The rising of the housekeeper, whose bed she shared, woke Maggie, and
a glance through the small window showed a faint whitening in the sky
that betokened the coming of day. Knowing there was no time to spare,
she dressed herself quickly, and, joining the housekeeper in the
kitchen, asked if the messenger had come. She answered by pointing to
the open door, and Maggie saw, seated on the lowest step, in silent
waiting, the figure of an Indian. She was for going with him at once,
when the housekeeper held her and, fearful of disturbing her master,
whispered to eat of the food she had placed on the table. Having made
a hurried repast, Maggie drew her shawl over her head and turned to
bid her hostess good-bye. The good soul forced into her pocket the
bread that remained on the table, and kissed her on both cheeks. When
Maggie came to the door, the Indian rose and, without looking at her,
proceeded to lead the way through the village and then past it, by a
path that wound to the top of the sand-hill that hems it in on the
north. Motioning her to stand still, the Indian crept forward as if to
spy out the object of their search. Glancing around her, Maggie saw
through the spruces the Ottawa outstretched at her feet, reflecting the
first rosy gleam of the approaching sun. A twitch at her shawl startled
her. It was her guide who had returned. Following him, as he slowly
threaded his way through the grove of balsams and spruces, they soon
came to a halt, and the Indian pointed to a black object outstretched
upon the ground a few yards from them. Fear overcame Maggie, and she
turned to grasp the arm of her guide--he was gone. Her commonsense came
to her aid. If this was Hemlock, she had nothing to fear, and mastering
her agitation she strove to discover whether the figure, which the
dawn only rendered perceptible amid the gloom of the evergreens, was
really the object of her quest. Silently she peered, afraid to move a
hairsbreadth, for what seemed to her to be an age, and she came to see
clearly the outline of a man, naked save for a girdle, fantastically
fashioned out of furs of varied colors, stretched immoveable on the
sod, face downward. Suddenly a groan of anguish escaped from the lips
of the prostrate man and the body swayed as if in convulsions. Her
sympathies overcame her fears, and advancing Maggie cried, “Hemlock,
are you ill? Can I help you?”
With a terrific bound the figure leapt to its feet, the right arm
swinging a tomahawk, and, despite an effort at control, Maggie
shrieked. The light was now strong enough to show the lineaments of
the Indian, whose face and body were smeared with grease and soot and
whose countenance wore the expression of one roused from deep emotion
in sudden rage.
“Hemlock, do not look at me so; I am Maggie Forsyth, come from the
Chateaugay to seek you.”
Instantly the face of the Indian softened. “Why should the fawn leave
the groves of the Chateaugay to seek so far the lair of the lynx?”
“Your friend Morton is doomed to die by the American soldiers and you
alone can save him.”
“What! Did he not escape? Tell me all.”
Maggie told him what she knew, he listening with impassive countenance.
When she had done, he paused, as if reflecting, and then said curtly,
“I will go with you.” It was now fair daylight, and Maggie saw, to her
dismay, that the mound upon which she had found Hemlock outstretched
was a grave, and that, at the head of it was a stake upon which hung
several scalps, the topmost evidently cut from a recent victim.
Glancing at the radiant eastward sky, the Indian started, and ignoring
the presence of his visitor, fell on his knees on the grave, and
turning his face so as to see the sun when it should shoot its first
beam over the broad lake, which was reflecting the glow of the rosy
clouds that overhung its further point, he communed with the dead.
“I leave thee, Spotted Fawn, for a while, that I may meet those who
did thee hurt and bring back another scalp to satisfy thy spirit. Thy
father’s arm is strong, but it is stronger when he thinks of thee.
Tarry a while before you cross the river and I will finish my task and
join thee in the journey to the hunting-ground; the arm that oft bore
you when a child, will carry you over the waters and rocks. Farewell!
Oh, my child, my daughter, how could you leave me? Tread softly and
slowly, for I will soon leave my lodge of sorrow and see you and clasp
you to my heart.” There was a pause, a groan of unutterable sorrow
escaped his lips, and he sank lifeless upon the grave. Agitated with
deep sympathy, Maggie stepped forward and kneeling beside the Indian
stroked his head and shoulders as if she had been soothing a child.
“Dinna tak on sae, Hemlock. Sair it is to mourn the loved and lost, but
we maun dae our duty in this warl and try to live sae as to meet them
in the warl ayont. He that let the stroke fa’, alane can heal the hurt.
