“'Twas yer leader I meant, lassie, should rayport to me. Is it he I saw
yez rollin' out like a bag o' beans?”
“Nay, M'sieu,” said Maren Le Moyne, standing before the tall man in the
flush of dawn at the morning camp, her eyes red-rimmed and the curling
corners of her mouth drooped and sad; “what poor leader there is among
us has been myself.”
“Eh?”
All along the river bank were little fires, their blue smoke curling
up to the blue sky above, the bustle and fuss of preparation for the
morning meal. At one place in the centre of camp two women, their
appearance that of great fatigue, were languidly directing the work of
a couple of Indians. An abundance of truck was everywhere--utensils for
cooking, clothing, and blankets out of all reason to one used to the
trail.
These things had not escaped Maren as she came through them in search
of the leader. They all set his status in her mind, told her much of the
history of her rescuers.
“Eh?” he said in surprise again; “you the leader? An' whatlike was the
evil hap that placed ye in among that rabble o' painted beauties, may
I ask? An' how comes a slip of a lass”--he looked her over from head
to heel with his sharp grey eyes; “--well, not so much a slip, still a
colleen--like you wid th' command o' men in this part o' th' world?”
“Of a surety you may ask, M'sieu, and it will be my happiness to tell
you, since but for you and your quick help, given without knowledge, we
should be now in sorry plight.
“The man you saw taken from the canoe is Monsieur Anders McElroy, Factor
of Fort de Seviere on the Assiniboine, and of the Hudson's Bay Company.”
“Faith of me fathers! Say ye so! A man of our own men!”
“Aye. Then you are also of the Company? Good! Surely have we fallen
on the lap of fortune.... Those Indians, Nakonkirhirinons from the far
north and strangers in this country, came to De Seviere to trade. For
two--three dais, maybe more,--I have lost track of time, M'sieu,--they
passed up and down at the trading,--camped on the shore, and all seemed
well, though they were wild and shy as partridges. One man among them
seemed to wear the cloak of civilisation,--Negansahima the chief.
“Then one day at dusk,--it was a soft day, gold and sweet, M'sieu, and
soft, with all the post at the great gate watching the Indians,--there
were many,--four or five hundred warriors and as many women and
children,--this day there was,--a tragedy. Something happened,--a
trifle.”
The girl stopped a moment and a sigh caught her breath.
“Just a trifle--but two men fought at the gate, the factor and
another--a Nor'wester from the Saskatchewan,--a long-haired venturer,--a
man from Montreal, but a brave man, M'sieu, oh, a very brave man! They
fought and there was the discharge of a pistol,--and--the shot went
wild. It slew the good chief, M'sieu. There was uproar,--they swarmed
upon the two and bound them.”
Maren's eyes were growing large with the remembered excitement of that
moment.
The tall Irishman was watching her keenly.
“They bound them and struck away to the north, taking them along, and
the burden of their cry was, 'A skin for a skin!'
“They brought them so far,--they would have reached their own country
but for a band of Bois-Brules, who joined them some suns back with that
red liquor whose touch is hell to an Indian. They had gone wild, M'sieu;
wild!”
She was very weary and she shuddered a bit at the word.
“And,--so,--that is all,--save that we had done that much toward
escaping when you found us.”
She ceased and looked gravely into his face.
“Howly Moses! I see,--I see! But ye have left a wide rent in th' tale.
Wherefore are yez here yerself, lassie?”
“I?” said Maren, swaying where she stood. “I followed, M'sieu.”
“Followed? From the Assiniboine? Alone?”
“Nay. There was one came with me,--a youth,--a trapper,--my comrade, my
friend. He died yonder in that surging purgatory--”
The tears were welling to her weary eyes.
“The Nor'wester, Alfred de Courtenay, also--We only of that venture are
escaped alive,--a sorry showing. The five men who man my boat belong
to the brigade under Mr. Mowbray, which we met on Winnipeg. Such is
our small history, M'sieu, and all we ask is your protection out of the
reach of the Nakonkirhirinons. I take him back to De Seviere,--God
knows if he will live to reach it. He lies so still. But I must get him
back--”
She ceased and passed her hand across her eyes.
“I must get him back,--I must get him back.”
“Aye, aye. Ye come with me. Ye need a woman's hand, girl. Ye're well in
yerself.”
There was a huskiness to the sharp voice and the man took her by the
arm, turning her toward the fire and the two women. She stumbled a step
or two in the short stretch.
“I must go back to him, M'sieu!” she protested. “He will need--will
need--broth--and a wet cloth to his bruised head--”
“We'll see to him, don't ye fret. It's shlape ye need yerself. Sheila,
whativer do ye think o' this! Here's a colleen shlipped through the
fingers of those bow-legged signboards and fair done wid heroism an'
strategy, an' Lord knows what all, an' off her feet wid tire! Do ye take
her an' feed her. Put her to bed on th' blankets an' do for her like
yerself knows how, darlint! 'Tis an angel unaware, I'm thinkin'--an' her
on Deer River!”
