A PROPHECY
In the gray of the morning Jacques Lacombie returned to his lodge to
find Wa-ha-ta-na-ta seated in front of the tepee staring into the dead
ashes of the fire.
In answer to his rough questioning she arose stiffly, stalked to the
open flap of the lodge and, standing aside, pointed mutely to the
silent figures within.
Both slept. The fever-flushed face of the man pillowed upon the bare
arm of the girl, whose body had settled wearily forward until her head,
with its mass of black tresses, rested upon his breast, where it rose
and fell to the heave of his labored breathing.
Long the half-breed looked, uttering no word, while the old squaw
searched his face which remained as expressionless as a face of stone.
"Make a fire," he commanded gruffly, and slung his pack upon the
ground. She obeyed, muttering the while, and Jacques watched her as he
filled and lighted his pipe.
"The man is M's'u' Bill," he observed, apparently talking to himself,
"The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."
The old woman shot him a keen glance as she hovered over the tiny flame
that licked at the twigs of dry larchwood. "All men die," she muttered
dully. "Did not Lacombie die?"
"At midnight I passed through the deserted camp of Moncrossen," the man
continued, paying no heed to her remark. "Creed did not go out with the
drive, but stayed behind to guard the camp, and he told me of the death
of this man; how he himself saw him sink beneath the waters of the
river and saw the logs of the jam rush over him.
"As we talked, and because he had been drinking much whisky, he told me
that it was he who locked this man in the shack last winter and then
set fire to the shack. He told me also Moncrossen desired this man's
death above any other thing, and had ordered the breaking of the jam at
a moment when he knew the _chechako_ could not escape, so that he was
hurled into the water and killed."
The old woman interrupted him. "I drew him upon the bank, thinking he
was Moncrossen, and that I might breathe upon him the curse. Because
his heart is bad, being a man of logs, I would have returned him to the
river whence he came; but Jeanne prevented." Jacques smiled at the
bitter disappointment in her voice.
"It is well," he returned. "See to it that he lives. Moncrossen is
great among the white men--and his heart is bad. But the heart of the
_chechako_ is good, and one day will come a reckoning, and in that day
the curse of the Yaga Tah shall fall from thy lips upon the dead face
of Moncrossen."
"All white men are bad," grumbled the squaw. "There is no good white
man."
Jacques silenced her with a gesture of impatience. "What is that to
you, oh, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, good or bad, if he kills Moncrossen?"
The old woman leaped to her feet and pointed a sharp skinny finger
toward the tepee, her eyes flashed, and the cracked voice rang thin
with anger.
"The girl!" she cried. "Jeanne, thy sister!"
Her son stepped close to her side and spoke low with the quiet voice of
assurance:
"No harm will come to the girl. I have many times talked with this man
as he worked in the timber. His heart is good--and his lips do not lie.
I, who have looked into his eyes, have spoken. And, that you shall know
my words are true, if harm befall the girl at the hand of the white
_chechako_, with this knife shall you kill me as I sleep."
He withdrew a long, keen blade from its sheath and handed it to the
squaw, who took it.
"And not only you will I kill, but him also," she answered, testing its
edge upon her thumb. "For the moon has spoken, and blood will flow.
Last night, in the wet red moon, I saw it--dripping tears of
blood--twelve, besides one small one, and they were swallowed up in the
mist of the river. I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the
chief, who know the signs, have spoken.
"Before the full of the thirteenth moon blood will flow upon the bank
of the river. But whose blood I know not, for a great cloud came and
covered the face of the moon, and when it was gone the tears of blood
were no more and the mist had returned to the river--and the meaning of
this I know not."
She ceased speaking abruptly at a sound from the tepee as the girl
emerged and stepped quickly to the fire.
"I am glad you have come," said Jeanne hurriedly to her brother. "You,
who are skilled in the mending of bones. The man's leg is broken; it is
swollen and gives him much pain."
Jacques followed her into the tepee and, after a careful examination,
removed the unconscious man.
