After that tense moment of hush following the shot, McElroy had no
distinct recollection of what occurred. He was conscious of a sickening
knowledge of Negansahima with his banded brown arms stretching into
the evening light, of the tepees, of the river beyond, of the face of
Edmonton Ridgar, and of all these etched distinctly in that effect of
sun and shade which picks out each smallest detail sometimes of a rare
evening in early summer. Then the whole scene went out in a smother
as an avalanche of bodies descended upon him. He could smell the heavy
odour of flesh half-naked, the scent of the hidden paint, he felt arms
that fought to grip him and fingers that clutched like talons. Under
it all he went down in the grass of the slope, fighting with all his
strength, but powerless as a gnat in a pond. Above the turmoil of cries
and guttural yells, even while he felt himself crushed at the bottom
of that boiling mass, he heard the light voice of De Courtenay ringing
clear in his whimsical farewell to Maren Le Moyne. Then he was wrenched
up through the mass, something struck him on the head with a sharp blow,
a shower of stars fell like a cataract, and the sickening scents in his
nostrils faded away.
When he again opened his eyes it was to behold real stars shining down
from a velvet sky, to hear the river lapping gently at the landing,
and the night birds calling in the forest. From the prairie beyond the
fringe of woods to the east there came the yapping of the coyotes, and
far to the north a wolf howled.
At first a sense of bewilderment held him. Then in a rush came back the
memory of what had happened. He listened intently. Back and forth, back
and forth somewhere near went a soft footstep, the swish and glide of
a moccasin. He strained his eyes, which smarted terribly, into the
darkness, and presently descried a tall form pacing slowly up against
the skyline of his vision and back again into the shadows. A single
feather slanted against the stars. A guard pacing the place of captives.
With a slight movement McElroy tried to lift a hand.
It was immovable. He tried the other. It likewise refused his will.
So with both feet when he attempted, ever so cautiously, to move them.
He was bound hand and foot, and with cruel tightness, for with that tiny
slipping of his muscles there set up all through him such a tingling and
aching as was almost unbearable.
His head seemed a lump of lead, glued to whatever it lay upon, and big
as a buttertub.
Turning his eyes far as he could to the right, he looked long in that
direction. Faintly, after a while, he picked out the straight line of
the stockade top, the rising tower at the corner. The line of the wall
faded out in darkness the other way, strain as he might. To the left
were the ragged tops of the tepees, their two longer sticks pointing
above the others.
From the sound of the river, he must be between it and the stockade
gate.
Presently his numbed hearing became conscious of a sound somewhere near,
a sound that had rung so ceaselessly since his waking that it had seemed
the background for the lesser noise of the sentry's slipping moccasin.
It was the weird, unending, unbeginning wail of the women, the
death-song of the tribe mourning the passing of a chief, the voices of
some four hundred squaws blending indescribably.
McElroy listened.
With consciousness of that his mind grew clearer and he began to think.
What a fool he had been!
Once more had he played like an unbalanced boy at the game of love.
What right had he to strike De Courtenay for kissing the woman whom he
had won with his red flowers and his curls before the populace? That he
himself had fancied for a brief space that she was his was no excuse for
plunging like a boy at his rival's throat. If he had held his peace, all
would be well now and the old chief would not be lying stiff and stark
somewhere in the shadowed camp, the women wailing without fires.
It was no balm to his sore heart that he in his blundering wrath had
wrought this fresh disaster. And his post, De Seviere, which he had won
by daring service and loyalty to the H. B. C., what would become of it?
Who after him would rule on the Assiniboine?
For well he knew that death, and death thrice,--aye, a million times
refined,--awaited so luckless a victim as he whose hand had killed the
great chief. But he had not killed Negansahima. It was the gun in De
Courtenay's hand. Ah, De Courtenay! Where was De Courtenay? A captive
assuredly, if he was one. They had both gone down together under the
foam of that angry human sea. And, if he was here, his antagonist must
be somewhere near. With exquisite torture, McElroy slowly turned his
head to right and left. At the second motion his face brushed something
close against his shoulder. It was cloth, a rough surface corrugated
and encrusted with ridges,--what but the braid on the blue coat of the
Montreal gallant!
There was no start, no answering movement at his touch. The rough
surface seemed strangely set and still.
He lay silent and thought a moment with strange feelings of new horror
surging through him.
Was De Courtenay dead?
Or was it by chance a stone under the braided coat, a hillock where it
had been thrown? That strange feeling of starkness never belonged to a
human body soft with the pulse of life.
For hours McElroy lay staring into the night sky with its frosting of
great northern stars, and passed again over every week, every day,--nay,
almost every hour,--since that morning in early spring when she had
stepped off the factory-sill to accompany little Francette to the river
bank where Bois DesCaut stood facing a tall young woman against the
stockade wall.
With dreary insistence his sore heart brought up each sweet memory, each
thrill of joy of those warm days. He saw every flush on her open face,
every droop of her eyes. Again he saw the white fire in her features
that day in the forest glade when she spoke of the Land of the
Whispering Hills. He pondered for the first time, lying bound and
helpless among savages, of that unbending thing within her which drove
her into the wilderness with such resistless force. Granted that she had
loved him as he thought during that delirious short space of time,
would love have been stronger than that force, or would it have been
sacrificed? She was so strong, this strange girl of the long trail, so
strong for all things gentle, so unmoving from the way of tenderness.
