In the week that followed the waters of the Assiniboine grew black with
myriads of canoes. Like the leaves in fall, truly, they came drifting
out of the forest, long slim craft, made with a wondrous cunning of
birchbark peeled from the tree in one piece, fitted to frames of ash
fragile as cockleshell and strong as steel under the practised hand, and
smeared in every crinkle and crease and crevasse with the resinous gum
of the pine tree. By scores and hundreds and battalions, it seemed to
the traders at De Seviere, they poured out of the wilderness, choking
the river with their numbers, spilling their contents on the slope under
the bastioned walls until a camp was made so vast that it stretched into
the forest on each side the clearing of the post and even extended to
the marsh at the south.
Half-naked braves stalked in countless numbers among the tepees that
went rapidly up, tall fellows, mighty of build and fearless of carriage
and of eagle eye, aloof, suspicious, watching the fort, guarding the
rich piles of peltry and exchanging a word with none.
These were the great Nakonkirhirinons from that limitless region of the
Pays Ten d'en Haut.
If McElroy's heart had not been so full of his own trouble he would have
exulted mightily in their coming, for did it not prove one failure for
that reckless Nor'wester on the Saskatchewan? They had come, past all
his blandishments of trade, to Fort de Seviere, and their coming spelled
a number of furs this season far in advance of any other for that small
post. If he wondered at first how they had held out against De
Courtenay it was all made plain when among the strangers he espied many
Assiniboines and saw in the great canoe of the chief Negansahima, old
Quamenoka, who had boasted of the coming of this tribe to De Seviere as
his work.
He had spoken truly and had evidently made his word good by meeting the
approaching columns and returning with them.
To him alone was due the failure of De Courtenay, McElroy felt at once,
and determined in his mind on that present which he had promised for
this zeal.
With the coming of the strangers Fort de Seviere was put under military
rule. The half-moon to the right of the gate, with its small cannon,
received a quota of men who strayed carelessly all day within reach of
the low rampart; a guard lounged in the great gate, ready at a moment's
notice to clang it shut, and seemingly matter-of-course precautions were
taken throughout, for these Indians were as uncertain as the flickering
north lights crackling in a frosty sky.
There was a scene not to be likened to any other outside the region of
the Hudson Bay country, where strange relations existed between white
trader and savage, when Edmonton Ridgar met the canoe of the chief at
the landing.
Savage delight overspread the eagle features of Negansahima as he beheld
the white man.
Towering mightily in the prow of his canoe, the sweeping head-dress of
feathers crowning him with a certain majesty, he fixed his keen glance
on Ridgar and came gliding toward him across the rippled water.
As the canoe cut cleanly up and stopped just short of scraping on the
stones at the edge, obeying the paddles like a thoroughbred the bit, the
chief trader of De Seviere stepped forward and held out his arms.
“Who art thou?” he called.
Deep and guttural as thunder from the broad chest, naked under the lines
of elk teeth, came the reply,
“Thy father,”
“And master of my goods. The heart of thy son melts as the snow in
spring. Wiskendjac has sent thee.”
McElroy, standing near, saw the face of his friend illumined with a
real affection as the savage landed and, contrary to the custom of the
Indians in the lower country, embraced with every sign of joy the lean
white man whose skin was nearly as dark as his own and whose greying
temples bespoke almost a as many years as the chief's black locks could
boast.
In the eyes of both, as they regarded each other, were memories known
to no one else. McElroy wondered what they were and what that year, of
which Ridgar had spoken only once, had held.
The trader spoke their tongue as easily as he spoke any other that came
to the post, naturally and with quiet fluency.
So deep was the apparent pleasure of the meeting that, when the
interpreting was done and the ceremonies over, Ridgar went with the
Indian among the tepees and no more did McElroy see him until he came to
the factory at dusk.
