LOYAL FRIENDS
It was broad daylight when Jean opened her eyes and looked curiously
around. It was a still, frosty morning. The sun sifted down through
the branches of the trees, and formed a fantastic net-work of light and
shadow upon the ground. A deep silence prevailed, and as the girl
looked dreamily at the lordly pines, birches, and maples, her eyes
wandered far up among their overhanging branches. They reminded her of
some majestic cathedral, with stately pillars and crowning arches,
pictures of which she had at times seen. She remembered how her father
had once told her that the forest was the original cathedral, and that
along the silent woody aisles primitive people used to worship the
Great Spirit. She understood now, as never before, how the designs for
the first cathedral had been copied from the forest.
Lowering her eyes, they rested upon the Indian woman kneeling before
the fire. It was a fascinating scene, and in keeping with the solemn
grandeur of the place. There was the humble worshipper at the
altar-fire, offering her devotions in a simple reverent manner. Jean
smiled at this fancy, for she was certain that the idea of worship was
not at all in the woman's mind. She was merely cooking the partridges
her husband had brought in several hours before.
"Good morning," Jean at length accosted.
The woman turned quickly, and rose to her feet. She smiled as she
stood and watched the girl lying there with her hair tossed in rich
profusion over cheeks and shoulders.
"Plenty sleep, eh?" she asked.
"Yes, I have had a great sleep, and am much rested. It is very
comfortable here."
"Hungry, eh?"
"Why, I believe I am," and Jean laughed. "What are you cooking?"
"Bird. Sam ketch'm. Good. Smell'm?"
"I certainly do, and it makes my mouth water."
The woman at once stooped, dipped a cup into the pot which was
simmering over the coals, and handed it to Jean.
"Soup. Good," she said.
"It is good," Jean agreed after she had tasted it. "This will make me
strong. You are a fine cook. What is your name?"
"Kitty."
"Kitty what?"
"Kitty Sam."
"Is that all?"
"A-ha-ha."
"But you have an Indian name, have you not?"
"Injun name long. Babby no spik Injun name."
After Jean had finished her breakfast, she felt much refreshed. She
washed herself at a little brook which babbled through the forest, and
arranged as well as she could her tangled hair. One little pool served
as Nature's mirror, and in this she could see her face and the brooch
at her throat. She again recalled the happy day it had been given to
her. How long ago that seemed, and she wondered where Dane was now.
No doubt he was frantically searching for her, his heart filled with
grief and fear. She must get home as soon as possible, for she knew
how her father's heart must be nearly broken. She would get the
Indians to take her back at once. But when she mentioned this upon her
return to the lean-to, Kitty shook her head.
"No go now," she said. "Cold bimeby. Snow come. Ribber freeze."
"Will we go then?" Jean eagerly asked.
"Mebbe, Sam come back soon. Sam know."
"Where is Sam now?"
"Sam dere," and she motioned off toward the river. "Sam watch white
man. Sam track'm all sam' bear. White man no see Sam."
"What white man? Isn't he dead?"
"A-ha-ha, Seth dead. More white man."
"What, are there others?"
"A-ha-ha. Bad! Ugh! Hunt babby. No find babby. White man mad."
"Will they come here?" A new fear had now come into Jean's heart. So
there were other men after her! Who were they? But she had confidence
in her dusky friends, and believed that they would save her.
"White man come, mebbe," the Indian replied. "No ketch Injun, no ketch
babby. All gone."
"Where shall we go?"
"Way off," and Kitty waved her hand to the right. "Beeg wood, see?"
"And you will take me there? But I want to go home."
"A-ha-ha, go home dat way, bimeby," and she pointed westward. "Beeg
ribber, Wu-las-tukw."
"I never heard of that river. Where is it?"
"Way off dere. Wat you call'm?"
"The St. John?"
"A-ha-ha. Injun call'm 'Wu-las-tukw,' beeg ribber."
"And you will take me there?"
"Bimeby, mebbe. Sam know."
They were seated near the fire during this conversation, and the Indian
woman was busy with a deer-skin garment. It was a warm looking jacket,
and she was sewing on an extra string of bright-coloured beads. When
this had been accomplished to her satisfaction, she held it forth for
Jean's inspection.
