Kitabı oku: «The Wilderness Trail», sayfa 7
CHAPTER XI
A HOT SCENT
Without a word, Rainy made preparations for moving. A lesser woodsman or lazier servant would have demurred, for, while the blizzard lasted, there was scarcely a chance in a million that any searcher from the fort would find their hiding-place. Even now, the newcomer's tracks were already wiped clean from the white page of the snow.
But, when the storm cleared away, as it might do with great suddenness, they would be in great peril of observation, for, until they should reach the denser forest to the south, there would be many open spots to be crossed – open spots well within the range of a field-glass at the fort.
While Peter hitched up the growling dogs, Donald made the pack, and fastened it on the sledge. But, before they were ready to scatter the fire and plunge into the maelstrom of the storm, the Scotchman pulled the other's sleeve.
“What was that clew you had in regard to Jean Fitzpatrick?” he shouted above the wind.
“Friends told me, very quiet, that old Maria, who was at the fort the day before we arrived, and who tried to see the factor, had kidnaped her. But for what reason I have no idea. Maybe she's angry because old Fitzpatrick wouldn't see her, but the man who told me hinted at other things.”
“Was he an Indian?”
“Yes; it was Tee-ka-mee.”
“How did he know?”
“Butts tell him, he said. He and Butts good friends, because of working in the house together.”
“Why didn't they say as much when the search was being made? Then, they could have run this Indian hag to earth.”
“Like most English servants, that Butts was afraid to speak out, and Tee-ka-mee says the idea never occurred to him until too late.”
“Do you think it is good talk, and that the old woman did the trick?
“I think it is the most likely explanation. At least, it is something to work on.”
Shortly afterward, they drove the dogs from the shelter of the rock into the teeth of the storm. Then, turning, they fled south before the gale with what certitude they might. They had nothing to guide them, neither stars nor brilliant aurora, and they struggled along the heavy trail only by their memories of it, and the exercise of every particle of woodcraft they both possessed.
The trail was cruelly heavy with the snow, and the dogs floundered shoulder-deep at times, even when the two men had gone on before to break the way. Traveling would be hard until a warm west wind melted the surface, and gave a crust chance to form over-night. Frequently, they rested in the lee of a bold rock, and continued their talk. They left no back trail, for hardly could they lift a foot ere the hollow it had formed had been filled with snow. On one of these occasions McTavish asked: “Who is this Maria?”
Peter Rainy did not seem to hear, and bent down to examine the dog-harness. Donald repeated the question, and was surprised to have his companion change the subject without answering. There was something peculiar about this, and a third time he put the query, uttering it now in a tone of authority. “Captain,” said the Indian, “I would rather not tell you. It would only make you unhappy.”
“I'll be much more unhappy if I know there is a mystery, without knowing what it is. Tell me, Peter. We must go on in a minute.”
“Maria is the mother of Charley Seguis.”
“Well,” Donald exclaimed impatiently, as the other paused, “what's so terrible about that?
“Don't you remember last summer, at the fort, that he was there all the time; that he made a great show with his cleverness among the maidens, but would have none of them? And why would he not? Truly, they were rare Indian maidens, and warm with love, but his eyes were elsewhere. As the wolf looks upward, and wishes the beautiful white moon, so did he look upward and desire the lovely white daughter of the factor.”
“What are you telling me, you devil?” shouted McTavish, his eyes blazing.
The old Indian did not move, but bent slightly, as though expecting a blow.
“I did not wish to tell you, Captain,” he said, with dignity, “but you forced me. Then, too, perhaps, it is just as well that you know early rather than late. Perhaps, old Maria took the girl just for spite of old Fitzpatrick. I hope that is the only reason.”
“And yet – and yet – !” muttered Donald between clenched teeth. His tongue refused to utter the foul alternative.
Silent, they moved out in the storm once more, and McTavish bent to the work with a will. It was good to battle, to struggle with the elements on this wild night; it was good to weary himself with labor and to keep his mind alert with the changing exigencies of every step. Else, he should be beside himself with fear and impotence.
