MENEHWEHNA SETTLES ACCOUNTS.
Weary as they were, there could be no thought of halting. The river
and the plain lay far below them yet, and they must push on through
the darkness.
Hitherto the forest had awed John by its loneliness; its
night-voices, falling at rare intervals on his ear and awaking him
from dreams beside the camp-fire, had seemed to cry and challenge
across immense distances as though the very beasts were far astray.
But now, as he crouched behind Menehwehna, he felt it to be no less
awfully inhabited. A thousand creeping things stirred or slunk away
through the undergrowth; roosting birds edged towards one another in
the branches, ever on the point of flapping off in panic; the
thickets were warm from the flanks of moose and deer. And all this
wild life, withdrawing, watched the four fugitives with a thousand
eyes.
These imaginary terrors did him one service. They kept him awake.
By and by his brain began to work clearly, as it often will when the
body has passed a certain point of fatigue. "If these Indians on the
ridge are Iroquois, why should I run? The Iroquois are friends of
England, and would recognise my red coat. The man they killed was a
Canadian, a _coureur de bois_; they will kill Barboux if they catch
him, and also these two Ojibways. But to me capture will bring
release."
He understood now why Menehwehna had called him a fool.
Nevertheless, as he went, the screams on the cliff rang in his ears
again, closing the argument.
Muskingon still led. He had struck a small mountain stream and was
tracking it down towards the river--keeping wide of it to avoid the
swampy ground, relying on his ears and the lie of the slope.
Menehwehna followed close, ready to give counsel if needed; but the
young Indian held on in silence, never once hesitating.
The debate in John's brain started afresh. "These Iroquois mean _me_
no harm. I am sure enough of that, at any rate, to face the risk of
it. Barboux is my enemy--my country's enemy--and I dislike in him
the little I don't despise. As for Menehwehna and Muskingon--they, I
suppose, are my enemies, and the Iroquois my friends." Somehow John
felt that when civilised nations employ uncivilised allies, the
simplest questions of ethics may become complicated. He remembered a
hundred small acts of kindness, of good-fellowship; and he recalled,
all too vividly, the murdered man and his gory head.
But might he not escape back and show himself without lessening his
comrades' chances? It was a nuisance that he must always be thinking
of them as comrades. Was he not their prisoner? Would their
comradeship help him at the end of the journey? . . .
The moon had risen over the hills when Muskingon's piloting brought
them out once more under open sky, at a point where the mountain
stream met and poured itself into a larger one hurrying down from the
northeast. A few yards below their confluence the riverbed narrowed,
and the waters, gathering speed, were swept down through a rocky
chasm towards a cataract, the noise of which had been sounding in
John's ears while he debated.
Hitherto he had weighed the question as one between himself and his
three companions. For the moment he saw no chance of giving them the
slip; and, if a chance occurred, the odds must be terribly unequal.
Still, supposing that one occurred, ought he to take it? Putting
aside the insane risk, ought he to bring death--and such a death--
down upon these three men, two of whom he looked upon as friends?
Did his country, indeed, require this of him? He wished he had his
cousin Dick beside him for counsellor, or could borrow Dick's
practical mind. Dick always saw clearly.
And behold! as he stepped out upon the river bank, his wish was given
him. He remembered suddenly that this Barboux carried a message--of
what importance he could not tell, nor was it for him to consider.
Important or not, it must be to England's detriment, and as a
soldier, he had no other duty than to baulk it. Why had he not
thought of this before? It ruled out all private questions, even
that of escape or of saving his own life. The report of a gun would
certainly be heard on the ridge above; and if, by forcing Barboux to
shoot, he could draw down the Iroquois, why then--live or die--the
signal must be given.
He scanned the chasm. It could not measure less than twenty feet
across, and the current whirled through it far below--thirty feet
perhaps. He eyed his companions. Barboux leaned on his gun a few
paces from the brink, where the two Indians stood peering down at the
dim waters. John dropped on one knee, pretending to fasten a button
of his gaiters, and drew a long breath while he watched for his
chance. Presently Muskingon straightened himself up and, as if
satisfied with his inspection, began to lead the way again, slanting
his course away from the bank and back towards the selvage of the
woods. Menehwehna followed close, and Barboux shouldered his musket
and fell into third place, grunting to John to hurry after.
And so John did--for a dozen paces back from the river.
Then, swinging quickly on his heel, he dashed for the brink, and
leapt.
So sudden was the manoeuvre that not until his feet left the rock--it
seemed, at that very instant--did he hear the sergeant's oath of
dismay. Even as he flew across the whirling darkness, his ear was
listening for the shot to follow.
The take-off--a flat slab of rock--was good, and the leap well timed.
But he had allowed too little, perhaps, for his weariness and his
recent wound; and in the darkness he had not seen that of the two
brinks the far one stood the higher by many inches. In mid-air he
saw it, and flung his arms forward as he pitched against it little
more than breast-high. His fingers clutched vainly for hold, while
his toes scraped the face of the rock, but found no crevice to
support them.
