ACROSS THE ICE
Pepin Quesnelle's weird speech had worked upon the
superstitious natures of the rebel leader and his followers
alike, for they unbound Pasmore from the tree and hurried
him away to a tenantless log hut, the big breed and two
others staying to guard him. Riel, with some of his
followers, started off on sleighs to Prince Albert, to
direct operations there, while the remainder stayed behind
to further harass the beleaguered garrison. Pasmore was
now glad that he had not offered a resistance that must
have proved futile when his life hung in the balance. He
offered up a silent prayer of thanksgiving for his
deliverance so far, and he mused over the strange little
being with a deformed body, to whom God had given powers
to see more clearly than his fellows.
The big breed was remarkably attentive to his wants,
but strangely silent When night arrived, Pasmore was
placed in a little room which had a window much too small
for a man's body to pass through, and left to himself.
He could hear his guards talking in the only room that
led to it. Pasmore had slept during the afternoon, and
when he awoke late in the evening he was imbued with but
one idea, and that was to escape. The fickle natures of
the half-breeds might change at any moment.
It was close on midnight, and there was not a sound in
the other room. Pasmore had, by standing on the rude
couch, begun operations on the roof with a long thatching
needle he had found on the wall-plate, when the door
silently opened and a flood of light streamed in. He
turned, and there stood the big breed silently watching.
Pasmore stared at him apprehensively, but the big breed
merely placed one finger on his lips to enjoin silence,
and beckoned him to descend. Wondering, Pasmore did so.
His gaoler took him by the arm, and stealthily they
entered the other room, their moccasined feet making no
noise. There, on the floor, lay the other two guards,
fast asleep. The big breed opened the door and they passed
out. Pasmore's brain almost refused to grasp the situation.
Was his gaoler going to assist him to escape?
But so it was. There was no one about. Every one seemed
to be asleep after the orgie on the previous night. At
last they reached a large empty shed on the outskirts of
the village, and there his guide suddenly left him without
a word. Pasmore was about to pass out, and make good his
escape, when suddenly he was hailed by a voice that he
knew well.
"Aha! villain, _coquin!_" it said, "and so you are here!
_Bien!_ This is a good day's work; is it not so?"
"Pepin Quesnelle!" cried Pasmore, going towards him. "No
words can thank you for what you have done for me this
day."
"And who wants your thanks?" asked the dwarf,
good-naturedly. "Come, the shake of a hand belonging to
an honest man is thanks enough for me. Put it thar, as
the Yanks say."
And Pasmore felt, as he obeyed, that, despite his
extraordinary foibles, Pepin Quesnelle was a man whom he
could respect, and to whom he owed a debt of gratitude
that he could never repay.
"Now, that is all right," observed Pepin, "and you will
come with me. Some friends of Katie's have found a friend
of yours to-day in the woods, and I will take you to
him."
But Pepin would tell him no more; his short legs, indeed,
required all his energies. But after winding in and out
of the bluffs for an hour or more, Pasmore found out who
the friend was. Coming suddenly upon a couple of hay-stacks
in a hollow of the bluffs, the dwarf put his fingers to
his lips and whistled in a peculiar fashion. In another
moment a dark figure emerged from the shadow.
"Top av the marnin' t'ye," it said.
"Rory, by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed Pasmore as
they wrung each other's hands.
"That's me," said Rory. "Now, here's a sleigh. I fancy
it was wance Dumont's, or some other gint's, but I'm
thinkin' it's ours now. It's bruk the heart av me thet
I couldn't bring them dogs along. If we have luck we'll
be back at the ranche before noon to-morrer. Jest ketch
hould av this rifle, and I'll drive."
In the clear moonlight Pasmore could see a team standing
on an old trail not fifteen yards away.
"But just let me say good-bye first to Pepin," said
Pasmore.
But Pepin Quesnelle had vanished mysteriously into the
night.
"Rory," asked Pasmore a little later, when the team of
spirited horses was bowling merrily along the by-trail,
"was it you who fired that shot to-day and saved my life?"
"Young man," said Rory, solemnly, "hev yer got sich a
thing about yer as a match--me poipe's gone out?"
