TOLD ON THE TRAIL
It was a merry party that clambered into the big tote-wagon in the
little town of Creighton one morning in early November. Upon request of
Appleton and Sheridan, two of the road's heaviest lumber shippers, a
private car had been coupled to the rear of the Imperial Limited at
Winnipeg.
Later the big train hesitated at Hilarity long enough to permit a
half-breed guide in full hunting regalia to step proudly aboard, to the
envy of the dead little town's assembled inhabitants. And later still
the Limited stopped at Creighton and shunted the private car onto a
spur.
Appleton promptly impressed one of his own tote-wagons which had been
sent to town for supplies; and before noon the four-horse team was
swung into the tote-road carrying the hunting party into the woods.
Tents, blankets, and robes had been ranged into more or less
comfortable seats for the accommodation of the party, while young
Charlie Manton insisted upon climbing onto the high driver's seat,
where he wedged himself uncomfortably between the teamster and Blood
River Jack, the guide.
From the time the latter had joined the party at Hilarity the boy had
stuck close to his side, asking innumerable questions and listening
with bated breath to the half-breed's highly colored narratives in
which wolves, bears, and Indians played the important parts.
In the evening, when they camped beside the tote-road, and he was
permitted to help with the tents and the fire-wood, the youngster
fairly bristled with importance, and after supper when the whole party
drew about the great camp-fire the boy seated himself close by the side
of the guide.
"You never told me your name," he ventured.
"Blood River Jack," the man replied.
"That's a funny kind of a name," puzzled the boy. "Why did they name
you that?"
"Jacques--that is my name. Blood River--that is where I live. It is
that my lodge is near the bank of the river and in the Blood River
country I hunt and lay my trap lines, and in the waters of the river I
fish. What is your name?"
"New York Charlie," unhesitatingly replied the boy and flushed deeply
at the roar of laughter with which the others of the party greeted his
answer. But the long-haired, dark-skinned guide, noting the angry flash
of the wide, blue eyes, refrained from laughter.
"That is a good name," he said gravely. "In the land of the white man
men are called by the name of their fathers. In the woods it is not
often so, except when it be written upon papers. The best man in the
North is one of whom men know only his first name. He is M's'u'
Bill--The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."
"Why can't he die?" asked the youngster eagerly.
Jacques shook his head.
"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta says 'all men die,'" he replied; "but--did not the
_chechako_ come into the North in the time of a great snow, and without
rackets mush forty miles in two days? Did he not kill with a knife
Diablesse, the werwolf, whom all men feared, and with an axe chop in
pieces the wolves of her pack?
"Did he not strike fear to the heart of the great Moncrossen with a
look of his eye? And, with three blows of his fist, lay the mighty
Stromberg upon the floor like a wet rag? Did he not come without hurt
through the fire when Creed locked him in the burning shack? And did he
not go down through the terrible Blood River rapids, riding upon a log,
and live, when Moncrossen ordered the breaking out of the jam that he
might be killed among the pounding logs? These are the things that kill
men--yet the _chechako_ lives."
"Gee, Eth, think of that!" exclaimed the boy, turning toward his
sister, who from her place by the side of her Aunt Margaret had been an
interested listener. "He must be _some man_! Where does he live? Will
we see him?"
Before the half-breed could reply Appleton broke in.
"He sure is _some man_!" he exclaimed enthusiastically. "And you will
see him about day after to-morrow night, if we have good luck. I don't
know about all the adventures Blood River Jack mentioned, but I have
heard of some of them, and I can add the story of the outwitting of a
couple of card-sharps and a fight in the dark, in the cramped quarters
of an overturned railway coach, in which he all but choked the life out
of a human fiend who was robbing the dead and injured.
"And I might tell of another fight--the gamest fight of all--but, wait
till you know him. He is foreman of the camp which will be our
headquarters for the next two or three weeks."
"To hear them talk," said Mrs. Appleton to her niece, "one would
imagine this man a huge, bloodthirsty ruffian; but he isn't. Hubert
says that he is in every respect a gentleman."
"Yes," agreed her husband, "but one who is not afraid to get out and
work with his two hands--and work hard--and who has never learned the
meaning of fear. I took a chance on him, and he has made good."
The phrase fell upon the ears of the girl with a shock. They were the
words _he_ had used, she remembered. Was _he_ making good--somewhere?
She felt her heart go out with a rush to this big man she had never
seen, and she found herself eagerly looking forward to their meeting.
"Oh, he must be splendid!" she exclaimed impulsively, and her face
glowed in the play of the firelight--a glow that faded almost to pallor
at the words of the half-breed.
"He has come again into the woods?" he asked quickly. "It is well. For
now Jeanne need have no fear. He promised her that he would return
again into the North--and to her."
"What?" cried Appleton in surprise. "Who is this Jeanne? And why should
he return to her?"
"She is my sister," Jacques replied simply. "Her skin is white like the
skin of my father. She is beautiful, and she loves him. She helped
Wa-ha-ta-na-ta to draw him from the river, and through all the long
days and nights of his sickness she took care of him. When he went out
of the woods she accompanied him for three days and three nights upon
the trail to the land of the white man, and he promised her that he
would come again into the woods and protect her from harm."
At a hurried glance from his wife Appleton changed the subject
abruptly. "I wish to thunder it would snow!" he exclaimed. "Hunting
deer without snow is like fishing without bait. You might accidentally
hook one, but it's a long chance."
Blood River Jack sniffed the air and shrugged, glancing upward.
"Plenty of snow in a few days," he said. "Maybe too much."