the smoke and foul air.
The noise of the storm easily drowned any sounds the observer might make, and he moved with considerable freedom, now that the woman could not see him. Plainly, the air-holes had been made by other hands than hers, for they were higher than her head; in fact Donald himself would have to stretch to look down. He selected a hole about three inches in diameter, and peered in. The smoke filled his eye, but he saw enough to know that the old squaw was seated on the floor of her habitation, nursing her little fire. He could not quite see all her actions, so he moved to a larger hole. Presently, the fire burned brightly, and Maria began to rock back and forth, and sing to herself. Suddenly, she burst out into a weird laugh, and cried:
“Ha! The fool! The fool! If he only knew I almost showed him!” Chuckling and muttering incoherently, she put a stealthy hand into her bosom, and drew forth a little bag of muskrat skin. Donald, cursing softly the smoke that filled his eyes, did his best to stand on tiptoe.
The bag was suspended around Maria's neck by a leathern thong, and was operated by pull-strings. Still rocking back and forth, the crone loosened the strings, and opened the bag. Then, she drew forth a paper, old and dirty and yellow. It was so worn in the creases that it almost fell apart, but over it ran fine writing, in a good hand. Donald, strain his eyes as he might, could not make out a single word of it.
Now came the impulse to rush inside, seize the paper, jerk loose the bag, and make away with both. Donald had indeed slipped off his snowshoes preparatory to entrance when a great yelling and hallooing in the forest near by caused him to change his plan of action. Slipping on his rackets again, he sped swiftly back toward the camp. He had hardly disappeared, when the old squaw pushed aside the home-made doorway of her strange dwelling, and looked curiously in the direction of the noises.
CHAPTER XXIII
THE BROTHERS
One by one, exhausted, but joyful, the trappers of the Free-Traders' Brotherhood straggled into their long-sought camp. Nearly all had small packs on their backs, as though the provisions secured had been distributed around evenly. In the lead, as usual, was Charley Seguis. At the end of the procession came two or three wounded trappers, supported by their comrades.
One of the first to greet the arrivals was Donald McTavish. His wonder at the skill and stamina that carried the men through that awful storm expressed itself in eagerness to assist in relieving men of their packs. The gaunt, half-starved five that had been left at Sturgeon Lake pounced upon the food, and, without more ado, started to brew pails of tea, and to thaw out meat. In the midst of his work, Donald suddenly found himself side by side with Bill Thompson, the voyageur who had arrived the night before. At a moment when they were unobserved, the old man spoke into the young man's ear.
“I want to see you alone at the earliest opportunity,” he said.
Donald looked at his companion in amazement, and saw something in the other's face that drew instant assent.
The story of Seguis's party was soon told. The men had been traveling hardly an hour when the storm overtook them. From an eminence, they had seen the pursuit of the Hudson Bay men, and, though they had run at top speed, the packs of provisions had retarded them to such an extent that their pursuers were gaining steadily. When the storm broke, however, these very provisions saved their lives, for the Hudson Bay men, being without means of shelter or sustenance, had given up the chase, rather than lose their lives in a pursuit of which the favorable outcome was so problematical. Seguis, striking into the usual trail to the camp, had overtaken his men that night, while they were still struggling on, and had ordered a halt. Confident of their safety, they had camped, and then resumed their march at daybreak, finding their bearings, and keeping them, by the skill known to woodcraft.
It was now noon, and there was still no abatement in the storm. After a good meal, Donald sought out Bill Thompson, while the other men huddled in their tents, and recounted the experiences of the hazardous march.
“Didn't I hear somebody call you McTavish?” asked the old trapper, suddenly dropping the garrulousness that had characterized him so far, and looking at the young man out of keen gray eyes.
“Yes.” Donald's perplexity at this strange interview increased.
“Son of the commissioner, are you?”
“Yes, I am. Why?”
“I used to know your father, many years ago; but things went differently for us after a while, and I lost track of him. I haven't seen him in twenty years. Fine man, he is, though.”
“You're a Hudson Bay man, then?” Donald inquired.
“Oh, my, yes! Been one all my life, and my boys are trapping for the Company now, down on the English River district. That's where I came from.”
“Well, you hadn't better stay here any longer than you can help, or you'll never get away. These fellows are free-traders, you know.”
“I gathered as much from that loose-mouthed jay, Baptiste. The reason I spoke to you is that I want to find out where I can lay hold of Angus Fitzpatrick, the Fort Severn factor. Had a little trouble in my section, and I thought I'd just shift up here for a while. I've lost most of the season now, and I've got to get busy.”
Donald outlined briefly the position of the factor and the reason that took him away from the fort at this time of the year. Then an idea, full-clothed, leaped into his mind.