“Mother of Heaven!” he ejaculated, flinging himself down at the table in
the living-room where Rette's strong coffee tempted the nostril; “such
furs! Beaver in countless packs, all the fat winter skins, no Bordeaux,
no Mittain. Fox, also of the best only,--black fox, fine and shining,
fox of those far-north regions where they hunt beyond the sun, white as
the snow it runs on, and Mon Dieu, McElroy! Seven silvers as I hope for
salvation! Verily are they a prize beyond price, these Indians that have
come in to us, and I fancy that young Nor'wester is swearing at his luck
in losing them. Old Quamenoka struts as if their wealth belonged to his
meek Assiniboines.... But the furs! Ermine and nekik and sakwasew and
wapistan, all the little fellows that, taken from those virgin north
lands, are worth their weight in gold! Nowhere have I seen a common
pelt. They are connoisseurs, these wild Nakonkirhirinons, and they carry
a king's ransom in their long canoes. White bear and brown arctic wolf
and everywhere the best of its kind! To-morrow's trade will be worth
while--but keep the guns in evidence and quiet above all things.”
“Ah!” said McElroy, “what is there to fear, think you? Is not the chief
bound to you by all ties of ceremony and regard?”
“Most assuredly,” returned Ridgar quietly, “but those young braves
are strung like a singing wire and swift as a girl to take suspicious
fright; and there are somewhere near five hundred of them, as near as I
can make out from the numbers seething among the lodges. They are in a
strange country and watching every leaf and shadow.”
Thus the sun went down on De Seviere, with the eager maids and women
passing and repassing near the gate to peep out at the rustling throng,
at the tepees with their fine skin coverings painted with all the
wonders of battle and the chase, at the comely squaws and maidens, the
chubby brown children, the dogs snarling and savage, for they had full
complement of the grey northern huskies.
To a woman they peeped at the gate from all the cabins of the post,
save only that one who had been most eager before when the Indians came,
Maren Le Moyne, sitting in idle apathy on her sister's doorstep.
“Ma'amselle,” said Marc Dupre, stopping hesitant before her, “have you
seen the Nakonkirhirinons?”
“Nay,” she said listlessly, “I care not, M'sieu.”
And the youth went gloomily away.
“Something there is which preys on her like the blood-sucker on the
rabbit's throat. But what? Holy Mother, what?”
His handsome eyes were troubled.
By dawn on the following day the trading had begun. Up the main way
passed a line of braves, each laden with his winter's catch of furs,
to barter at the trading-room, haggle with the clerks by sign and
pantomime, and pass down again with gun and hatchet and axe, kettle and
bright blanket, beads, and, most eagerly sought of all, yards of crimson
cloth.
There was babble of chatter among the squaws, shrill laughter, and
comparison of purchases.
In the trading-room sat the chief with his headmen and old Quamenoka
of the Assiniboines, smoking gravely many pipes and listening to the
trading. Like some wild eagle of the peaks brought down to earth he
seemed, ever alert and watchful behind his stately silence.
For two days the trading progressed finely, and McElroy had so far laid
aside his doubts as to take delight in the quality of the rare furs.
Never before had such pelts stacked themselves in the sorting-room.
It was a sight for eyes tired by many springs of common trade.
Then, like a bomb in a peaceful city, came a running word of excitement.
The Nor'wester from the Saskatchewan was among the Nakonkirhirinons! Was
at the very gates of De Seviere! When Pierre Garcon brought the news,
McElroy flushed darkly to his fair hair and went on with his work.
This was unbearable insolence.
“An', M'sieu,” pursued Pierre, “not only the man from Montreal, but,
like the treacherous dog he is, among the Nor'westers is that vagabond
Bois DesCaut.”
“Turncoat?” said the factor.
“Aye.”
True enough. When McElroy, after trading hours, strolled down to the
gate between the bastions, whom should he behold but the hulking figure
of his erstwhile trapper, sulky of appearance, shifty eyes flitting
everywhere but toward his old factor. And farther down the bank, among
a group of warriors, a brown baby on his shoulder and his long curls
shining in the sunset, was that incomparable adventurer, Alfred de
Courtenay.
Apparently he had not come for barter, nor for anything save the love of
the unusual, the thirst for adventure that had brought him primarily to
the wilderness.
“A fine fit of apoplexy would he have, that peppery old uncle at
Montreal, Elsworth McTavish, could he see his precious nephew following
his whims up and down the land, leaving his post in the hands of his
chief trader,” thought McElroy, as he looked at the scene before him.
While he stood so, there was a rustle of women behind him and voices
that bespoke more eager eyes for the Indians, and he glanced over his
shoulder.
Micene Bordoux and Mora LeClede approached, and between them walked
Maren Le Moyne. McElroy's heart pounded hard with a quick excitement as
he saw the listless droop of the face under the black braids and
stopped with a prescience of disaster. His glance went swiftly to
the long-haired gallant in the braided coat. Surely were the elements
brought together.
