Long Ridgar lay in the darkness listening to the hushed sounds that came
from lodge and dying fire--vague, awed sounds, that presently died
into silence as night took toll of humanity and sleep settled among the
savages.
Here and there low gutturals droned into the stillness, and at the
west there was oath and whispered comment where the Bois-Brules camped
together. Not wholly under the spell of mystery were these half-breeds,
but restless and suspicious under the conflicting promptings of their
mixed blood. Slower than the Indians were they to obey the mandate of
silence and peace that the Spirits of Dreams might descend upon the
forest, but at last they were quiet, the tires burned down to red heaps
of coals, then to white ashes, the great fire in the centre flamed and
died and flamed again like some vindictive spirit striving for vengeance
in the grip of death, and the utter stillness of the solitude fell
thick as a garment on all the wilderness. It seemed to Ridgar that only
himself in all the earth was awake and watching, save perhaps the two
guards pacing without a sound the lodge of the captives, and those two
within, so oddly brought near.
As for McElroy, his friend of friends, an aching fear tugged in his
heart that he had waited too long for the chance to help, that the
patient strength was sapped at last, that the end had come. He had seen
the flight of the maul, the sagging of the sturdy figure.
Who had thrown it, if not that brute DesCaut? Who save DesCaut was so
keen on the trail of the factor and the girl? True, De Courtenay was his
latest master, and his spoiling of Maren's aim might as easily send the
blade into the black as the red, but in either case he would cause her
to decide the death she was trying so bravely to postpone.
DesCaut, surely.
The stars wheeled in their endless march, the well-known ones of the
forenight giving place to strangers of the after hours, and Ridgar had
begun to move with the caution of the hunted, inch by inch, out from the
shelter of the lodge, when he felt a hand steal from the darkness
and touch him with infinite care. He lay still and presently a voice
whispered,
“M'sieu Ridgar?
“Aye?” breathed Ridgar.
“'Tis I,--Marc Dupre from De Seviere.”
“Voila! Another! Are there more of you?”
“I would know first, M'sieu,--where is your heart, with savage or
Hudson's Bay?”
“Fair question, truly. I but now am started for yonder lodge on quest of
their deliverance, though without hope. Your appearance lends me that.”
“Sacre! 'Tis done already. Listen, M'sieu, with all your ears. Just
beyond earshot, up the river to the south there lies a big canoe, with
at its nose for instant action two men of Mowbray's brigade, while a
hundred yards inland another waits, armed and ready to cover a hurried
flight. There needs but loosing of those yonder, M'sieu, and here are
we. Two Indians pace the lodge.... You one, me one. What easier?
“Many things, my young hot-blood. Yet it is our only way. Here are
death-mauls,--two. Take you,--they make no sound, provided a practised
hand is behind. Strike near and ease the fall, there are those who sleep
lightly here. Even the earth has ears to-night.”
“Think you Ma'amselle is bound?” whispered Dupre next; “I could not see
for the swinging of the factor's body.”
“No,” replied the trader; “both she and the Nor'wester walked free. But
how, for love of Heaven, comes she here?” he added.
Dupre sighed softly in the darkness.
“For love,” he said; “for love of a man.”
“I had guessed as much,--how how did she pass the many miles of lake and
stream and forest? And how overtake us?”
“I brought her. By day and night also, without camp, have we come, aided
by canoe-men from Mr. Mowbray's brigade, which we met on the eastern
shore of Winnipeg coming down from York, bound for the Assiniboine and
Cumberland House.”
“But for which man? She is unreadable, that woman, though love lives
naked in her face.”
But a sudden ache had gripped the throat of the young trapper and he did
not answer.
“Let us be off, M'sieu,” he whispered; “now is the time.”
“Aye,--if ever.”
Slowly, inch by inch, lifting their bodies that they might not rustle
the loose earth and trampled leaves of the camp, Ridgar and Dupre drew
forth into the shadows.
Meantime, within the skin tepee, where all three had been summarily
placed, Maren Le Moyne sat with her head upon her arms and her arms
crossed on her drawn-up knees. Across the opening, just inside the flap,
the body of McElroy lay inert, though she knew that a low breath rose
and fell within him, for she had laid a hand upon his breast. Beside
her, close in the darkness, De Courtenay sat upright and alert, as if
no forty hours of torture had hail their will of him. She could hear his
quick breathing.