“You've seen that pile of furs over there, haven't you?” he asked, indicating the rich haul of the free-traders.
“Yes.”
“Well, I want you to investigate them on the sly, and learn about how many there are. I'm the captain of a post on the Dickey River, and I engage you now as my messenger and representative. Give up your idea of trapping for this winter. I've plenty for you to do. No one knows anything about you here, and I think you can get away without being stopped.
“Drive like the devil to the Hudson Bay camp twenty miles up the lake, and tell old Fitzpatrick the best inventory of furs you can secure before you leave. Then, tell him to quit worrying about these free-traders here. Tell him there is a huge train of trading supplies from a French company within thirty miles of this camp somewhere, and say that, if he wants to put an end to this business to capture that train before it arrives.
“These men will starve here in a little while, if they don't lay in a lot of grub, for what they stole the other day can't last very long. Now, if the Frenchies get through with their trains first, Fitzpatrick will have a devil of a time beating these men. They are determined and brainy, at least the leader is, and they have a catch of unusually fine furs – a remarkable catch. Tell him, if he wants to break the back of this trouble, to stop that French train. Last of all, ask him to have ten men with provisions go to the big pine at Muskeg Point, and wait there till I come. It may be several days but I'll come somehow. Tell him, whatever he does, to do this.
“Now, Thompson, the factor and I have had a lot of trouble this winter, and the chances are that we will have a lot more, but I want you to tell him that Donald McTavish sent you with those messages, and that I'm faithful to the Company through everything.”
“Well, Mr. McTavish,” said the old man, “I'll have to pull my freight in this storm, I guess, and in the middle of the night, too. Possibly, to-morrow morning may be clear, and, if it is, I doubt if I could explain my destination satisfactorily. I'll move to-night.”
“And I'll help you,” said Donald.
By midnight, there was still no change in the weather. The young man crawled from his shelter and sought out Thompson, who, with his dogs, occupied a tent near the ruins of the old warehouse. A tiny pack of provisions that had been stolen and saved during the day Thompson put upon his rickety sledge.
“Did you get a chance to look over those furs? asked McTavish.
“Sure; I spent an hour with 'em, and I don't think my estimate will be off more than a hundred skins. And, say, they're beauties, too.”
“Remember all I told you to tell Fitzpatrick.”
“Yes. Now, to get down to the lake! This is a northwest wind, and I'll have to fight it every inch of the way. What's the landmark by the camp?”
Donald told him, and added:
“Thompson, more depends upon you than you have any idea of. Tell the factor to hurry, hurry, hurry, if he's going to get that supply train. Goodby.”
The weather-beaten voyageur gripped the outstretched hand, and led the dogs over the new snow to the lake. It would be bitter work, for there were drifts and no crust.
“Look here, McTavish, why don't you make your get-away now?” suddenly demanded Thompson.
“I'm on a hot trail of another sort here,” was the curt answer; “and I won't go until I have followed it to the end.”
Thompson asked no more questions, but “mushed” the dogs, and a minute later was swallowed up in the swirling flakes.
The following day was a busy one in the free-traders' camp. The storm did not abate until nightfall, and during that time the men were engaged in digging their habitations clear of the snow that almost threatened to bury them. In this work, McTavish cheerfully took a hand, and, by his good-humored banter, won his way to the hearts of his fellow-toilers. Notwithstanding his industry, the Hudson Bay man kept his eye open for glimpses of Maria who, as he expected, was constantly about, now that Charles Seguis had returned. He was surprised that Seguis had nothing to say to him, and wondered anew what had been the motive of his sudden liberation. The idea of connecting Jean and the half-breed never entered his head.
By the following morning the air was clear and prickly with cold, and the sky seemed as though newly polished when the sun rose. The days were becoming longer now, and the daylight hours nearly equaled those of darkness. It was when Donald had given up the idea of Seguis's desiring to see him that the unexpected happened. The half-breed approached shortly after noon, and requested his prisoner to walk a little way into the woods, as he had something to communicate. Puzzled, but prepared for anything, Donald agreed. Subconsciously, he felt that this was to be one of the crises of his life, and he gathered himself to meet it. The same spirit of aggressiveness and determination that had characterized him since his liberation possessed him now. He resolved to take command of the situation if he could; if not, to make his defeat seem a victory. The first wheels of his machinery of reprisal and revenge had been set in motion with Thompson's departure, two nights before. Already, the Hudson Bay men had had thirty-six hours to block the French approach to the free-traders' camp. Perhaps, it was concerning this very thing that Charley Seguis wished to speak to him.
For a quarter of an hour they trudged in silence through the forest. A fallen tree at last projected across their path, and Seguis set an example by sitting down. Donald followed suit.