"Good coat," she said. "Try'm on, eh?"
Jean at once stood up, and when she had slipped on the jacket, the
Indian woman viewed her with pleasure.
"Wear'm, eh?" she queried. "Warm?"
"Indeed it is," Jean replied. "Is this for me?"
"A-ha-ha. Keep babby warm. Kitty mak' more bimeby. Babby no cold."
A mistiness came into the girl's eyes as she stood there. The kindness
of this woman affected her deeply.
"Why are you so good to me?" she asked. "You never saw me until
yesterday, and yet you are doing so much for me. I don't understand."
"Kitty tell, eh?"
"I wish you would," Jean replied as she seated herself upon the rugs
and furs. "I want to know."
The Indian woman threw a couple of sticks upon the fire, and then faced
the girl. She reached out and touched the little arrow-brooch with the
forefinger of her right hand.
"Dane geeve babby dat, eh?" she asked.
"Why, yes, how did you know that?"
"Injun know much," and the woman smiled as she spoke. "Injun know
Dane; Dane know Pete. See?"
"Did Pete tell you about this?" and Jean touched the arrow.
"A-ha-ha. Pete tell Injun. Pete, Sam, all sam' mamma. See?"
"What, are Pete and Sam brothers?"
"A-ha-ha, all sam' mamma."
A new light now began to dawn upon Jean's mind, and she understood
certain things which had been puzzling her since yesterday afternoon.
She also recalled Dane's words when he gave her the brooch. "It is
Love's-Charm," he had said, "and it may mean more to you than you now
imagine." She realised how much it had meant to her, and no doubt it
had saved her from a terrible fate.
"You knew me by this?" she asked, again touching the arrow.
"A-ha-ha. Kitty see quick. Kitty know Dane geeve babby arrow. Pete
tell Injun."
"Didn't those Indians who carried me away from home know? Didn't Pete
tell them?"
"Dem bad Injun. Bah! Porkeepine! Fight King George!"
"What do you mean by porcupine?"
"Micmac; all sam' slasher. Fight King George."
"But all the Indians are not rebels."
"No, no. Plenty good Injun no fight King George. All sam' Dane."
"You have known Dane quite a while, I suppose!" Jean asked, while a
conscious flush stole into her cheeks.
"A-ha-ha, long tam. Dane leetle babby, so beeg," and she spread out
her hand, palm downward, about two feet from the ground. "Kitty know
Dane; Kitty know Dane mamma."
"What, you know his mother?"
"A-ha-ha. Good woman. Dead now."
"Do you know his father?"
The woman turned suddenly toward the fire without replying. Jean
noticed this, and wondered. She also remembered Dane's peculiar manner
when she had mentioned his father. Her interest and curiosity were now
aroused more than ever. There must be some mystery connected with
Dane's father, she felt certain. She longed to know, and hoped to find
out something from this woman. There was no opportunity, however, just
then as Sam appeared unexpectedly before them. He was much excited,
and addressed a few rapid words to his wife. Jean rose to her feet,
her face pale with fear.
"Are the white men after me?" she asked in a trembling voice.
"A-ha-ha." Sam replied. "White man chase babby."
"Why?"
Jean knew why, but she wanted to hear what the Indian had to say.
"White man find Seff dead by ribber. White man act funny, much 'fraid.
Bimeby find babby gone. White man much mad."
He paused, picked up his musket which he had laid aside, and examined
the priming.
"Did you see them?" Jean asked.
"A-ha-ha. Sam see'm. White man no see Sam."
"Are they coming this way?"
"A-ha-ha."
"Will you shoot them?"
"Sam shoot bimeby, mebbe. White man no ketch babby."
Of this Jean had no doubt. What a tower of strength this Indian seemed
to her just then. The day before she had given up all hope of earthly
aid, yet here was one, and a native at that, who was ready to protect
her. How wonderful it all appeared. And it was against men of her own
race he would defend her. Of the savage Indian she had heard and read
much. But here were two of the despised race putting white men to
shame.
In the meantime the Indian woman had been very busy. She had gathered
the few cooking utensils together, and was now rolling up the blankets
and skins. Presently Sam assisted her, and in a remarkably short time
they were ready for their journey.
Jean begged to be allowed to carry something, but Sam shook his head as
he pointed to her shoulders and feet.