Anguish rode her soul like a thousand imps and the slow tears were
falling, bitter as aloes, the symbol of defeat. Every fibre of her being
trembled with love of the man stretched beyond; she longed with all the
passion of her nature to gather the tawny head in her arms, to kiss
the silent lips, the closed eyes. Through the dim cloud that seemed to
envelop him since that night at the factory steps, holding her from him
like bars of iron, she heard again the ringing sweetness of his voice:
“From this day forth you are mine! Mine only and against the whole
world! I have taken you and you are mine!”
False as Lucifer, but, O bon Dieu! sweet as salvation to the lost
A hundred feelings tore at her heart,--bitterness and unbearable scorn
of her own blundering, and wild protest against failure, but chief of
all was the love that drew her to this man like running water to the
sea.
Now that death was near, so near that even now it might be calling
his earnest spirit out of the darkness, she would do more--a
thousandfold!--to give him life. Only life, the gentle, strong soul of
him safe in the sturdy body!
And she had but hastened the end she had come to avert!
“Jesu mia,” she prayed, from the shelter of her arms, “help! Help
Thou--Lord of Heaven, give him to be spared!”
And not once did she think of the great quest, broken by a meagre
waiting by the way; no thought crossed her mind in this crisis of the
Land of the Whispering Hills, of an old man, dreaming his dreams in the
wilderness.
Thus had love set aside like a bauble the thing for which her life
had been lived, for which she had grown and prepared herself in the
attainments of men.
She had felt the magic touch of the great mystery, and henceforth she
was captive, servant to its will, and its mandate had been service. And
here was the end--
A hand touched her shoulder, a hand infinitely soft of pressure,
infinitely gentle.
“Ma'amselle,” whispered the cavalier in her ear, “one more turn of the
wheel of Fate,--and we take the plunge together. Kin are we, truly;
kin of the tribe of Daring Hearts. A lioness are you, oh, maid with the
Madonna face! No woman, but a creature of the wild, superb in courage
and unknown to fear! I saw it in your face that day in De Seviere,--the
something alien to the common race, the spark, the light; oh, I know not
what it is, save that it is Divine and yet splendidly of the earth! We
are matched in heart. Venturers both, and like true venturers we shall
take the longest trail with a laugh and our hands together,--and trust
to the Aftermath to give us largess of that love which has its beginning
in such glorious wise. Pledge me, oh, my Queen of the World!”
With a grace beyond compare he drew her into his arms, silent and velvet
soft, light and inimitable in his love way.
In utter astonishment Maren felt his silken curls sweep her cheek, his
lips on hers. Her tears were wet on his face. She put up her hands and
pushed him loose.
“M'sieu!” she said, “what do you do?”
“Do? Why, bow to the One Woman of my heart,” he said; “my Maid of the
Red Flower, whom love has led to share my fate.”
“In all pity! M'sieu, you do mistake most grievously!”
“What? Was it not confession at the post gate when this painted rabble
fell upon us? Or is it still the maiden within fearing the word of love?
In such short space, Sweetheart, there is no time for girlish fears. Be
strong in that as in the courage of the lone trail. Speak!”
“Speak?” said Maren, with her old calmness; “of a surety, M'sieu. Though
I have thrilled at your careless bravery, your laughing daring which,
as you say truly, is kin of my heart,--though I have taken your red
flowers, yet there is in me no spark of love for you, no thought beyond
the admiration of a true son of fortune. That alone, M'sieu.”
De Courtenay was staring at her in the blackness of the lodge, his arm
fallen loose about her shoulders.
“Name of God!” he whispered wonderingly, “it is not love? Then what, in
the living world, has brought you over the waste to this camp of hostile
savages?”
“This,” said Maren, and she reached a hand to the body of McElroy.
“Sancta Maria! This factor? This heavy-blooded man?... But he did speak
of half-requited--Oh, Saints of Heaven! What a jest of the world! The
threads of tragedy are tangled into a farce!”
De Courtenay threw up his head and took a silent laugh at the ways of
Fate.
