Nan Sherwood could not cry out, though she tried. She opened her lips
only to find her throat so constricted by fear that she could not utter
a sound. Perhaps her sudden and utter paralysis was of benefit at
the moment, after all; for she could not possibly have escaped the
infuriated lynx by running.
The creature's own movements were hampered by the deep drift in which
she had landed. The soft snow impeded the cat and, snarling still, she
whirled around and around like a pinwheel to beat a firmer foundation
from which to make her final spring at her victim.
Nan, crouching, put her mittened hands before her face. She saw no
chance for escape and could not bear to see the vicious beast leap at
her again. “Momsey! Papa Sherwood!” she thought, rather than breathed
aloud.
Then, down the hill toward her, plunged a swift body. She rather felt
the new presence than saw it. The cat yowled again, and spit. There was
the impact of a clubbed gun upon the creature's head.
“Sacre bleu! Take zat! And zat!” cried a sharp voice, between the blows
that fell so swiftly. The animal's cries changed instantly from rage to
pain. Nan opened her eyes in time to see the maddened cat flee swiftly.
She bounded to the big tree and scrambled up the trunk and out upon the
first limb. There she crouched, over the place where her kittens were
hidden, yowling and licking her wounds. There was blood upon her head
and she licked again and again a broken forefoot between her yowls of
rage and pain.
But Nan was more interested just then in the person who had flown to
her rescue so opportunely. He was not one of the men from the camp, or
anybody whom she had ever seen before.
He was not a big man, but was evidently very strong and active. His
dress was of the most nondescript character, consisting mainly of a
tattered fur cap, with a woolen muffler tied over his ears; a patched
and parti-colored coat belted at the waist with a frayed rope. His legs
disappeared into the wide tops of a pair of boots evidently too big for
him, with the feet bundled in bagging so that he could walk on top of
the snow, this in lieu of regular snowshoes.
His back was toward Nan and he did not turn to face her as he said:
“Be not afeared, leetle Man'zelle. Le bad chat is gone. We shall now do
famous-lee, eh? No be afeared more.”
“No, no, sir,” gasped Nan, trying to be brave. “Won't, won't it come
back?”
“Nev-air!” cried the man, with a flourish of the gun which was a
rusty-barreled old weapon, perhaps more dangerous at the butt end than
at its muzzle. “Ze chat only fear for her babies. She have zem in dat
tree. We will go past leeving zem streectly alone, eh?”
“No!” cried Nan hastily. “I'm going back to the camp. I didn't know
there were such dangerous things as that in these woods.”
“Ah! You are de strange leetle Mam'zelle den?” responded the man. “You
do not know ze Beeg Woods?”
“I guess I don't know anything about this wilderness,” confessed Nan.
“My uncle brought me to the camp up yonder this morning, and I hope
he'll go right home again. It's awful!”
“Eet seem terrifying to ze leetle Mam'zelle because she is unused--eh?
Me! I be terrified at ze beeg city where she come from, p'r'aps. Zey
tell Pete 'bout waggings run wizout horses, like stea'mill. Ugh! No
wanter see dem. Debbil in 'em,” and he laughed, not unpleasantly, making
a small joke of the suggestion.
Indeed his voice, now that the sharpness of excitement had gone out of
it, was a very pleasant voice. The broken words he used assured Nan that
his mother tongue must be French. He was probably one of the “Canucks”
she had heard her cousins speak of. French Canadians were not at all
strange to Nan Sherwood, for in Tillbury many of the mill hands were of
that race.
But she thought it odd that this man kept his face studiously turned
from her. Was he watching the bobcat all the time? Was the danger much
more serious than he would own?
“Why don't you look at me?” cried the girl, at length. “I'm awfully much
obliged to you for coming to help me as you did. And my uncle will want
to thank you I am sure. Won't you tell me your name?”
The man was silent for a moment. Then, when he spoke, his voice was
lower and there was an indescribably sad note in it.
“Call me 'Injun Pete', zat me. Everybody in de beeg Woods know Injun
Pete. No odder name now. Once ze good Brodders at Aramac goin' make
scholar of Pete, make heem priest, too, p'r'aps. He go teach among
he's mudder's people. Mudder Micmac, fadder wild Frinchman come to dees
lakeshore. But nev-air can Pete be Teacher, be priest. Non, non! Jes'
Injun Pete.”
Nan suddenly remembered what little Margaret Llewellen had said about
the fire at Pale Lick, and “Injun Pete.” The fact that this man kept
his face turned from her all this time aroused her suspicion. She was
deeply, deeply grateful to him for what he had just done for her, and,
naturally, she enlarged in her mind the peril in which she had been
placed.
Margaret had suggested this unfortunate half-breed was “not right in his
head” because of the fire which had disfigured him. But he spoke very
sensibly now, it seemed to Nan; very pitifully, too, about his blasted
hopes of a clerical career. She said, quietly:
“I expect you know my uncle and his family, Pete. He is Mr. Sherwood of
Pine Camp.”
“Ah! Mis-tair Hen Sherwood! I know heem well,” admitted the man. “He
nice-a man ver' kind to Injun Pete.”
“I'd like to have you look at me, please,” said Nan, still softly. “You
see, I want to know you again if we meet. I am very grateful.”
Pete waved her thanks aside with a royal gesture. “Me! I be glad to be
of use, oh, oui! Leetle Man'zelle mus' not make mooch of nottin', eh?”
He laughed again, but he did not turn to look at her. Nan reached out a
tentative hand and touched his sleeve. “Please, Mr. Pete,” she said. “I,
I want to see you. I, I have heard something about your having been hurt
in a fire. I am sure you must think yourself a more hateful sight than
you really are.”
A sob seemed to rise in the man's throat, and his shoulders shook. He
turned slowly and looked at her for a moment over his shoulder. Then he
went swiftly away across the snow (for the bobcat had disappeared into
her lair) and Nan stumbled back up the trail toward the camp, the tears
blinding her own eyes.
The disfigured face of the half-breed HAD been a shock to her. She could
never speak of it afterward. Indeed, she could not tell Uncle Henry
about her meeting with the lynx, and her rescue--she shrank so from
recalling Injun Pete's disfigured face.