One of the women, a little creature with dark hair and blue eyes, Irish
eyes “rubbed in with a smutty finger,” came forward and looked up into
Maren's stained face, streaked with her tears, her eyes dazed and all
but closing with the weariness that had only laid its hand upon her in
the last few moments, but whose sudden touch was heavy as lead.
“Say ye so!” she said wonderingly; “a girl! So this was what caused the
rumpus in the night! But come, dearie, 'tis rest ye want, sure!”
She laid her and on Maren's arm and there was in its gentle touch
something which broke down the last quivering strand of strength within
the girl, striving to stand upright.
“Yes, Madame,” she said dreamily. “Yes, but he must have--he must
have--broth--and a bandage,--wet”
“Sure, sure,--he shall,--but come to the blankets!”
As Maren went down with a long sigh, her limbs shirking the last task
of straightening themselves upon the softness of the unwonted couch, the
little woman looked up across her at the man with a world of questions
in her face.
“Poor darlin'!” she said softly. “Whativer is it, Terence?”
“A heroine, if all she says be thrue, an' as unconscious of it as a
new-born babe!”
When Maren awoke the sun was straight overhead and some one had been
calling from a distance for a very long time.
“Come, come, asthore! Opin yer eyes! That's it! A little more, now. Wake
up, for love av Heaven, or we'll all be overtaken be th' Injuns!”
Ah! Indians! At that she opened her eyes and looked into the pretty blue
ones she remembered last.
The little woman was kneeling beside her with an arm about her shoulder,
trying to lift her heavy head and falling short in the endeavour.
Maren was too much in her muscled height for the bird-like creature. She
sat up at once and looked around. The canoes were in the water, all the
miscellaneous luggage had been put aboard, and every one was ready for
a new start. Only herself, the blanket bed, and the little woman were
unready.
Just below, her own canoe, with Brilliers, Wilson, Frith, McDonald,
and Alloybeau in place, waited her presence. She could see, from the
elevation of the shore, the stretched form of McElroy in the bottom,
a bright blanket beneath him and his fair head pillowed on a roll of
leaves. A shelter of boughs hid his face, and for one moment her heart
stopped while the river and the woods, the people and the boats whirled
together in a senseless blur.
She sprang to her feet.
“Is he--” she faltered thickly, “is he--”
“No, no, dearie! He is like he was, only they have fixed him a bit av a
shelther from th' sun. Do ye dhrink this now,” she coaxed in her pretty
voice; “dhrink it, asthore,--ye'll nade it f'r th' thrip.”
She held up a bowl of broth, steaming and sweet as the flesh-pots of
Egypt, and Maren took it from her.
“But--did M'sieu--Oh, I have slept when I should have tended him!”
“Ye poor girl. Dhrink,--he has been fed like a babe be me own hands.
There!”
There were tears in the little woman's eyes, and Maren took the bowl and
drained it clear.
“You are good, Madame,” she said, with a long breath. “Merci! How good
to those in need! But now am I right as a trivet and shamed that I must
fail at the last. Are you ready?”
She picked up the blankets, smiled at the tall man who came for them,
and walked with them down to the canoes.
“In th' big boat, lass, wid th' women,” said the leader; “'tis more
roomy-like.”
“I thank you, M'sieu, but I have my place. I cannot leave it.” And she
stepped in her own canoe.
“Did ye iver behold such a shmile, Terence?” cried the little woman,
when the flotilla had strung into shape and the green summer shores were
slipping past. “'Tis like the look av th' Virgin in th' little Chapel av
St. Joseph beyant Belknap's skirts,--so sad and yet as fair as light!”
And so began with the slipping green shores, the airy summer sky laced
with its vanity of fleecy clouds, the backward journey to safety and De
Seviere.
The large party travelled at forced time, short camps and long pulls,
for, as the little woman told Maren at the next stop, they were hurrying
south to Quebec.
“Where th' ships sail out to th' risin' sun, ochone, and Home calls over
th' sea,--the little green isle wid its pigs an' its shanties, its
fairs an' its frolics, an' the merry face av th' Father to laugh at its
weddin's an' cry over its graves. Home that might make a lass forget
such a haythen land as this, though God knew if it would ever get out av
th' bad dreams at night!
“An' now will ye be afther tellin' us th' sthory av yer adventures, my
dear?”
Maren was cooking a broth of wild hen in the little pail of poor Marc
Dupre, across the fire, and the little woman was busy watching a bit
of bread baking on a smoothed plank. Her companion, a tall, fair-haired
woman with pale eyes, light as the grey-green sheen sometimes seen on
the waters before a storm, was reclining in tired idleness beside her.
This woman had not spoken to Maren, but her cold eyes followed her now
with an odd persistence.
“Or is it too wild and sad? If it gives ye pain, don't say a
word,--though, wurra! 'tis woild I am to hear!”
Maren looked up, and once more the smile that was stranger to her
features played over them in its old-time beauty.