In flashes, he pondered on what he had heard: the Indian woman's fruitless visit to Fitzpatrick, her relationship to Charley Seguis, her sudden abduction of Jean. There was something about these things that presented to his understanding a wall of insurmountable height. Then, he recalled his last interview with Jean and the suspicions that had been cast upon himself, suspicions he had vainly endeavored to fathom. What was in the wind, anyhow? he asked himself. There seemed to be forces at work over which he had no control, forces big with portent, heavy with menace. Like a towering thunder-cloud that casts its sickly green over all about, so these unknown influences were overshadowing all the lives around him.
There was but one thing to do. Probe matters to the bottom, force the issues, and drive these disquieting rumors out of the country. But how to accomplish this? There was but one answer to that question in Donald's mind, and it was the answer of the man in primitive surroundings thousands of years ago. He would marry Jean Fitzpatrick out of hand, and then start asking questions. If she did not yet love him, she would learn to; if her father did not like it, he would have to make the best of matters. For the present, Sturgeon Lake was out of the question for Donald. He would attend to that later. Just now, Jean was in danger of worse things than death, and needed him. He would devote his attention entirely to her.
All that night, Rainy, McTavish, and the dogs toiled like galley-slaves, not sure of their exact direction, but aware that they were taking a general southerly course away from the fort. Morning found them fully ten miles on their way, with no back trail, and the blizzard lessening perceptibly. It did not matter now. Their tracks would be taken for those of a trapper running his line.
They halted for breakfast in the lee of a bluff, just as a muddy light made itself apparent.
“Shall we rest now, Captain?” asked Rainy.
But Donald said no, and told the old servant his reasons and his plans. An hour's inactivity represented to him a hundred hideous possibilities. They must travel fast in the general direction of Sturgeon Lake, and try to pick up the trail of Maria, the squaw… So, after an hour, they pressed on again, finding easier traveling and making better time.
That night they came to a little lake, perhaps a mile wide, and on the opposite shore discerned a wretched shanty. They decided to camp here, for the dogs were weak with exhaustion. Rainy attended to the unharnessing of the animals and the unpacking of the sledge, while Donald went out to cut wood for the fire and boughs to sleep on. When he returned and entered the cabin, he found the Indian examining something closely. It proved to be a charred ember. Rainy fingered it and smelled it, and finally announced that it was not more than a day old. The two then went outside, and circled slowly about the shanty.
Here, forty miles from Fort Severn, the blizzard had been light, and the snowfall trifling. Presently, they uncovered faint tracks leading away southwest, and judged, from the edge of the crust where the sledge had occasionally broken through, that they were not older than thirty-six hours.
Once more, the mania for travel seized McTavish, and he was all for setting out on the trail that night. But Peter Rainy restrained him, showing him the folly of such action, since both dogs and men were unfit for work.
In the cabin, at one time, there had been a bunk. The flat shelf still projected out from the wall. Donald entered with an armful of spruce boughs, and threw them on the bunk. While he was arranging them to a semblance of smoothness for the blankets, his hand struck something hard and cold. He picked the object up and held it to the light of the fire. Then, with a cry, he leaned forward, and examined it intently.
It was a bone button from Jean Fitzpatrick's fur outer garment.
That it was hers, there could be no doubt, for the reason that in the very center was a tiny raised flag-pole and flag, the latter enameled red – the banner of the Hudson Bay Company. The buttons were a curiosity, and were the work of an old squaw for whom Jean had done many little kindnesses.
How had it got here? There was but one explanation: Maria, Tom, her full-blooded Indian son, and Jean had occupied this lonely cabin.
“Surely it is hers,” said Peter Rainy, examining the object. “But see, Captain. It's now six days since they took her away. The trail going from here was made day before yesterday. Why should they have stayed here so long?”
“I don't know – I don't know!” muttered Donald, walking up and down outside the door excitedly. “But we have no other clew; we must follow this one. With two women they are traveling slowly. We can overtake them.”
During the night, the sky cleared, and, when McTavish woke after several hours of troubled sleep, the stars were bright. It was four o'clock; but he routed out his whole establishment, and in less than an hour they were on their way, so that by daylight they had put fifteen miles behind them.
They traveled as they had never done before, following the dim trail before them with the speed and instinct of wild things. Tireless, elastic, winged with snowshoes, the miles flowed under them.