“As you can imagine,” began Seguis evenly, “what I have to say to you is not pleasant. I have a message to deliver.”
“Who from?” Donald, reviewing quickly the persons with whom Seguis might have come in contact, could think of no one who would send him a message.
Seguis parried.
“Perhaps, you remember writing a letter that night in the cabin?
“Yes.”
“Well, it was delivered.”
There was an instant's silence, as the significance of this flashed on Donald.
“H-m, I see,” he remarked quietly, “and you bring the answer?”
“Yes, here it is.” Seguis handed over the letter, upon the back of which Jean had written.
Donald, with considerable difficulty, read the almost illegible lines, and, when he came to the signature, laughed aloud.
“This is absurd,” he said calmly, putting the letter in his pocket. “That is not Miss Fitzpatrick's handwriting.”
“I must ask you to believe she wrote that message,” rejoined Seguis, coldly.
“Well, I don't believe it, and I won't,” was Donald's equally cool retort. “It's a hoax, pure and simple.”
“The writing may be a hoax, but the sense is not.”
“What do you mean by that?” asked Donald, sharply.
“I mean that what Is contained in that letter goes as it stands. I will give you a safe-conduct out of the country, if you'll accept it. If you won't, I shall restore you to the Hudson Bay officials, with an apology for having interfered with justice.” Seguis's tone was level and determined.
McTavish lost color.
“You can't mean that, Seguis,” he said, earnestly.
“I do mean it,” was the inflexible reply.
Donald reflected for a moment. The situation was getting out of his hands. He must dominate matters at all costs. The plans that he had set in motion must not stop until they had gone on to their inevitable, crushing conclusion. It was evident that the half-breed was equally determined. The battle now lay between them.
“I refuse to go,” he said, resolutely.
“Is that final?” asked Seguis.
“Absolutely!”
“Well, then, to-morrow, you start up the lake to the other camp.” Seguis rose from his seat, indifferently. “I guess we've nothing left to discuss,” he added, and began to walk back toward the camp.
“Seguis, wait!” Donald's face was ghastly with the resolve that had come to him, but he spoke with an even, commanding voice, which arrested the other. “You must not do that. It would be murder.”
“How so? You have your opportunity to avoid it.”
“Would you murder your own flesh and blood? Tell me, Seguis, would you do that?” The voice was still even, but the eyes that searched those of the half-breed were bright with an intense fire.
“What do you mean by 'my own flesh and blood?' Are you going crazy, McTavish?” demanded the half-breed, feeling, he knew not why, a mysterious fear move within him.
“Crazy! No, indeed, my good Seguis – only too far from it, I sometimes think!” was the spoken reply. But over and over to himself, McTavish was saying: “He doesn't know it! He doesn't know it!”
“Well, what do you mean then?”
“Just what I say; that, if you send me back to the other camp, you'll be murdering your own flesh and blood. Good God! man, don't you know who your father was?
“No – she never told me.” Seguis, in a dazed manner, indicated the camp where Maria still prowled about. “Wh – who was he?”
“The – the same as mine! The man who sits in the commissioner's chair to-day – ”
“Not McTavish, the McTavish?” cried the half-breed, trembling from head to foot. “No, no, it can't be! Don't say so!”
“But it is, and that's all there is about it,” growled Donald, grimly. “Why? What difference does it make to you?”
“Then you – you, Captain McTavish, you are my half-brother?”
“Yes.”
“And I was about to kill you, and I have already tried once, and my mother has tried, and Tom – oh, why haven't I known this before? Why didn't she tell me?”
For the moment, Seguis seemed utterly lost in the mazes of his own thoughts and memories. He stood with folded arms, his head hanging upon his breast, while his lips moved in self-communion. Then came the reaction, and disbelief, and it was necessary to go over the ground with him from beginning to end. Concisely and briefly, Donald outlined the whole march of events that had led up to this inevitable revelation.
Then, as never before, the Hudson Bay man realized how far-reaching and potent are the little things of life, and, after all, how far from free agents we are sometimes. Forty-five years before, perhaps, his father, alone in the wilds, had yielded to the warm, dusky beauty of an Indian princess, and now, when, by all the laws of chance and custom, that germ of evil should have expired, it sprang into life and propagated a harvest of intrigue and death. And he, the son, by no fault of his own, was unwillingly but unavoidably involved in the penalty.
To Seguis the meaning of it all came as a blinding flash. In an instant, he analyzed his heritage of ambition and knew the desires of his mother for what they were. He looked back now upon his life of advancement with discerning eyes, and, suddenly, ahead of him, not far now since this revelation, he saw a shining goal.
