timber land. There he halted and pitched camp. The wind shrieked
through the tree tops and swept the marshes in its untamed fury, but
he was quite warm and contented in the tent. The storm was working his
revenge for him, and he was quite satisfied that it would do the work
well.
The men that Bob Gray had come in contact with and associated with all
his life were the honest, upright people of the Bay. He had never
known a man that would dishonestly take a farthing's worth of
another's property or that would knowingly harm a fellow being. The
Bay folk were constantly helping their more needy neighbours and lived
almost as intimately as brothers. When any one was in trouble the
others came to offer sympathy and frequently deprived themselves of
the actual necessaries of life that their neighbours might not suffer.
Sometimes they had their misunderstandings and quarrels, but these
were all of a momentary character and quickly forgotten.
There was little wonder then that Bob had failed to read Micmac John's
true character, and it could hardly be expected that he would suspect
the half-breed of trying to injure him. Children of these far-off,
thinly populated lands in many respects develop judgment and mature in
thought at a much younger age than in more thickly settled and more
favoured countries. One reason for this is the constant fight for
existence that is being waged and the necessity for them to take up
their share of the burden of life early. Another reason is doubtless
the fact that their isolated homes cut them off from the companionship
of children of their own age and their associates are almost wholly
men and women grown. This was the case with Bob and in courage,
thoughtfulness of the comfort of others and physical endurance he was
a man, while in guile he was a mere baby. He believed that Micmac
John was like every other man he knew and was a good neighbour.
When men have lived long in the wilderness without fresh meat they
have a tremendous longing for it. Bob knew that neither Dick nor Ed
had tasted venison since they reached their hunting grounds, for they
had not been as fortunate as he, and that some of the fresh-killed
meat would be a great treat to them and one they would appreciate.
Therefore when Micmac John told him how easily caribou could be killed
a day's journey to the northward, he thought that it would make a nice
Christmas surprise for his friends if he hauled a toboggan load of
venison down to the river tilt with him. True they had planned a hunt,
but that would take place after Christmas and he wanted to make them
happy on that day.
So after Micmac John left him on Friday night he prepared for an early
start to the caribou feeding grounds on Saturday morning.
We have seen the route he took across the lakes and timbered flats and
marshes to the place where he pitched his camp in the little clump of
diminutive fir trees almost twenty miles from his tilt. It was evening
when he reached there and up to this time, to his astonishment, he
had seen no signs of caribou. A few miles beyond the marsh he saw a
ridge of low hills running east and west and decided that the feeding
grounds of the animals must lie the other side of them.
He banked the snow around the tent to keep out the wind, broke an
abundant supply of green boughs for a bed, and cut a good stock of
wood for the day of rest. Two logs were placed in a parallel position
in the tent upon which to rest the stove that it might not sink in the
deep snow with the heat. Then it was put up, and a fire started, and
he was very comfortably settled for the night.
The unfamiliar and unusually bleak character of the country gave him a
feeling of restlessness and dissatisfaction when he arose on Sunday
morning and viewed his surroundings. It was quite different from
anything he had ever experienced before and he had a strong desire to
go out at once and look for the caribou, and if no signs of them were
found to turn back on Monday to the tilt. But then he asked himself,
would his mother approve of this? He decided that she would not, and,
said he: "'Twould be huntin' just as much as t' go shootin' and th'
Lard would be gettin' angry wi' me too."
That kept him from going, and he spent the day in the tent drawing
mind pictures of the little cabin home that he longed so much to see
and the loved ones that were there. The thought of little Emily, lying
helpless but still so patient, brought tears to his eyes. But all
would be well in the end, he told himself, for God was good and had
given him the silver fox he had prayed for that Emily might go and be
cured.