At eleven o'clock, they came upon the ruins of a camp-fire, which had evidently been scattered that morning, and, encouraged by this, Donald could barely stop to make tea. The afternoon was a race with darkness. Could he have done so, he would have commanded the sullen sun to stand still. Now, with a vicious cut at the faltering dogs, now with a cry of encouragement to Peter Rainy, he ran on, his shirt open at the front, his throat bare.
Hour by hour, the trail grew fresher. Now, they paused at the open glades before crossing them. They listened for the jingle of bells in the distance, and took their own off the harness, an act that nearly ended their day's journey, for the dogs could scarcely be induced to travel without this musical accompaniment. Darkness, at last, began to settle.
Suddenly, the force of inspiration that had held him up so long, deserted the young man, and he wavered where he stood, shading his eyes across an open space.
“What do you see, Peter?” he gasped, sitting down abruptly, for very weakness.
The Indian stood gazing for a long time in silence.
“Far off, I see a shanty and a dog-train in front of it,” he said, slowly. “And, now, I see smoke coming from the chimney.”
“How many people are there?” cried Donald excitedly, getting to his feet again. “Tell me, quick! How many?
“That I cannot see,” answered the Indian, after a moment's piercing scrutiny.
“Mush! Mush on!” cried McTavish, curling the long whip over the dogs' backs, and once more the mad race was under way.
Over the smooth, glazed crust, into low, powdery drifts, under windfalls or around them, down the forest aisles, or across bare, open spaces, they whirled, the men at a tireless, gliding lope, the dogs at a fast trot.
Nearer came the shanty and its curl of smoke. Now, it was but a quarter of a mile away, and the going was all down-hill and clear. The men jumped aboard the sledge, and called to the dogs, which responded by breaking into a gallop. Thus silently, without bells, the equipage descended upon the unknown travelers in the shanty.
A hundred yards away, the strange dogs sounded the alarm, and, ten seconds later, Donald's team was engaged in a free fight that threatened to put an end to every strip of harness.
While Peter Rainy stayed to separate the combatants, Donald sprang off, and rushed ahead to the shanty. At that moment, two persons stepped out of the door, a man and a woman.
Even at fifty yards, there could be no doubt as to their identity: They were the old hag Maria and her Indian son, Tom.
CHAPTER XII
MARIA TAKES ACTION
“Good-evening,” said Donald, courteously, in the Ojibway tongue. With all his impatience, he knew better than to be precipitate. Tom and Maria responded in kind to his salutation, and the usual amenities of those who find themselves at a camping-place together were exchanged. Of course, the newcomers would not think of occupying the cabin, since the others had reached it first, even though Donald's rank in the Hudson Bay Company entitled him to the best to be had.
They were fortunate, he said, in the locating of such an admirable shelter; in fact, it was one of the best he had seen, warm, well made, with room for the dogs. Whose was it? They told him an Indian name, and he continued his complimentary talk, approaching the door all the time.
Truly, this good Indian would have to be recommended to the factor for keeping his place in such fine order. See! Even the door fitted in its frame, and did not sag on its hinges when he opened it. There would be – He entered.
The monologue suddenly ceased, and, after a silent moment, a groan from the heart of the agonized man came to the ears of those outside. Presently, he emerged, white and wretched-looking, his face drawn with weariness and disappointment.
Yet, in his eyes there was something that made the two rascally Ojibways shift uneasily. Donald was not sure whether or not he had heard a smothered snicker, during the moment that he found himself alone in the cabin, but he intended to find out.
“Tom,” he said, “where are the hunting-grounds to which you are going?
“By Beaver Lake.”
“You are much too far south to be on the way to Beaver Lake. Something else has brought you here.”
“My mother is getting old; she prefers to travel the forest, and not the muskeg trails. For that we came south.”
“Every other winter, she has traveled them safely, Tom. Something else has brought you here.”
“I swear it is not so, Captain,” said the Indian, in a tone of defiance rather than of humility – a tone that proved him untruthful then and there.
“You lie, Tom Seguis!” cried McTavish fiercely. All the disappointments of the day leaped into rage at this provoking answer.
“If I do, I learned it from white men,” came the insulting answer.
Inasmuch as the only white men of his acquaintance were Hudson Bay officials, this constituted a slurring piece of impudence that demanded instant retribution.