“Three fools together! And the riddle's key too late! At least I can set
it straight for one--”
He broke his laughing whisper to listen to new sounds without, a dull
blow, muffled and heavy, the slight whisper of garments sliding against
garments, the crunch and rustle of a body eased down to earth,--nay, two
blows, coming at a little interval, and from either end the beat walked
by the two guards, and from the southern end there came a grunt, a cry
choked in the throat that uttered it. Instantly the venturer was up and
at the flap, peering outside. A figure loomed against the stars, paced
slowly by with an audible step, passed and turned and passed again.
It was Marc Dupre, an eagle feather, snatched from the quivering form of
the guard lying in the darkness by the wall of the lodge, slanting from
his head against the heavens.
A little way beyond at the ashes of a fire a warrior stirred, lifted a
head, and peered toward the tepee of captives; then, satisfied that
all was well, lay down again to slumber. Back and forth, back and forth
paced the solitary watcher. De Courtenay within was quivering from head
to foot with the knowledge that something was happening. As he stood so
the pacing figure halted a moment before the opening.
“S-s-t!” it whispered; “warn Ma'amselle!” then walked away.
Swift on the words another figure crept noiselessly to the lodge door.
“M'sieu,” said Edmonton Ridgar, beneath his breath, “give me the
factor's shoulders. Do you take his feet and follow,--softly, for your
life. Bring the maid.”
De Courtenay stepped back, groped for Maren, took her head in his hands,
and brought her ear up to his lips.
“Rescue!” he breathed; “Ridgar and Dupre. We carry our friend of the
fort here. Follow.”
He loosed her and bent to lift McElroy.
With all her courage leaping at the turn, Maren quietly raised the flap
and in a moment they were all outside among the sleeping camp.
With measured tread Dupre came up to them, walked with them as they
moved silently back, and was on the turn when Maren touched his arm.
“This way,” she whispered; “straight ahead.”
One more step,--two,--the youth took beside her. It seemed that the
heart within him was breaking in his agony. The shadows of the wood were
drawing very near, the chances of escape multiplying with every step.
Another sweet moment of nearness and the misty white figure beside him
would fade into the darkness forever, pass forever out of his sight.
Dearer than all the joys of Paradise was that black head, that wondrous
face with its strength and its tenderness so adoringly mingled. The one
supreme thing in all the universe was this woman,--and she was passing.
With an involuntary motion he touched her softly and she stopped
instantly, even at that great moment. It thrilled through him, that
quick perception of his desire.
“Ma'amselle,” he whispered, “fare thee well!”
She caught his hand swiftly, pulling him forward. “Eh?” she said. “What
mean you?”
There was startled anxiety in her voice and the heart of Dupre leaped
exultantly.
“Naught,” he lied bravely, “save that I must hang behind for a moment or
so to cover any sound with my sentry's step, but I cannot part from you
even so small a space without,--God-speed. Hurry now, Ma'amselle! They
pass from sight!”
He pushed her gently after, but she turned against his hand.
“Come!” she commanded; “I will not leave you!”
“Nay,--how long, think you, before utter silence awakes that mob? You
must be at the water's edge before I follow. Go now,--quick, for love of
Heaven!”
He pushed her away and turned back toward the camp, pacing slowly by the
huddled heap that attested Ridgar's hand, past the empty lodge, and on
to the northern turn, where lay that other figure prone upon the earth,
yet still quivering in every muscle. He died hardly, this strong North
warrior, and Dupre almost regretted the need, though the trapper of the
Pays d'en Haut took without thought whatever of life menaced his own and
considered the deed accomplishment.
Back and forth, back and forth he walked the beat of the watcher and a
holy joy played over his soul like a light from the beyond. He turned
his mind to that hour in the woods, to the memory of the lips of Maren
Le Moyne, the warm sweetness of her beaded breast, the tender affection
of her embrace, and the present faded into that land of dreams wherein
walk those who love greatly.
Meanwhile Ridgar and De Courtenay pushed silently forward with the limp
body of McElroy swinging between, while the girl stepped softly in their
trail, straining her ears for sounds from the camp, and carrying the
only weapon among them, a rifle which Ridgar had taken from the Indian
he had killed.