It seemed as if Fate was weaving these little threads of destiny, for
no sooner did Maren Le Moyne step through the gate among the lodges than
her very nearness drew round upon his heel De Courtenay.
His eyes lighted upon her and the sparkling smile lit up his features.
With inimitable grace he swung the child from his shoulder, tossed it
to a timid squaw watching like a hawk, and, shaking back his curls, came
forward.
“Ah, Ma'amselle!” he said, bending before her with his courtly manner,
“you see, as I said in the early spring,--I have come back to Fort de
Seviere.”
“So I see, M'sieu,” smiled Maren, with a touch of whimsical amusement
at the memory of that morning, and his venturesome spirit. “Have you by
chance brought me a red flower?”
“Why else should I come?” he returned, and, with a flourish, brought
from his bosom a second birchbark box which he held out to the girl.
Over her face there spread a crimson flood at this swift, literal
proving of a secret pact and she stood hesitating, at loss.
The stretch of beach was alive with spectators. Near the wall a group of
girls hugged together, with Francette Moline in the centre; down by the
canoes Pierre Garcon and Marc Dupre stood, the dark eyes of the latter
watching every move, while at the door of the chief's lodge, directly
before the fort and between it and the river, Edmonton Ridgar talked
in low tones with Negansahima. Indeed, like father and son seemed this
strangely assorted pair. Maren remembered afterward how near together
they had stood, the wild savage in his elk teeth and scant buckskin
garments, an indiscreet band of yellow paint showing a corner above his
blanket, and the dark, wiry trader with the grey eyes. Scattered, here
and there among the braves were many Bois-Brules, lean Runners of the
Burnt Woods, belonging she knew to the North-west Company. Also in that
moment she saw the frowning face and ugly eyes of Bois DesCaut beneath
the white lock on his temple. Long afterward was the girl to recall that
evening scene.
For another moment she hesitated, and then, from sheer loss of poise,
reached out her hand. The dancing eyes of the cavalier lit with all the
daring of conquest.
“My heart, Ma'amselle,” he said gallantly, as he pressed the fragile
thing in her palm; and in another second he had stooped and kissed her,
as he had kissed many another woman, lightly, delicately, in the face of
the populace, joying to the depths of his careless nature in the dare of
the thing.
With a cry the girl sprang back, crushing the birchbark case with its
red flower into shapeless ruin. There was a muffled word, the flash of a
figure, and McElroy the factor had flung himself before her. She caught
the thud of a blow upon flesh and in a moment there were two men locked
in deadly combat before the post gate. In less time than the telling, a
circle of faces drew round, dark faces of Indians and Bois-Brules, light
faces of De Courtenay's men, and in all there leaped swift excitement as
they saw the combatants. White with passion, his brilliant eyes flaming
and dancing with fury, De Courtenay fought like a madman to avenge that
blow in the face, while McElroy, flushed and calmer, took with his hands
payment for all things,--slighted kindliness, Company thefts, and, above
all else, the stolen heart of his one woman.
How it would have ended there is no telling, for these two were evenly
matched--what De Courtenay lacked in weight he made up in swiftness and
agility,--had it not been for the side arm that hung at his hip, one
of those small pistols in use across the water where gentlemen fight at
given paces and not across a frozen river or through a mile of brush.
Once, twice, he tried to reach it, and twice did McElroy snatch the
groping hand away. Three times he passed swiftly for the inlaid handle
and, as if there lay luck in the number, the weapon flashed in the red
light.
Swift as was the draw, McElroy was swifter.
With an upward stroke he flung up the hand that held it. There was a
shot, ringing down the Assiniboine and echoing in the woods, and little
Francette by the stockade wall screamed. With the first flash of metal
Maren Le Moyne had gripped her hands until the nails cut raw, standing
where she had sprung at the stranger's kiss.
She could no more move than the bastioned wall behind her.
For a moment there was deathly silence after that shot. Then pandemonium
broke loose as Negansahima, chief of the Nakonkirhirinons, flung up his
arms, the dull metal bands with their inset stones catching the crimson
light, and fell into the outstretched arms of Edmonton Ridgar.
A long cry broke from his lips, the death-cry of a warrior.