"The man that won't bear watchin' needs it."
--Old Cy Walker.
While Chip, bound, gagged, and helpless in the half-breed's canoe,
was just entering the alder-choked outlet of this lake, twenty miles
below and close to where the stream entered another lake, four men were
launching their canoes.
"It was here," Martin was saying to Hersey, "one moonlight night a
year ago, that a friend of mine and myself saw a spectral man astride
a log, just entering that bed of reeds, as I told you. Who or what it
was, we could not guess; but as that spook canoeman went up this stream,
we followed and discovered our hermit's home."
"Night-time and moonshine play queer pranks with our imagination,"
Hersey responded. "I'm not a whit superstitious, and yet I've many
a time seen what I thought to be a hunter creeping along the lake shore
at night, and I once came near plugging a fat man in a shadowy glen. I
was up on a cliff watching down into it, the day was cloudy, and 'way
below I saw what I was sure was a bear crawling along the bank of the
stream. I had my rifle raised and was only waiting for a better sight,
when up rose the bear and I saw a human face. For a moment it made me
faint, and since then I make doubly sure before shooting at any object
in the woods."
And now these four men, Levi wielding the stern paddle of Martin's
canoe, and Hersey's deputy that of his, entered the broad, winding
stream. The tall spruce-tops meeting darkened its currentless course,
long filaments of white moss depended from every limb, and as they
twisted and turned up this sombre highway, the air grew stifling. Not
a breeze, not a sound, disturbed the solemn silence, and except for the
swish of paddles and faint thud as they touched gunwales, the fall of a
leaf might have been heard. So dense was this dark, silent forest,
and so forbidding its effect, that for an hour no one scarce spoke,
and even when the two canoes finally drew together, converse came in
whispers. Another hour of steady progress, and then the banks began to
outline themselves ahead, the trees opened more, a sign of current was
met, and the sun lit up their pathway.
By now the spectral beard had vanished from the trees, white clouds were
reflected from the still waters, and the gleam of sandy bottom was seen
below. The birds, inspired perhaps by the absence of gloom, also added
their cheering notes, Nature was smiling once more, and not a hint or
even intuition of the fast-nearing tragedy met those men.
And then, as a broad, eddying bend in the stream held their canoes, by
tacit consent a halt was made.
Martin, his paddle crossed on the thwarts in front, dipped a cup of
the cool, sweet water and drank. Levi wiped the sweat from his face, and
Hersey also quenched his thirst. The day was hot. They had paddled ten
miles. There was no hurry, and as pipes were drawn forth and filled,
conversation began. But just at this moment Levi's ears, ever alert,
caught the faint sound of a paddle striking a canoe gunwale. Not as
usual, in an intermittent fashion, as would be the case with a skilled
canoeist, but a steady, rhythmic thud.
"Hist," he said, and silence fell upon the group.
In the wilderness all sounds are noticed and noted, by night especially,
because then they may mean a bear crawling softly through the
undergrowth, or a wildcat, yellow-eyed and vicious, creeping near. But by
day as well they are always heeded, and the crackle of a twig, or the
sound of a deer's foot striking a stone, or any slight noise, becomes
of keen interest.
And now, from far ahead, came the steady tap, tap, tap. It soon
increased, and then it assured those waiting, listening men that some
canoe was being urged down-stream.
Without a word they glanced at one another, and then, as if an intuition
came to both at the same time, Martin and Hersey reached for their rifles.
On and on came the steady thump, thump.
Just ahead the stream narrowed and curved out of sight. A few foam flecks
from an unseen rill above floated down. The white sandy bottom showed
in the clear water.
And then, as those stern-faced, watching, listening men, rifles in hand,
almost side by side, waited there, out from behind this bend shot a canoe.
"My God, it's Pete Bolduc! Look out!" almost yelled Levi, and "Halt!
Surrender!" from Hersey, as two rifles were levelled at the oncomer.
Then one instant's sight of a red and scarred face, a quick reach for
a rifle, a splash of water, an overturned canoe, and with a curse the
astonished half-breed dived into the undergrowth.