The setting of the bones required no small amount of labor and
ingenuity. Carmody was placed between two trees, to one of which his
body was firmly bound at the shoulders.
A portion of the bark was removed from the other tree and the smooth
surface rubbed with fat. Around this was passed a stout line, one end
of which was made fast to the injured leg at the ankle.
A trimmed sapling served as a capstan bar, against which the two women
threw their weight, while Jacques fitted the bone ends neatly together
and applied the splints.
The Indians, schooled in the treatment of wounds and broken bones, were
helpless as babes before the ravages of the dreaded pneumonia which
racked the great body of the sick man.
Bill Carmody's recollection of the following days was confined to a
hopeless confusion of distorted brain pictures in which the beautiful
face of the girl, the repulsive features of the old crone, and the
swart countenance of the half-breed were inextricably blended.
For two weeks he lay, interspersing long periods of unconsciousness
with hours of wild, delirious raving. Then the disease wore itself out,
and Jeanne Lacombie, entering the tepee one morning, encountered the
steady gaze of the sunken eyes.
With a short exclamation of pleasure she crossed the intervening space
and knelt at his side. The two regarded each other in silence. At
length Bill's lips moved and he started slightly at the weak, toneless
sound of his own voice.
"So you are real, after all," he smiled.
The girl returned the smile frankly.
"M's'u' has been very sick," she imparted, speaking slowly, as though
selecting her words.
Bill nodded; he felt dizzy and helplessly weak.
"How long have I been here?" he asked.
"Since the turning of the moon."
"I'm afraid that is not very definite. You see I didn't even know the
moon had been turned. Who turned it? And is it really turned to cheese
or just turned around?"
The girl regarded him gravely, a puzzled expression puckering her face.
Bill laughed.
"Forgive me," he begged. "I was talking nonsense. Can you tell me how
many days I have been here?"
"It is fifteen days since we drew you from the river."
"Who's _we_?"
Again the girl seemed perplexed.
"I mean, who helped you pull me out of the drink?"
"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. She is my mother. She is an Indian, and very old."
"Are _you_ an Indian?" asked the man in such evident surprise that the
girl laughed.
"My father was white. I am a breed," she answered; then with a quick
lifting of the chin, hastened to add: "But not like the breeds of the
rivers! My father was Lacombie, the factor at Crossette, and
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta was the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, and they were
married by a priest at the mission.
"That was very long ago, and now Lacombie is dead and the priest also,
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta has a paper; also it is written in the book at the
mission that men may read it and know."
Carmody was amused at her eagerness and watched the changing expression
of her face as she continued more slowly:
"My father was good. But he is dead and, until you came, there has been
no good white man."
Bill smiled at the naive frankness of her.
"Why do you think that I am good?" he inquired.
"In your eyes I have read it. That night, before the wild fever-spirit
entered your body, I looked long into your eyes. And has not Jacques
told me of how you killed the _loup-garou_; of how you are hated by
Moncrossen, and feared by Creed?
"Do I not know that fire cannot burn you nor water drown? Did you not
beat down the greatest of Moncrossen's fighting men? And has not
Wabishke told in the woods, to the wonder of all, how you drink no
whisky, but pour it upon your feet?"
The girl spoke softly and rapidly, her face flushing.
"Do I not know all your thoughts?" she continued. "I who have sat at
your side through the long days of your sickness and listened to the
voice of the fever-spirit? At such times the heart cannot lie, and the
lips speak the truth."
She leaned closer, and unconsciously a slender, white-brown hand fell
upon his, and the soft, tapering fingers closed upon his own. A
delicious thrill passed through his body at the touch.
As he looked into the beautiful face so close to his, with the white
flash of pearly teeth in the play of the red lips, the eyes luminous,
like twin stars, a strange, numbing loneliness overcame him.
She was speaking in a voice that sounded soothing and far away, so that
he could not make out the words. Slowly his eyelids closed, blotting
out the face--and he slept.