What a proud and happy day it would be for him when with his greatest
hopes fulfilled, the boat ground her nose again upon the beach below
the cabin from which he had started so full of ambition that long ago
morning in September. How his father would come down to shake his hand
and say: "My stalwart lad has done bravely, an' I'm proud o' un." His
mother, all smiles, would run out to meet him and take him in her arms
and praise and pet him, and then he would hurry in to see dear,
patient little Emily on her couch, and her face would light up at
sight of him and she would hold out her hands to him in an ecstasy of
delight and call: "Oh, Bob! Bob! my fine big brother has come back to
me at last!" Then he would bring in his furs and proudly exhibit the
silver fox and hear their praises, and perhaps he would have another
silver fox by that time. After a while Douglas Campbell would come
over and tell him how wonderfully well he had done. With his share of
the martens he would pay his debt to the company, and he and Douglas
would let the mail boat doctor sell the silver fox and other skins for
them, and Emily would go to the hospital and after a little while come
back her old gay little self again, to romp and play and laugh and
tease him as she used to do. With fancy making for him these dreams of
happiness, the day passed after all much less tediously than he had
expected.
On Monday morning, as soon as it was light enough to see, Bob started
out to look for the caribou, leaving the tent as Micmac John found it.
He made the great mistake of not taking with him his axe, for an axe
is often a life saver in the northern wilderness, and a hunter should
never be without one. He crossed the marsh and then the ridge of low
hills to the northward, finally coming out upon a large lake. It was
now midday, the snow had commenced falling, and to continue the hunt
further was useless.
"'Tis goin' t' be nasty weather an' I'll have t' be gettin' back t'
th' tent," said he regretfully as he realized that a severe storm was
upon him.
Reluctantly he retraced his steps. In a little while his tracks were
all covered, and not a landmark that he had noted on his inward
journey was visible through the blinding snow. He reached the ridge in
safety, however, and crossed it and then took the direction that he
believed would carry him to the camp, using the wind, which had been
blowing from the westward all day, as his guide. Towards dark he came
to what he supposed was the clump of trees where he had left his tent
in the morning, but no tent was there.
"'Tis wonderful strange!" he exclaimed as he stood for a moment in
uncertainty.
He was quite positive it was the right place, and he looked for axe
cuttings, where he had chopped down trees for fire-wood, and found
them. So, this was the place, but where was the tent? He was
mystified. He searched up and down every corner of the grove, but
found no clue. Could the Nascaupees have found his camp and carried
his things away? There was no other solution.
"'Th' Nascaupees has took un. The Nascaupees has sure took un," he
said dejectedly, when he realized that the tent was really gone.
His situation was now desperate. He had no axe with which to build a
temporary shelter or cut wood for a fire. The nearest cover was his
tilt, and to reach it in the blinding, smothering snow-storm seemed
hopeless. Already the cold was eating to his bones and he knew he must
keep moving or freeze to death.
With the wind on his right he turned towards the south in the
gathering darkness. He could not see two yards ahead. Blindly he
plodded along hour after hour. As the time dragged on it seemed to him
that he had been walking for ages. His motion became mechanical. He
was faint from hunger and his mouth parched with thirst. The bitter
wind was reaching to his very vitals in spite of the exertion, and at
last he did not feel it much. He stumbled and fell now and again and
each time it was more difficult to rise.
There was always a strong inclination to lie a little where he fell
and rest, but his benumbed brain told him that to stop walking meant
death, and urged him up again to further action.
Finally the snow ceased but he did not notice it. With his head held
back and staring straight before him at nothing he stalked on throwing
his feet ahead like an automaton. The stars came out one after another
and looked down pitilessly upon the tragedy that was being enacted
before their very eyes.
Many hours had passed; morning was close at hand. The cold grew more
intensely bitter but Bob did not know it. He was quite insensible to
sensations now. Vaguely he imagined himself going home to Wolf Bight.
It was not far--he was almost there. In a little while he would see
his father and mother and Emily--Emily--Emily was sick. He had
something to make her her well--make her well--a silver fox--that
would do it--yes, that would do it--a silver fox would make her
well--dear little Emily.
From the distance there came over the frozen world a wolf's howl,
followed by another and another. The wolves were giving the cry of
pursuit. There must be many of them and they were after caribou or
game of some sort. This was the only impression the sound made upon
his numbed senses.
Daylight was coming. He was very sleepy--very, very sleepy. Why not go
to sleep? There was no reason for walking when it was so nice and warm
here--and he was so weary and sleepy. There were trees all around and
a nice white bed spread under them. He stumbled and fell and did not
try to get up. Why should he? There was plenty of time to go home. It
was so comfortable and soft here and he was so sleepy.