Two rifles spoke almost at the same instant from the waiting canoes, one
answered from out the thicket. A thrashing, struggling something in the
filled canoe next caught all eyes, and Levi, leaping into the waist-deep
stream, grasped and lifted a dripping form.
It was Chip!
A brief yet bloodless tragedy, all over in less time than the telling;
yet a lifetime of horror had been endured by that waif, for as Levi bore
her to the bank, cut the thongs that bound her, and freed her mouth from
a pad of deerskin, she grasped his hand and kissed it.
And then came another surprise; for down a sloping, thick-grown hillside,
something was heard thrashing, and soon Old Tomah, his clothing in
shreds, his face bleeding, appeared to view.
Calculating to a nicety where he could best intercept and head off the
escaping half-breed, he had crossed four miles of pathless undergrowth
in less than an hour, and reached the stream at the nearest point after
it left the lake.
How Chip, still sobbing from the awful agony of mind, and dripping
water as well, greeted Old Tomah; how Hersey, chagrined at the escape of
the half-breed, gave vent to muttered curses; how Martin joined them
in thought; and how they all gathered around Chip and listened to her
tale of horror, are but minor features of the episode, and not worth
the telling.
When all was said and done, Old Tomah, grim and silent as ever, although
he had done what no white man could do or would try to do, washed his
bloody face in the stream, drank his fill of the cool water, and lifting
Pete's half-filled canoe as easily as if it were a shingle, tipped
it, turned the water out, and set it on the sloping bank.
"Me take you back and watch you now," he said to Chip. "You no get
caught again."
And thus convoyed, poor Chip, willing to clasp and caress the feet or
legs of any or all of those men, and more grateful than any dog ever was
for a caress, was escorted back to the lake.
All those waiting at the cabin were at the landing when the rescuers
arrived. Angie, her eyes brimming, first embraced and then kissed the
girl. Ray would have felt it a proud privilege to have carried her to the
cabin, and Old Cy's wrinkled face showed more joy than ever gladdened
it in all his life before.
Somehow this hapless waif had grown dearer to them all than she or they
understood.
There was also feasting and rejoicing that night at Martin's wildwood
home, and mingled with it all an oft-repeated tale.
Old Cy told one end of it in his droll way, Martin related the other,
and Chip filled up the interim. Levi had his say, and Hersey supplied
more or less--mostly more--of this half-breed's history.
Old Tomah, however, said nothing. To him, who lived in the past of a
bygone race which looked upon lumbermen as devastating vandals ever
eating into its kingdom, and whose thoughts were upon the happy
hunting-grounds soon to be entered, this half-breed's lust and
cunning were as the fall of the leaf. Were it needful he would, as he
had, plunge through bramble and brier and leap over rock and chasm to
rescue his big pappoose, but now that she was safe again, he lapsed into
his stoical reserve once more. Shadowy forms and the mysticism of the
wilderness were more to his taste than all the pathos of human life;
and while his eyes kindled at Chip's smile, his thoughts were following
some storm or tempest sweeping over a vast wilderness, or the rush and
roar of the great white spectre.
"Chip is good girl," he said to Angie the next morning, "and white
lady love her. Tomah's heart is like squaw heart, too; but he go away
and forget. White lady must not forget," and with that mixture of
tenderness and stoicism he strode away, and the last seen of him was
when he entered the outlet without once looking back at the cabin where
his "big pappoose" was kept.
More serious, however, were the facts Martin and Hersey now had to
consider, and a council of war, as it were, was now held with Levi, Old
Cy, and the deputy as advisers.
What the half-breed would now do, and in what way they could now capture
him were, of course, discussed, and as usual in such cases, it was of
no avail, because they were dealing with absolutely unknown quantities.