Without a word, Donald slipped the gloves from his hands, and leaped upon Tom, smashing him to right and left with one well-directed blow after the other. The Indian was unarmed, and no match for the captain. But not so his mother. Almost imperceptibly, the leering hag crept closer to the combat, one hand glued to her side.
So intent was she in watching for an opening that she did not hear Peter Rainy approaching. Suddenly, Tom, thrusting out his fists in desperation from the merciless beating, caught his assailant under the chin, and halted him a second. In that second, the old hag sprang, the cold steel glinting in her hand.
But Peter, with a shout, was upon her, wrenching away the weapon and hurling her, squawking, toward the cabin, where, cursing like a medicine-man, she searched blindly for a rifle until Rainy took that also away from her, and shut her in the cabin. Meanwhile, the thrashing of Tom went methodically on, until he was unable to rise from the snow, and could scarcely bawl an apology between his swollen, bleeding lips.
Such is the discipline of a region where law is a remote thing, and the mention of a name must carry terror for thousands of miles.
McTavish, as he punished Indian Tom with merciless severity, was no longer McTavish. He was the Company; he was discipline; he was the “inevitable white man.” And, by the same token, Tom was the conquered race that had dared to doubt the power of its conqueror. This battle in the snow enacted the drama of America's Siberia as it has been enacted for two hundred years.
Tom not only delivered himself of an apology at Donald's demand, but expressed a willingness, even a desire, to atone for his wrong-doing by telling the truth of the matter that had given rise to the trouble. Having the situation well in hand, the Hudson Bay man set Peter to making the camp outside, while he entered the cabin with Tom.
“Where is the factor's daughter?” he fiercely demanded.
“She left us two days ago,” mumbled the Indian.
“And you will never see her again,” snarled Maria, crouching before the fire.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ha, ha! She is in good company. She has a man now – a good man – a man such as a woman ought to love,” croaked the venomous crone, glaring.
“In heaven's name, speak out, old woman! Who's she with?”
“Charley Seguis. He is a good man. The women all love him.” And she rocked herself to and fro, like some horrible old witch. Donald stared at her, wild-eyed.
“When did he get her?” he groaned. “How? Where?”
“Two days ago, at the other cabin,” broke in Tom, hastily. “We waited for him there, and he came and got her.”
“Was there anyone with him, or did he come alone?”
“Two others, an Indian and a French trapper,” was the answer.
“Where did they go?” The little, close cabin seemed to reel about the distraught lover.
“To Sturgeon Lake.”
“The truth!” cried Donald, frantically. “Tell me the truth, or, by heaven, I'll break every bone in your body!” With hands opening and closing convulsively, he advanced upon Tom.
But the latter had had enough, and he cowered away from his interrogator, protesting his good faith. So genuine were his terrified protestations that the questioner was convinced.
“But he shall have her, Charley Seguis shall have her,” chanted old Maria, still rocking to and fro.
McTavish, sick at heart and at a loss what to do next, went out of the cabin and over to the camp that Rainy had made in the snow near the foot of a big tree. There, he told the old Indian what he had learned, and appealed to him for counsel. For an hour, the latter kept silent, and in that time they fed the dogs, and cooked their own supper of fish, flat flour cakes, and tea. At last, when all was done and the young man's spirits had risen with the strength the hot food brought him, Peter Rainy spoke.
“These people have done wrong,” he said, indicating the shanty. “They must be punished. They must go back to Fort Severn to hear the factor's judgment. One of us must take them. It should not be you; your heart yearns onward for the thing that is dearest to it, and you must follow that call.
“Give me authority, and I will take them back, so they can make no more trouble. Tom is a good Indian, except with his mother. Him I trust, but that old squaw” – he shook his head gravely – “if she lived on the plains, she would cut down a burial-tree to build a fire. That's the kind she is. I'll not feel safe until she's in jail.”
“If you are going back with them,” broke in Donald, “you can use their dog-train, and I'll keep this one.”
“It is Buller's, and should be at Fort Dickey,” Rainy replied. “Cardepie's is the only one left there now. But there's no other way, I guess.”
“None. And, Peter, we must set watch to-night, so they can't escape us. Four hours on and off; I'll stand the first one.”
“Master, you are very weary, and need sleep, for we have traveled far. Let me watch first.”