Had his body dropped a couple of inches lower before striking the
bank, or had the ledge shelved a degree or two more steeply, or had
it been smooth or slippery with rain, he must have fallen backward
into the chasm. As it was, his weight rested so far forward upon his
arms that, pressing his elbows down upon the rock, he heaved himself
over on the right side of the balance, fell on his face and chest,
and so wriggled forward until he could lift a knee.
The roar of the waters drowned all other noise. Only that faint cry
of Barboux had followed him across. But now, as he scrambled to his
feet, he heard a sudden thud on the ledge behind him. A hand
clutched at his heel, out of the night. At once he knew that his
stratagem had failed, that Barboux would not fire, that Muskingon was
upon him. He turned to get at grips; but, in the act of turning,
felt his brain open and close again with a flame and a crash,
stretched out both arms, and pitched forward into darkness.
It seemed--for he knew no break in his sensations--that the ground,
as he touched it, became strangely soft and elastic. For a while he
wondered at this idly, then opened his eyes--but only to blink and
close them again, for they were met by broad daylight.
He was lying on the grass; he was resting in Muskingon's arms amid a
roaring of many waters; he was being carried between Muskingon and
Menehwehna beneath a dark roof of pines--and yet their boughs were
transparent, and he looked straight through them into blue sky.
Was he dead? Had he passed into a world where time was not, that all
these things were happening together? If so, how came the two
Indians here? And Barboux? He could hear Barboux muttering: no,
shouting aloud. Why was the man making such a noise? And who was
that firing? . . . Oh, tell him to stop! The breastwork will never
be carried in this way--haven't the troops charged it again and
again? Look at Sagramore, there: pull him off somebody and let him
die quiet! For pity's sake fetch the General, to make an end of this
folly! Forty-sixth! Where are the Forty-sixth? . . .
He was lying in a boat now--a canoe. But how could this be, when the
boat was left behind on the other side of the mountain? Yet here it
was, plain as daylight, and he was lying in it; also he could
remember having been lifted and placed here by Muskingon--not by
Menehwehna. To be sure Menehwehna crouched here above him, musket in
hand. Between the shouting and firing he heard the noise of water
tumbling over rapids. The noise never ceased; it was all about him;
and yet the boat did not move. It lay close under a low bank, with a
patch of swamp between it and the forest: and across this swamp
towards the forest Muskingon was running. John saw him halt and lift
his piece as Barboux came bursting through the trees with an Indian
in pursuit. The two ran in line, the Indian lifting a tomahawk and
gaining at every stride; and Muskingon had to step aside and let them
come abreast of him before he fired at close quarters. The Indian
fell in a heap; Barboux struggled through the swamp and leapt into
the canoe as Muskingon turned to follow. But now three--four--five
Indians were running out of the woods upon him; four with tomahawks
only, but the fifth carried a gun; and, while the others pursued,
this man, having gained the open, dropped swiftly on one knee and
fired. At that instant Menehwehna's musket roared out close above
John's head; but as the marksman rolled over, dead, on his smoking
gun, Muskingon gave one leap like a wounded stag's, and toppled prone
on the edge of the bank close above the canoe.
And with that, and even as Menehwehna sprang to his feet to reach and
rescue him, Barboux let fly an oath, planted the butt of his musket
against the bank, and thrust the canoe off. It was done in a second.
In another, the canoe had lurched afloat, the edge of the rapid
whirled her bow round, and she went spinning down-stream.
All this John saw distinctly, and afterwards recalled it all in
order, as it befell. But sometimes, as he recalled it, he seemed to
be watching the scene with an excruciating ache in his brain; at
others, in a delicious languor of weakness. He remembered too how
the banks suddenly gathered speed and slid past while the boat
plunged and was whirled off in the heart of the rapid. Muskingon had
uttered no cry: but back--far back--on the shore sounded the whoops
of the Iroquois.
Then--almost at once--the canoe was floating on smooth water and
Menehwehna talking with Barboux.
"It had better be done so," Menehwehna was saying. "You are younger
than I, and stronger, and it will give you a better chance."
"Don't be a fool," growled Barboux. "The man was dead, I tell you.
They are always dead when they jump like that. _Que diable!_ I have
seen enough fighting to know."
But Menehwehna replied, "You need much sleep and you cannot watch
against me. I have reloaded my gun, and the lock of yours is wet.
Indeed, therefore, it must be as I say."
After this, Barboux said very little: but the canoe was paddled to
shore and the two men walked aside into the woods. The sun was
setting and they cast long shadows upon the bank as they stepped out.
John lay still and dozed fitfully, waking up now and then to brush
away the mosquitoes that came with the first falling shadows to
plague him.
By and by in the twilight Menehwehna returned and stood above the
bank. He tossed a bundle into the canoe, stepped after it, and
pushed off without hurry.
John laughed, as a child might laugh, guessing some foolish riddle.
"You have killed him!"
"He did wickedly," answered Menehwehna. "He was a fool and past
bearing."
John laughed again; and, being satisfied, dropped asleep.