"No strong," he said. "Feet leetle. Bimeby Injun pack babby, mebbe,
eh?"
"Oh, I hope not," the girl smilingly replied. "I must walk to-day."
With their packs strapped upon their backs, Sam picked up his musket,
and Kitty the axe. With a final glance around to see that nothing was
overlooked, Sam led the way among the trees, with Jean following, and
Kitty bringing up in the rear.
All through the afternoon they pressed forward along the silent forest
ways. Occasionally the Indians halted that the girl might rest. Their
care of her was remarkable, and to them she seemed like a mere child.
It was quite evident that they had taken her to their hearts, and that
nothing was too good for her.
Jean was surprised at herself for standing the journey so well.
Although very tired at times, she never once complained. She was not
accustomed to moccasins, and the roots and stones bruised her feet. Up
hill and down they moved, across valleys, swamps, and wild meadows.
There was no trail, but Sam led the way with an unerring instinct. He
chose the smoothest spots, but even these were hard for the girl's
tender feet. Very thankful was she when at length he halted by the
side of a little forest lake, and unstrapped his pack.
"Camp here," he announced. "Plenty water."
Jean dropped upon the ground, weary almost to the point of exhaustion.
Her body ached, and her head throbbed with a dull pain. But after she
had rested a while, and eaten the supper which Kitty speedily prepared,
she felt better. Sam erected a cosy lean-to, and when the rugs and
blankets had been spread out upon the fresh, fragrant spruce boughs, he
insisted that Jean should occupy the choice place near the fire. So
lying there, she watched her kind-hearted companions as they moved
about making ready for the night.
It was a beautiful spot where their camp was built. The little lake,
covered with a thin coating of ice, mirrored the great trees in its
glassy surface. It was one of Nature's gems tucked away in the heart
of the mighty forest, known only to the wandering Indians, and their
feathered and furry kindred of the wild.
As day faded, and night cast its mantle over forest and lake, the stars
appeared and twinkled down their welcome. As Jean watched them, she
thought of the night she had been stolen from home, and how cold and
cheerless those same stars had seemed. She also recalled the prayer
she had uttered in her distress, and the sense of peace which had come
upon her. In what a remarkable manner her prayer had been answered. A
feeling of intense gratitude welled up in her heart, and almost
unconsciously she began to sing an old familiar hymn.
The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want,
He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me
The quiet waters by.
Her voice was not strong, but exceptionally sweet. Her singing
attracted the Indians, who left their work, and squatting near her
side, listened with rapt attention. Jean, seeing their interest,
paused at the end of the second verse, and smiled.
"Do you like singing?" she asked.
"A-ha-ha," Kitty replied. "More, eh?"
Yea, though I walk through death's dark vale,
Yet will I fear no ill;
For Thou art with me; and Thy rod
And staff me comfort still.
When Jean had ended singing this verse there was a mistiness in her
eyes. How wonderfully true were those words in her own case. The
Shepherd had been with her through death's dark vale, He had comforted
her, and led her to this quiet woodland lake.
"Babby seek?" Sam asked, noticing her emotion.
"No, not sick, but very thankful," was the quiet reply. "My Great
Father in heaven has sent you to save me and to take me home. Do you
know Him?"
"A-ha-ha, me know'm. White man tell Injun long tam ago."
"Missionary?" Jean asked.
"A-ha-ha. Long black robe. Cross, all sam' dis," and Sam made the
form of the symbol of salvation with his forefinger.
Jean knew that he referred to some French missionary who had visited
the country.
"And he taught you about the Great Father?"
"A-ha-ha. Long black robe come up Wu-las-tukw in canoe. Sam no
forget. Sing more, eh?"
Jean did as she was requested, and sang several of the hymns she
remembered. At times she glanced at her dusky companions. Their eyes
shone with pleasure, mingled with admiration as they watched the
reclining girl, and listened to the words of hope and comfort. They
were but unlettered natives of the wild, yet their hearts responded
readily to the concord of sweet sounds. Often the good lying in such
hearts needs but a gentle fanning to burst forth in the beauty of love,
service, and devotion. Little did Jean realise the influence she was
exerting upon those two friendly Indians in that quiet lodge in the
depths of the great forest.