But Donald respected the years of his companion, and gently maintained his purpose. When they were ready for the night, he went to the cabin, and placed Maria and Tom under arrest. Before taking his watch, he tore a page from his note-book, and wrote a signed statement, authorizing Peter Rainy as deputy to conduct the Indians to Fort Severn.
Building a fire before the cabin door, he began walking up and down, fighting desperately the almost overpowering sleep that weighed upon his eyelids. Doubly exhausted by the day's efforts and disclosures, every moment was a renewed struggle, and every hour an eternity.
A rising wind, roared with hollow sound among the trees, and drove the snow-powder into his face. The stars, glinting diamonds in the blue-black vault over-head, twinkled and coruscated with brittle fires. Now and then, a report like a rifle stabbed the stillness when a tree cracked with its freezing sap… Donald sat down on a log.
His mind was filled with bitter thoughts, and he remembered for the first time that he was in reality nothing but an escaped prisoner. But all that trouble could be attended to later. It had sunk into insignificance beside the hideous verities that the day had revealed.
Into his mind flashed a picture of Jean as he had seen her last. The sweet, virginal face, the red-bronze aureole of her soft hair, the gray wool dress with touches of red warming it at throat and waist and wrist – all these were in the picture.
Would he ever see her again as she had been that bitter day? Would there be something gone from that innocent face, some of its sweet purity? Or would there be something added, a flicker of eternal fear in the wide, blue eyes, or the stamp of hell across the fair brow? The face merged slowly into a general indistinctness until with a shock it all cleared away, and he felt a sharp pain in the back of his neck.
Then he realized that sleep had stolen upon him and that his head had rolled forward uncontrolled. With a curse, he sat up and looked at his watch. Two hours yet before he could call Peter Rainy. He put some more wood on the fire, but dared not look at the fascination of the dancing flames. He felt a sort of resentment that these two dirty Indians must be watched, and so break into his much needed rest. He riveted his attention upon the stars, and began to name over the constellations he could see. There was the Great Bear, the trapper's timepiece in the wilderness; and there, almost directly above him and very bright, the North Star, the hunter's compass. Then, there was the Big Dipper, very high, and the Little Bear. Southerly, through the trees, and looking like an arc-lamp suspended there, Sirius gleamed, while very low and to the left was the belt of Orion.
Suddenly, the entire solar system described violent circles of fire before his eyes, and a dull shock seemed to shake him. He knew something was wrong, and strove to gain his feet, or cry out, before it was too late. But, in an instant, he realized that he was powerless to move, and, in the next, the whirling constellations gave place to utter, velvet blackness.
When he struggled back to consciousness, the first thing Donald sensed was that something pleasantly warm lay upon his face. After a while, he discovered that this gentle glow must be from the sun.
“How's this?” he said to himself. “The whole camp must have slept late,” and he struggled to a sitting posture, only to give vent to a groan of agony.
His head throbbed and pained him horribly, and he pressed his hand to the aching place only to find that a huge bruise and swelling had appeared overnight. Then, disjointed thoughts began to link themselves together, and his addled brain cleared itself with a violent effort. He looked about staringly, and took in the scene: the cabin, the hole where Peter had camped, his own fire.
“Nobody's here,” he said, blankly; “that's funny.”
Flashes of half-truth commenced to lighten the darkness of his mind, and he pressed his hands against his temples hard, telling himself not to go mad – that everything would come out all right. No one was in sight, the fires were almost dead, the cabin door was open, so that he could see that the place was unoccupied. Then, he looked for stars, and laughed, because the sun was up.
But the thought of the stars set him on the right track, and, closing his jaws tightly on the fear that now took possession of him, he staggered about from one spot to another, working out the situation piece by piece. At last, the whole truth and every event of the day and night before came back to him with a rush. He sat down abruptly, and dry sobs shook him… He was weary and hungry and weak, but his mind was clear again, and he thanked God for that. So near had he come to concussion of the brain from old Maria's vicious club!
When he had recovered a little, he made another circuit of the camp. Like a child in the midst of a group of grinning wolves, he was helpless in the center of absolute desolation. Neither dog, sledge, food, nor covering had they left him. He was stripped of everything except a hunting-knife, which he luckily wore beneath his caribou shirt. Like Andre stepping from his balloon in the snowy arctic wastes, McTavish might have been dropped solitary where he was by some huge, passing bird.