“To the east,” she whispered, “down the little defile to the river, then
south along the shore,--it is shingled and open,--to the canoe. Walk
fast as you can, M'sieu.”
It was riskful going through the strip of woods, but when they entered
the little canon that cleft a ridge of cliffs, rising impudently out of
a level land, they mended their pace. Here was solid, dry rock beneath
them, walls of rock on either side, and a narrow strip of star-strewn
sky above.
“Thank God!” Ridgar was saying, under his breath, “the distance widens!”
But no sooner were the words out of his mouth than a cold chill shot
through him, and Maren pushed forward with compelling hands on De
Courtrnay's shoulders.
“Hurry, M'sieu!” she cried; “they have awakened!”
“Hi! Hi! Hi-a! He-a! Hi!”
Danger was waking in the camp behind, first with one sharp cry, then
another and another, until throat after throat took up the sound and the
yapping turned into a roar.
They were but half-way through the narrow gorge. The two men broke into
a stumbling run. Ridgar was going backwards, half-turned to see ahead,
and suddenly his foot struck a loose pebble and he fell headlong. De
Courtenay stumbled, and in the scramble to right themselves they lost
more time than they could spare. Before they were up and started, a
shrill voice came into the gorge, yelling its “Hi! Hi! Hi-a!”
De Courtenay suddenly stopped.
“'Tis useless!” he said breathlessly; “We'll never make it! Here,--do
you take my place, Ma'amselle!”
He caught Maren's shoulder and pushed her forward.
“Take his knees,--so! You are strong,--give me the rifle. Make haste,
Ridgar,--Ma'amselle!”
He bowed in the darkness.
“The last turn of the wheel, Ma'amselle,--and I take the plunge alone.
All in the day's march!”
With the last words he turned back to face the way they had come, shook
his long curls back across his shoulder, and lifted the rifle to his
cheek.
The footsteps of Ridgar and Maren were echoing down the rocky gap.
It had been a promising escape, a neat plan well carried out, and there
was but one thing lacking to its fulfilment,--another step to pace the
deserted lodge of captives.
Across in the darkness among the Bois-Brules one ear had lain close to
the tell-tale earth, one evil face peered unsleeping among the dusky
shapes of the camp, a swarthy face with a white lock on its temple.
Keener than all the rest, Bois DesCaut, driven by personal hate,
listened to all the sounds of night.
And he had heard a changing in the steps that passed and repassed,
that separated and came together, before that lodge across the sleeping
mob,--a change, a little silence, and then the steps again that
presently thinned to ONE,--one step that paced evenly, with a measured
tread, a moccasined step like that of an Indian, yet somehow alien in
its firmness and swing.
One step where there should have been two,--and the half-breed trapper
raised himself and gave the first “Hi! Hi!”
Like startled wolves they were up all around him in a moment and down on
that empty tepee with its one sentry!
A torch flared redly with the sudden revealing of a slim youth in
buckskins and two Nakonkirhirinon warriors deep in the Great Sleep.
What was there for Marc Dupre in that moment of roused fury,--that tense
moment of awaking rage, of baffled rights of payment?
What but death too swift and unrestrained for torture?
A dozen weapons reached him from as many crowding hands and he went down
on the last earth her feet had trod, the spot where she had last touched
his hand.
Her golden voice, sweet with its sliding minors, was in his ears, the
sweetness of her lips on his.
“A stone to your foot, Ma'amselle,” he whispered, as the darkness broke
and the stars began to dance on a sky of blood-red fire; “serve you
with my life,--no better fate,--oh, I love you! I--a stone to your
foot,--Ma'amselle!”
And at that moment Maren Le Moyne, straining every muscle of her young
body to save the man she loved, looked swiftly back, having left the
defile to stagger, stumbling, southward to where Mowbray's men waited
with the canoe.
She saw the sudden flaming of the torch, the slim, boyish figure in its
buckskins, the ring of faces, and the flash of weapons; saw the forms
close in and the slim boy go down like a reed in the winter storm, and
a cry broke from her lips as De Courtenay's rifle began to sound in the
gorge.
With tears on her cheeks and her face drawn hard, she raised her head
and gave a panther's far-off call.