Then he imagined that he was in the warm tilt with the fire crackling
in the stove. He cuddled down in the snow, and said the little prayer
that he never forgot at night.
"Now-I-lay-me-down-to-sleep,
I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-keep,
If-I-should-die-before-I-wake
I-pray-thee-Lard-my-soul-to-take.
An'-God-make-Emily-well."
The wolves were clamouring in the distance. They had caught the game
that they were chasing. He could just hear them as he fell asleep.
The sun broke with the glory of a new world over the white wilderness.
The wolf howls ceased--and all was still.
X
THE PENALTY
For some reason Micmac John could not sleep. A little while he lay
awake voluntarily, trying to contrive a plan to follow should he be
found out. If, after he returned to the tilt for the pelts, there
should not be sufficient snow to cover his trail, for instance, before
the searching party came to look for Bob--and it surely would come,
headed by Dick Blake--he would be in grave danger of being discovered.
Why had he not thought of all this before? He was afraid of Dick
Blake, and Dick was the one man in the world, perhaps, that he was
afraid of. Would Dick shoot him? he asked himself. Probably. If he
were found he would have to die.
Life is sweet to a strong, healthy man brought face to face with the
reality of death. In his more than half savage existence Micmac John
had faced death frequently, and sometimes daily, and had never shrunk
from it or felt a tremour of fear. He had held neither his own nor the
life of other men as a thing of much value. The fact was that never
before had he given one serious thought to what it meant to die. Like
the foxes and the wolves, he had been an animal of prey and had looked
upon life and death with hardly more consideration than they, and with
the stoical indifference of his savage Indian ancestors.
But for some inexplicable reason this night the white half of his
nature had been awakened and he found himself thinking of what it
meant to die--to cease to be, with the world going on and on
afterwards just as though nothing had happened. Then the teachings of
a missionary whom he had heard preach in Nova Scotia came to him. He
remembered what had been said of eternal happiness or eternal
torment--that one or the other state awaited the soul of every one
after death. Then a great terror took possession of him. If Bob Gray
died, as he certainly must in this storm, _he_ would be responsible
for it, and _his_ soul would be consigned to eternal torment--the
terrible torment to last forever and forever, depicted by the
missionary. He had committed many sins in his life, but they were of
the past and forgotten. This was of the present. He could already, in
his frenzied imagination see Dick Blake, the avenger. Dick would
shoot him. That was certain--and then--eternal torment.
The wind moaned outside, and then rose to a shriek. He sprang up and
looked wildly about him. It was the shriek of a damned soul! No, he
had been dozing and it was only a dream, and he lay back trembling.
For a long while he could not go to sleep again. Fear had taken
absolute and complete possession of him--the fear of the eternal
damnation that the missionary had so vividly pictured. It was a
picture that had been received at the time without being seen and
through all these years had remained in his brain, covered and hidden.
This day's work had suddenly and for the first time drawn aside the
screen and left it bare before his eyes displaying to him every
fearful minute outline. He was a murderer and he would be punished.
There was no thought of repentance for sins committed--only fear of a
fate that he shrunk from but which confronted him as a reality and a
certainty--as great a certainty as his rising in the morning and so
near at hand. He got up and looked out. The wind blew clouds of snow
into his face. He could not see the tree that he knew was ten feet
away. It was an awful night for a man to be out without shelter.
Micmac John lay down again and after a time the tired brain and body
yielded to nature and he slept.
The instincts of the half-breed, keen even in slumber, felt rather
than heard the diminishing of wind and snow as the storm subsided with
the approach of morning, and he arose at once. The rest had quieted
his nerves, and he was the stolid, revengeful Indian again. After a
meagre breakfast of tea and jerked venison he took down the tent and
lashed the things securely upon the toboggan and ere the first stars
began to glimmer through the cloud rifts he was hurrying away in the
stillness of the night.
When the sky finally cleared and the moon came out, cold and
brilliant, there was something uncanny and weird in its light lying
upon earth's white shroud rent here and there by long, dark shadows
across the trail. There was an indefinable mystery in the atmosphere.