And Pasmore knew that, so far as Rory was concerned, the
subject was closed.
Next day about noon the two were to the north of the
valley, where lay the ranche. On rounding a bluff they
came unexpectedly upon three Indians in sleighs, who had
evidently just cut the trail.
"Child-of-Light!" they cried, recognising the foremost.
A wave of apprehension swept over Pasmore when he saw
the inscrutable expression on the face of the friendly
chief. Was it well with the rancher and his daughter?
"Ough, ough!" ejaculated Child-of-Light, wonderingly, as
he caught sight of Pasmore. He pulled up, jumped out of
his sleigh, and shook hands cordially. "Child-of-Light's
heart lightens again to see you, brother," he said. "His
heart was heavy because he thought Poundmaker must have
stilled yours."
"Child-of-Light is ever a friend," rejoined Pasmore.
"But what of Douglas and the others?"
Then Child-of-Light told him how on the previous morning
Douglas and his daughter had reached the ranche. But as
Poundmaker's men were hovering in great strength in the
neighbourhood, he, Child-of-Light, had deemed it advisable
that they should take fresh horses and proceed in an
easterly direction towards Fort Pitt, and then in a
northerly, until they came to that secluded valley of
which he had previously told them. They had done this,
and gone on with hardly a pause.
In the meantime Child-of-Light had sent some of his braves
to run off the rancher's herd of horses to a remote part
of the country, where they would be safe from the enemy,
while he and one or two others remained behind to cover
his retreat. But alarming news had just been brought him
by a runner. Big Bear had perpetrated a terrible massacre
at Frog Lake, near Fort Pitt. Ten persons had been shot
in the church, and two brave priests, Fathers Farfand
and Marchand, had been beaten to death. If Douglas and
the others kept on they must run right into their hands.
It was to catch them up, if possible, and fetch them back
before they crossed the Saskatchewan, that Child-of-Light
was on his way now. Better to fall into the hands of
Poundmaker and his braves, who probably now realised that
they had gone too far, than into those of Big Bear, who
was a fiend. Of course, he, Pasmore, would come with
them.
"But are there no fresh horses for us, Child-of-Light?"
asked Pasmore. "If the others have got a good start and
fresh horses, can we catch them up?"
"I have said I have sent all the horses of Douglas away
for safe keeping. We must overtake them with what we
have. The Great Spirit is good, and may do much for us."
"Then let us push on, Child-of-Light, for it will be a
grievous thing if evil befall our friends now."
For three days they travelled in a north-easterly direction,
but the sun had gained power, and spring had come with
a rush, as it does in that part of the world. The first
chinook wind that came from the west, through the passes
of the Rockies from warm southern seas, would render
travelling impossible--their sleighs would be useless.
The great danger was that Douglas and the others would
have passed over the Saskatchewan, and the ice breaking
up behind them would have cut off their retreat.
In those three days the party was tortured with alternative
hopes and fears. Now it was a horse breaking through the
softening crust of snow and coming down, and then it
would be one playing out altogether. If in another day
those in front were not overtaken, it was pretty certain
they must run into Big Bear's band, and that would mean
wholesale massacre. In order to catch them up they walked
most of the night, leading their horses along the trail.
On the fourth day they sighted the broad Saskatchewan,
now with many blue trickling streams of water upon its
surface and cracking ominously. They scanned the opposite
shore in the neighbourhood of the trail anxiously.
"Look, brother," cried Child-of-Light, "they are camped
on the opposite bank, and away over yonder, coming down
the plateau, are Indians who must belong to Big Bear's
band. But the river is not safe now to cross. I can hear
it breaking up and coming down at the speed of a young
broncho away up the reaches. Before the sun sets this
river will be as the Great Falls in the spring, when the
wind is from the west."
It was as the keen-eyed and keen-eared Red man said.
There were the rancher and his party camped on the other
side, in all innocence of the Indians who, unseen, were
stringing over the plateau. There was no time to be lost.
"You give me your jumper, Child-of-Light, and your
pony--they are the best," Pasmore cried. "I shall be back
with the others before long. In the meantime, look to
your guns."