Gin yer daughter is deed, it is only for this life. Her voice will be
the first to welcome you when you cross death’s threshold.”
“I saw her an hour ago. It is your creed that says the dead are not
seen again in this life. I got the medicine from my father that melts
the scales from our earthly eyes for a while. Last night I saw my
child--last night she was in these arms--last night my cheek felt the
warmth of her breath--last night my ears joyed in the ripple of her
laughter. Oh, my Spotted Fawn, the joy, the life of my heart, why did
you stray from me?” Then, his mood changing, he sprang up with the
words, “Cursed be the wolves that hunted you, cursed be the catamount
that crept near that he might rend you! I will seek them out, I will
track them day by day, until I slay the last of them.” Here he ground
his teeth and remained absorbed for a minute, then turning sharply,
with a wave of the hand, he beckoned Maggie to follow, and led to the
verge of the cliff overhanging the Ottawa. “Stay here until I come
back,” he whispered and, disappeared over the declivity.
The glorious landscape outstretched at her feet soothed, as naught
else could, the agitation of Maggie’s mind, for Nature’s touch is ever
gentle and healing. The great expanse of water, here narrowed into a
broad river, there swelling into a noble lake, was smooth as a mirror,
reflecting hill and tree and rock. Beyond it, was unrolled the forest
as a brightly colored carpet, for the glory of Autumn was upon it, and
a trail of smoky mist hung on the horizon. An hour might have sped,
when Hemlock reappeared, with paint washed off and dressed in his
usual attire. Across his back was slung his rifle; at his heel was a
gaunt, ill-shaped dog. “Follow,” he said, and turning backward a few
paces, led to where the bank could be descended without difficulty. At
the foot of it, lay waiting a canoe, with a boy in the bow. Maggie
stepped lightly into the centre, and Hemlock grasping the paddle, shot
the light skiff swiftly across the stream. When the opposite bank was
gained, he sprang ashore and was followed by Maggie. The boy, without a
word, paddled back to the village.
Hemlock was in no mood for conversation. The exhaustion following upon
his night-vigil was upon him, and he strode forward through the forest
without speaking, Maggie following his guidance. Once he halted, on
seeing his dog creeping forward on scenting game. Picking up a stick,
he stepped lightly after it, and when a covey of partridges rose, threw
his missile so successfully that two of the birds dropped. Tying them
to his belt, he resumed his monotonous trot, and several miles were
passed when the sharp yelps of the dog suddenly arrested their steps.
The alarm came from a point to their left. Hemlock, unslinging his
rifle, ran in the direction of the dog, whose baying was now intense
and continuous, and Maggie, afraid of losing sight of him, hastened
after. A short run brought the Indian to the edge of a slough, in a
thicket in the centre of which his dog was evidently engaged in mortal
combat with some wild animal. Without a moment’s hesitation, the Indian
started to pick his way across the morass; partially dried by the
prolonged drought, and had passed the centre, when there was a crashing
of branches and a huge bear burst out, followed by the dog, which was
limping, from a fractured paw. Before he could turn aside, Hemlock was
knocked down by the lumbering brute, which gained the solid ground and
was hurrying forward, when, seeing Maggie coming, it sprang for a huge
beech tree, with the intent of climbing it. Before it was a yard up,
the dog overtook it, had fastened its teeth in its hide and pulled it
down. The bear, roused to utmost ferocity by being thwarted, easily
caught hold of the disabled dog, held it in its forepaws, and standing
on its hind feet, with back resting against the tree, was proceeding to
hug its victim to death, when Hemlock came up. He had dropped his rifle
in the slough, and instead of waiting to pick it up, had rushed forward
to rescue his dog. With upraised hatchet he approached the bear, and
dealt it so terrific a stroke, that the light weapon stuck in the
skull. With a growl of rage and pain, the bear flung the dog down and
before Hemlock could recover himself after dealing the blow, fell upon
him, too stunned and weak, however, to do more than keep him under. On
catching her first glimpse of the bear, Maggie’s inclination was to
flee, but, the next moment, the instinct of self-preservation gave way
to a feeling of sympathy for the disabled dog, followed by absorbing
excitement as the contest went on. When Hemlock fell underneath the
brute, she gave a shriek, and rushed to where the rifle lay. Snatching
it, she ran to the bear, which lay panting with outstretched tongue
and half-closed eyes, and dealt him a blow with the butt. With a groan
the unwieldy animal rolled over motionless, and Hemlock sprang to his
feet, and drew his knife. It was unnecessary; the bear was dead. Maggie
looked wildly at the Indian, strove to speak, tottered, and fell: the
reaction from the delirium of excited feeling that had sustained her
having set in. Tenderly Hemlock raised her in his arms, and carrying
her to the edge of the swamp, scooped up sufficient water to bathe her
forehead. A few anxious minutes passed, when the pallor began to pass
away, and suddenly opening her eyes, Maggie asked, “What of the dog?”