Micmac John, accustomed as he was to the wilderness, felt an
uneasiness in his soul, the reflex perhaps of the previous night's
awakening, that he could not quite throw off--a sense of impending
danger--of a calamity about to happen. The trees became mighty men
ready to strike at him as he approached and behind every bush crouched
a waiting enemy. His guilty conscience was at work. The little spirit
that God had placed within his bosom, to tell him when he was doing
wrong, was not quite dead.
He increased his speed as daylight approached travelling almost at a
run. Suddenly he stopped to listen. From somewhere in the distance
behind him a wolf cry broke the morning silence. In a little while
there were more wolf cries, and they were coming nearer and nearer.
The animals were doubtless following some quarry. Was it Bob they were
after? A momentary qualm at the thought was quickly replaced by a
feeling of satisfaction. That, he tried to argue with himself, would
cover every clue to what had happened and was what he had hoped for.
He hurried on.
All at once a spasm of fear brought him to a halt. Could it be himself
the wolves were trailing! The old horror of the night came back with
all its reality and force. A clammy sweat broke out upon his body. He
looked wildly about him for a retreat, but there was none. The wolves
were gaining upon him rapidly and were very close now. There was no
longer any doubt that _he_ was their quarry. They were trailing _him_.
Micmac John was in a narrow, open marsh, and the wolves were already
at the edge of the woods that skirted it a hundred yards behind. A
little distance ahead of him was a big boulder, and he ran for it. At
that moment the pack came into view. He stopped and stood paralyzed
until they were within thirty yards of him, then he turned
mechanically, from force of habit, and fired at the leader, which
fell. This held them in check for an instant and roused him to action.
He grabbed an axe from the toboggan and had time to gain the rock and
take a stand with his back against it.
As the animals rushed upon the half breed he swung the axe and split
the head of one. This temporarily repulsed them. He held them at bay
for a time, swinging his axe at every attempted approach. They formed
themselves into a half circle just beyond his reach, snapping and
snarling at him and showing their ugly fangs. Another big gray
creature, bolder than the rest, made a rush, but the swinging axe
split its head, just as it had the others. They retreated a few
paces, but they were not to be kept back for long. Micmac John knew
that his end had come. His face was drawn and terrified, and in spite
of the fearful cold and biting frost, perspiration stood out upon his
forehead.
It was broad daylight now. Another wolf attacked from the front and
fell under the axe. A little longer they parleyed. They were gradually
growing more bold and narrowing the circle--coming so close that they
were almost within reach of the swinging weapon. Finally a wolf on the
right, and one on the left, charged at the same time, and in an
instant those in front, as though acting upon a prearranged signal,
closed in, and the pack became one snarling, fighting, clamouring
mass.
When the sun broke over the eastern horizon a little later it looked
upon a circle of flat-tramped, blood-stained snow, over which were
scattered bare picked human bones and pieces of torn clothing. A pack
of wolves trotted leisurely away over the marsh.
In the woods not a mile distant two Indian hunters were following the
trail that led to Bob's unconscious body.
[Illustration: "Micmac John knew his end had come"]
XI
THE TRAGEDY OF THE TRAIL
A week passed and Christmas eve came. The weather continued clear and
surpassingly fine. It was ideal weather for trapping, with no new snow
to clog the traps and interfere with the hunters in their work. The
atmosphere was transparent and crisp, and as it entered the lungs
stimulated the body like a tonic, giving new life and buoyancy and
action to the limbs. The sun never ventured far from the horizon now
and the cold grew steadily more intense and penetrating. The river had
long ago been chained by the mighty Frost King and over the earth the
snow lay fully six feet deep where the wind had not drifted it away.
A full hour before sunset Dick and Ed, in high good humour at the
prospect of the holiday they had planned, arrived at the river tilt.
They came together expecting to find Bob and Bill awaiting them there,
but the shack was empty.
"We'll be havin' th' tilt snug an' warm for th' lads when they comes,"
said Dick, as he went briskly to work to build a fire in the stove
"You get some ice t' melt for th' tea, Ed. Th' lads'll be handy t'
gettin' in now, an' when they comes supper'll be pipin' hot for un."