The facts were these: Bolduc, a cunning criminal, fearless of all
law, had set his heart upon the possession of this girl. Her story,
unquestionably true, that he had paid a large sum for this right and
title, must inevitably make him feel that he would have what was his at
any cost. His first attempt at securing her had been thwarted. He had
been shot at by minions of the law,--an act sure to make him more
vengeful,--his canoe had been taken, and what with the loss of the
girl, money, and canoe also, one of his stamp would surely be driven to
extreme revenge.
He was now at large in this wilderness, knew where the girl and his
enemies were, and as Hersey said, "He had the drop on them."
"I believe in standing by our guns," that officer continued, after all
these conclusions had been admitted. "We are here to rid the woods of
this scoundrel. We have five good rifles and know how to use them. The
law is on our side, for he refused to surrender, and returned our shots;
and if I catch sight of him, I shall shoot to cripple, anyway."
Old Cy's advice, however, was more pacific.
"My notion is this feller's a cowardly cuss," he said, "a sort o'
human hyena. He'll never show himself in the open, but come prowlin'
'round nights, stealin' anything he can. He may take a pop at some on
us from a-top o' the ridge; but I callate he'll never venture within
gunshot daytimes. His sort is allus more skeered o' us'n we need be
o' him."
In spite of Old Cy's conclusions, however, the camp remained in a state
of siege that day and many days following.
Angie and Chip seldom strayed far from the cabin. Ray assumed the
water-bringing, night and morning. Old Cy and Levi patrolled the
premises, while Martin, Hersey, and his deputy hunted a little for game
and a good deal for moccasined footprints or a sight or a sign of this
half-breed.
Hersey, more especially, made him his object of pursuit. He had come
here for that purpose, his pride and reputation were at stake, and
the thousand dollars Martin had agreed to pay was a minor factor. He
and his mate passed hours in the mornings and late in the afternoon
watching from wide apart outlooks on the ridge. They made long jaunts
up the brook valley to where the smoke sign had been seen, they found
where this half-breed had built a fire here, and later another lair,
a mile from the cabins and in this ridge. Long detours they made in
other directions. Old Tomah's trail through the forest was crossed;
but neither in forest nor on lake shore were any recent footprints of
the half-breed found. Old ones were discovered in plenty. An almost
beaten trail led from his lair in the ridge to a crevasse back of the
cabins, but to one well versed in wood tracks, it was easy to tell how
old these tracks were.
A freshly made trail in the forest bears unmistakable evidence of its
date, and no woodwise man ever confounds a two or three days' old one
with it. One footprint may not determine this occult fact; but followed
to where the moss is spongy or the earth moist, a matter of hours, even,
can be decided.
A week of this watchfulness, with no sign of their enemy's return, not
even to within the circuit patrolled time and again, began to relieve
suspense and awaken curiosity. They had been so sure, especially Martin,
that he would come back for revenge, that now it was hard to account for
his not doing so.
"My idee is he got so skeered at them two shots," Old Cy asserted,
"he hain't stopped runnin' yit." And then the old man chuckled at
the ludicrous picture of this pernicious "varmint" scampering through
a wilderness from fright.
But Old Cy was wrong. It was not fear that saved them from a prompt
visitation from this half-breed, but lack of means of defence. The one
shot remaining in his rifle at the moment of meeting had been sent on
its vengeful errand, all the rest of his ammunition was in his canoe, and
now on the bottom of the stream. Being thus crippled for means to act,
the only course left to him was a return to his cabin seventy-five miles
away, with only a hunting-knife to sustain life with.
Even to a skilled hunter and trapper like him, this was no easy task. It
meant at least a week's journey through almost impassable swamps and
undergrowth, with frogs, raw fish, roots, and berries for food.
How that half-breed, unconscious that the mills of God had ground him
the grist he deserved, fought his way through this pathless wilderness;
how he ate mice and frogs to sustain his worthless life; how he cursed
McGuire as the original cause of his wretched plight and Martin's party
as aids; and how many times he swore he would kill every one of them,
needs no description.
He lived to reach his hut on the Fox Hole, and from that moment on, this
wilderness held an implacable enemy of McGuire's, sworn to kill him,
first of all.