“Never mind Toga; are you hurt?”
“No; are you?”
“I am as well as ever, and had not my foot slipped after striking the
bear, would have spared you what you did.”
“That does not matter,” said Maggie, simply, “it was God that put it
into my silly head to get the gun and it was His strength that gave the
blow--not mine.”
“I care not for your God,” answered Hemlock in a hollow voice, “I have
known too many who profess to be His followers to believe in Him.”
“Dinna speak sae,” pleaded Maggie.
“Yesterday,” Hemlock went on, “I met the topped crow that clings to Oka
while taking from a squaw her last beaver-skins to say masses for her
dead husband, and I cursed him to his teeth as a deceiver that he may
eat the corn and give back to his dupes the cob.”
Unheeding his words, Maggie rose and went towards the dog, which was
still alive, and began to stroke its head. Its eyes, however, sought
not her but his master, and when Hemlock put down his hand, the dying
animal feebly tried to lick it. At this sign of affection, the eyes of
Hemlock moistened, and falling on his knees he alternately patted the
dog and shook his unhurt paw. “My Toga, my old friend, my help in many
a hunt, my comrade when we were alone for weeks in the wilderness, are
you too going to leave me? You are dying, as the Indian’s dog should
die, in the fury of the hunt. A claw of the bear I shall wrap in a
piece of my wampum belt and put into your mouth, so that Spotted Fawn
may know whose dog you were, and you will serve her and follow her
until I join you in the happy hunting-ground--and that will not be
long.”
As if sensible of what he said the dog whimpered, and with a last
effort placed its head in his outstretched hands. Then it gave a kick
or two, and died.
The Indian rose, and selecting a knoll where spruces grew thickly,
kindled a fire. Wrapping the two partridges tightly in wet grass and
several folds of green birch bark, he waited until there were embers,
on which he placed them, and heaped fresh fuel. Asking Maggie to keep
up the fire, he left and was away for some time. When he came back he
had the bear’s pelt and several slices of steak, which he proceeded
to broil. On lifting the partridges, their bodies came out clean from
their covering of feathers, and on tearing them apart the entrails,
dried and shrivelled, were easily drawn. Maggie had eaten many a
partridge, but a sweeter bite than the breast of one so cooked she had
never tasted, and with a piece of the bread in her pocket, she made a
light but refreshing dinner. The bear-steak she could not look upon,
but like qualms did not interfere with Hemlock’s appetite, who ate them
with greater relish because part of his late enemy and the slayer of
his dog. He had filled his flask with water from a spring near by, and
Maggie remarked, if she “only had a pinch o’ saut, she couldna have
asked for a better dinner.” Trimming and scraping the bear’s hide,
to make it light as possible, Hemlock wrapped it into a bundle, and
strapped it on his back. Then looking to the priming of his rifle, he
told Maggie he was ready.
“But the puir dowg; will ye no bury him?”
“I have buried him,” answered Hemlock, “and poisoned the carcase of the
bear that it may sicken the wolves that eat of it.”
The tongue of Hemlock was now free, and as they trudged on, he kept
up a constant conversation, surprising Maggie by the extent of his
information and the shrewdness of his judgment. Becoming conscious
that the sun was descending, she expressed a fear that she could not
reach home that night. “No, you cannot, and I do not mean you should,
but you will rest safe before sunset. I am taking you to the fort at
Coteau-du-lac.”
“That is oot o’ oor way, Hemlock.”
“Not very far; it is necessary I see Colonel Scott as to how to save
Morton.”
Maggie said no more, for that was reason enough to go a hundred miles
out of the way, though she thought with pain of the anxiety her absence
for another night would give her parents. “Father will think I did not
find Hemlock at Oka and that I am looking for him,” she concluded at
last, “and will not borrow trouble about me.”