“Nay,--why should I not tell so good a heart as yours?” said the girl
simply, and she began at the beginning and told the sorry tale through
to its end.
“And so he died, this young trapper with the soul of pearl, and I alone
go back to De Seviere with--with M'sieu the factor,” she concluded
heavily.
“Mother av Heavin! An' which,--forgive me lass,--which man av the three
did ye love? For 'tis only love could be behind such deeds as these!”
The ready tears were swimming in the Irishwoman's blue eyes, straight
from her warm heart, and she was leaning forward in the intensity of her
sympathy and excitement.
“Which, Madame? Why, M'sieu the factor, surely.”
And Maren looked into the red heart of the fire.
With a sudden impulse this daughter of Erin dropped her plank in the
ashes, and coming swiftly forward, fell on her knees with her arms
around the girl's neck.
“Saints be praised!” she cried, weeping openly. “Saints be praised, ye
have him safe! An' there can nothin' ha'arm ye now, with us goin' yer
ways so close! An' there'll be a weddin' av coorse whin th' poor lad
comes round! F'r a flip av ale I'd command Terence to turn aside an'
go triumphant entry-in' to this blessid fort av yours and witness th'
ceremonies!”
Maren smiled sadly and laid her hand on the black head tucked into her
neck. It was a caress, that touch, tender and infinitely sweet, for with
the quick heart of her she knew the little woman to be of the gold of
earth, and she was conscious of a longing to keep her near, who was so
soon to sail “into the risin' sun” and who had been so short a time her
friend.
Friend, assuredly, for friendship was not a thing of time, but hearts
alike, and they had turned together with the first look.
So they sat a while, these two from the ends of the earth, and the warm
Irish heart cleared itself of tears, like April weather, to come up
laughing in another moment.
“An' to think ye niver told us your name, asthore!” she said, wiping her
eyes; “nor yer home place! Were ye raised in this post av haythins?”
“Maren Le Moyne of Grand Portage. My father--was a smith.”
“Of Grand Portage! An' ye are so far inland! I am Sheila O'Halloran,
av all Oirland, an' wife to Terence th' same,--yer fri'nd for always,
asthore, f'r niver will I be forgettin' this time!”
She turned to the fair woman, smiling and alight.
“Did ye iver dhrame av such romance, my dear?” she asked. “An' isn't it
just wonderful to find a real live heroine in th' wilderness?”
The woman was toying with a bunch of grass, winding the slim green
blades around her pale fingers, and she looked back with peculiar
straightness.
“It is all very wonderful, Sheila, and commands admiration, of course;
but, for my part, a strange woman alone on the rivers with a party of
men must have something beside her own word to vouch for her before
I should take her in with open arms. You are too ready to believe
anything. How do you know this venturess is not a--Jezebel?”
For a moment an awful silence fell upon the three, and they could hear
the myriad sounds of the evening camp round about.
Then Maren, her eyes wide in amaze, said stupidly:
“Eh,--Madame?”
And the Irishwoman cried: “Frances! For shame!”
But the other was very much composed.
“I am right, all the same,--what woman of modesty would follow a man to
the wilderness, confessing brazenly her love? You haven't noticed any
hysterics on my part over it,--nor will you. I think it all a very open
scandal.”
The little woman was flying into a rage of tumbled words and hopeless
brogue, but Maren Le Moyne, the blood red to her temples, rose silently,
took the pot of broth, and walked away, and never in her life did she
hold herself so tall and straight.
As she knelt beside the blanket bed of McElroy, and lifted his helpless
head, her eyes were burning sombrely.
“This, too?” she was saying dumbly, within herself. “Is this, too, part
of the lesson of life?”
And all through the days that followed, long warm days, with the songs
of birds from the gliding shores, the ripple of waters beneath the prow
of a canoe, she sat beside the unconscious man and looked at him with
dumb yearning.
For love of him,--what would she not have done, what would she not do
still for love of him,--he who had sold her for a kiss; and for it there
came something,--she could not define it,--something that seemed to live
in the atmosphere, to taint the glory of the sunshine, to speak under
every word and whisper.
Never again did she cook at the fire with the others, but had her own
on the outskirts, and Sheila O'Halloran came and cooked with her, talked
and comforted and hovered about Anders McElroy where he lay in a silence
like death, his fair face flushed with fever and his strong hands
plucking at everything within their reach.
“Don't ye worry, dear, he'll not die. 'Twouldn't be accordin' to th'
rights av life,--not afther all ye've done f'r him. He'll opin his
blessid eyes some day an' know ye, an' Heaven itself will not be like
thim f'r glory.”
But Maren only looked tragically down upon him.
What would they say, those eyes that she had thought so earnest, so
all-deserving in their eager honesty, if they should open to her alone?
Would they lie as they had done before, with the thought of Francette
behind their blue clearness?
Ah, well,--it was all in the day's march.
This day at noon camp she came upon, close to a fallen tree, a wee red
flower nodding on its slender stalk. She sighed and broke it.
“In memory of a brave man,” she said sadly. “Oh, a very brave man!”