Proving that came the picture of the tot on her shoulder, “dipping as
the ships at sea, ma cherie,” and the look of her face transfigured. And
yet home for her was “the blue sky above, the wind in the pine-tops, the
sound of water lapping at the prow of a canoe.” So she had said on that
last day they spoke together in happiness, passing in diffident joy to
the gate to meet De Courtenay's fateful messenger.
Of all women in the vast world she was the one woman. There was never
another face with that strange allurement, that baffling light of
strength and tenderness.
Sore, sore, indeed, was the heart of the young factor of Fort de Seviere
as he lay under the stars and listened to the death-wail in the darkened
camp.
Nowhere was there a fire.
Desolation sat upon the Nakonkirhirinons.
Along toward dawn, presaged by the westward wheeling of the big stars,
tom-toms began to beat throughout the maze of lodges. They beat oddly
into the air, cold with the chill of the coming day.
McElroy's thoughts had left the great country of the Hudson Bay and
travelled back along the winding waterways, across the lakes, and at
last out on that heaving sea which bore away from his homeland. Once
more he had been in the smoke of London town, had looked into the loving
eyes of his mother and gripped the hand of his tradesman father. Once
more he had wondered what the future held.
The sudden striking up of the tom-toms answered him.
This.
This was to be the end of his eager advance in the Company's favour,
the end of that good glass of life whose red draught he had drunk with
wholesome joy, the end of love that had but dawned for him to sink into
aching darkness.
He sighed wearily. So poignant was his sense of loss and the pain of it
that the end was a weariness rather than a new pain.
The thing that hurt was the fact that he himself had juggled the cards
of fate to this sorry dealing.
The sudden rage concerning De Courtenay had spent itself. There remained
only the deep anger of the man who has lost in the game of love. And
yet, what right had he to cherish even this wholesome anger against his
rival when the maid had chosen of her own free will? As well hold
grudge to the great Power whose wisdom had given the man such marvellous
beauty. As he lay in the darkness listening to the unearthly noises he
worked it all out with justice.
He alone was to blame for the sorry state of things.
De Courtenay was but a man, and what man, looking upon Maren Le Moyne,
could fail to love her?
Therefore, he freed his rival of all blame.
And Maren,--oh, blameless as the winds of heaven was Maren!
What had she given him that he could construe as love?
Only a look, a blush to her cheek, the touch of a warm hand.
In his folly he had hailed himself king of her affections when perchance
it was but the kindliness of her womanly heart.
And what maid could be blind to De Courtenay's sparkling
grace,--compared to which he was himself a blundering yokel?
Thus in bound darkness he reasoned it all out and strove to wash away
the anger from his heart.
And presently there came dawn. First a cold air blowing out of the
forest, and then a deeper darkness that presently gave way to faint,
shadowy light.
Here and there tall figures came looming, ghostly-fashion, out of chaos,
to take slow shape and form, to resolve themselves into tapering lodges,
into hunched and huddled groups.
And with light came action.
McElroy saw that around the central lodge before the gate there was a
solid pack of prostrate Indians covering the ground like a cloth, and
from this centre came the tom-toms and the wailing.
It was the lodge of the chief and within lay the stark body of the
murdered Negansahima.
As the faint light grew, one by one the warriors rose out of the mass
like smoke spirals, drawing away to disappear among the tepees. Soon
there came the sound of falling poles and McElroy knew that they were
striking the camp.
For what?
Why, surely, for one thing.
A chief must go to the great Hunting Ground from his own country; in his
own country must his bones seek rest.
They would journey back up the long and difficult trail down which they
had just come to that vague region from which they hailed.
But what of him, and of De Courtenay, if he was yet alive?
He wondered why they had been reserved.
The light came quickly and he looked eagerly around on the moving camp.
With quickness and precision the whole long village was reduced in a few
minutes to rolled coverings, gathered and tied utensils, stacked packs
of furs, and ranged canoes already in the water lining the shore.
He could not help a feeling of regret for this wild people, coming but
few suns back with their rich peltry, their pomp, and their hopes of
gain, as they prepared for the back trail, the whole tribe in deepest
mourning.
Of all the tents, that one before the post gate alone stood, silent
reproach to the white man's ways.
Around it still knelt a solid pack, wailing and beating the drums.
As the grey light turned whiter, he turned his stiffened neck for a
glance at the thing against his shoulder.
He looked into the smiling eyes of Alfred de Courtenay.
“Bonjour, M'sieu,” whispered that ardent venturer; “you nuzzled my
arm all night. Apparently we are fellows in captivity, as we have been
opposed in war,--and love.”
“Aye, M'sieu,” whispered back McElroy, not relishing the turn of the
sentence but passing it by; “and a sorry man am I for this state of
events. I owe you my regrets,--not for what I did, mark you,--but
for the way and the time and place. Had I waited and proceeded as a
gentleman, we should not be in this devilish plight, nor that fine old
chief a victim to our blunder.”
“Tish!” said De Courtenay lightly; “'tis all in a day's march. And,
besides, I have,--memories,--to shorten the way.”
The pacing guard came back and the two men fell silent.
At that moment a stentorian call pealed above the dismantled camp, and
there began a vast surge of the mass of Nakonkirhirinons toward the
waiting canoes, a dragging of goods and chattels, a hurry of crying
children, a scurrying of squaws. In the midst of it the flaps of the
big lodge were opened and, amid redoubled wailing, a stark wedge of the
length of a tall man came headforemost out, carried on the shoulders of
six gigantic warriors; and walking beside it, bareheaded in the new day,
was Edmonton Ridgar, his face pale and downcast. He paid no heed to the
two men on the ground, though one was his factor and his friend.