The others would fain have accompanied him, but Pasmore
knew that would only be aggravating the danger. Without
a moment's delay he jumped into the light box of wood
and urged the sure-footed pony across the now groaning
and creaking ice. And now there broke upon his ears what
before only the Indian had heard. It was the coming down
of the river in flood, miles away. It sounded like the
roar of a distant Niagara. Here and there his pony was
up to the fetlocks in water, and the ice heaved beneath
him. Every now and again there was a mighty crackle,
resembling the breaking of a thunderbolt, that sent his
heart into his mouth. He feared then that the end had
come and he would be too late. With rein and voice he
urged the sure-footed pony across the ice. Would he never
reach the opposite bank? But once there, would it be
possible for the party to recross? Surely it would be as
much as their lives were worth to try.
Long before Pasmore had reached the landing, Douglas and
the others had seen him. It was no time for greetings,
and, indeed, their meeting was one too deep for words.
They merely wrung each other's hands, and something
suspiciously like moisture stood in the rancher's eyes.
As for Dorothy, she could not utter a word, but there
was something in her look that quickened Pasmore's
heart-beats even then.
"You must be quick," cried Pasmore. "Big Bear will be
down upon you in ten minutes. Look! There they are now.
There is yet time to cross."
And as he spoke there came a roar like thunder, travelling
from the higher reaches of the river towards them; it
passed them and was lost in the lower reaches. It was
the "back" of the ice being broken--the preliminary to
the grand chaos that was to come. The Indians had seen
them now, and were coming at a gallop not a mile away.
Douglas, Jacques, and Bastien ran and hitched up the
horses into the sleighs.
"You are not afraid to tackle it, are you?" asked Pasmore,
as he looked into the girl's face.
"I'd tackle it now if it were moving down in pieces no
bigger than door-mats," she answered smilingly.
"Then will you tackle it with me?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "Jump in, and I'll follow. Your sleigh
is empty, and father's is full of all sorts of things
--it's too heavy as it is. Here they come! Dad, I'm going
with Mr. Pasmore," she cried; and the sleighs raced
abreast of one another down the slope.
"Spread out there," cried Pasmore, "and don't bunch
together, or--"
He did not finish the sentence, for just at that moment
there came a _ping_ from the shore they had just left,
and a bullet sent up a jet of water into the air alongside
of them. There was another great rending sound from the
ice that struck terror into their hearts. Their horses
quivered with excitement as they darted forward. There
was a roar in their ears that sounded as if they were
close to a battery of artillery in action. _Ping, ping,
ping!_ and the bullets came whizzing over their heads or
skidding on the ice alongside. It was a lucky thing for
them that the Indians were too keen in the pursuit to
take proper aim. Separating, so as to minimise the danger,
each team dashed forward on its own account.
"Stay with it, broncho! Stick to it, my son!" yelled
Pasmore.
In the pauses of the thundering and rending there cut
clearly into the now mild air the clattering of the
horses' hoofs, the hum of the steel-shod runners, and
the _ping, ping_ of the rifles. It was a race for life
with a vengeance, with death ahead and alongside, and
with death at their heels. A gap in the ice, or a stumble,
and it would surely be all up with them.
"Go it, my game little broncho!" and with rein and voice
Pasmore urged the brave "steed onwards.
"Hello! there goes the breed's pony!" cried Pasmore.
A bullet had struck Bastien's horse behind the ear and
brought it down all of a heap upon the ice. There was
an ear-splitting crack just at that moment which added
to the terror of the situation. But the rancher pulled
his horse up by a supreme effort, and Bastien, deserting
his sleigh, leapt in beside him. Then on again.
Pasmore's pony was now somewhat behind the others, when
suddenly there was a mighty roar, and a great crevasse
opened up in front of them. It took all the strength that
Pasmore possessed to pull up on the brink.
"We must get out and jump over this somehow," Pasmore
cried to Dorothy. "It's neck or nothing."
So they sprang out of the sleigh, unhitched the plucky
pony, and prepared to cross the deadly-looking fissure.