Ed took an axe and a pail to the river where he chopped out pieces of
fine, clear ice with which to fill the kettle. When he came back Dick
had a roaring fire and was busy preparing partridges to boil.
Pretty soon Bill arrived, and they gave him an uproarious greeting. It
was the first time Bill and Ed had met since they came to their trails
in the fall, and the two friends were as glad to see each other as
though they had been separated for years.
"An' how be un now, Bill, an' how's th' fur?" asked Ed when they were
seated.
"Fine," replied Bill. "Fur's been fine th' year. I has more by now 'an
I gets all o' last season, an' one silver too."
"A silver? An' be he a good un?"
"Not so bad. He's a little gray on th' rump, but not enough t' hurt un
much."
"Well, now, you be doin' fine. I finds un not so bad, too--about th'
best year I ever has, but one. That were twelve year ago, an' I gets
a rare lot o' fur that year--a rare lot--but I'm not catchin' all of
un myself. I gets most of un from th' Injuns."
"An' how were un doin' that now?" asked Bill.
"Now don't be tellin' that yarn agin," broke in Dick. "Sure Bill's
heard un--leastways he must 'a' heard un."
"No, I never heard un," said Bill.
"An' ain't been missin' much then. 'Tis just one o' Ed's yarns, an' no
truth in un."
"'Tis no yarn. 'Tis true, an' I could prove un by th' Injuns.
Leastways I could if I knew where un were, but none o' that crowd o'
Injuns comes this way these days."
"What were the yarn, now?" asked Bill.
"I says 'tis no yarn. 'Tis what happened t' me," asserted Ed, assuming
a much injured air. "As I were sayin', 'twere a frosty evenin' twelve
year ago. I were comin' t' my lower tilt, an' when I gets handy t' un
what does I see but a big band o' mountaineers around th' tilt. Th'
mountaineers was not always friendly in those times as they be now,
an' I makes up my mind for trouble. I comes up t' un an' speaks t' un
pleasant, an' goes right in th' tilt t' see if un be takin' things. I
finds a whole barrel o' flour missin' an' comes out at un. They owns
up t' eatin' th' flour, an' they had eat th' hull barrel t' _one_
meal--now ye mind, _one_ meal. When un eats a _barrel_ o' flour t'
_one_ meal there be a big band o' un. They was so many o' un I never
counted. They was like t' be ugly at first, but I looks fierce like,
an' tells un they must gi' me fur t' pay for un. I was so fierce like
I scares un--scares un bad. I were _one_ man alone, an' wi' a bold
face I had th' whole band so scared they each gives me a marten, an' I
has a flat sled load o' martens from un--handy t' a hundred an'
fifty--an' if I hadn't 'a' been bold an' scared un I'd 'a' had none.
Injuns be easy scared if un knows how t' go about it."
Bill laughed and remarked,
"'Tis sure a fine yarn, Ed. How does un look t' be fierce an' scare
folk?"
"A fine yarn! An' I tells un 'tis a gospel truth, an' no yarn,"
asserted Ed, apparently very indignant at the insinuation.
"Bob's late comin'," remarked Dick. "'Tis gettin' dark."
"He be, now," said Bill, "an' he were sayin' he'd be gettin' here th'
night an' maybe o' Monday night. 'Tis strange."
They ate supper and the evening wore on, and no Bob. Bill went out
several times to listen for the click of snow-shoes, but always came
back to say, "No sign o' un yet." Finally it became quite certain that
Bob was not coming that night.
"'Tis wonderful queer now, an' he promised," Bill remarked, at length.
"An' he brought down his fur last trip--a fine lot."
"Where be un?" asked Dick.
Bill looked for the fur. It was nowhere to be found, and, mystified
and astounded, he exclaimed: "Sure th' fur be gone! Bob's an' mine
too!"
"Gone!" Dick and Ed both spoke together. "An' where now?"
"Gone! His an' mine! 'Twere here when we leaves th' tilt, an' 'tis
gone now!"
The three had risen to their feet and stood looking at each other for
awhile in silence. Finally Dick spoke:
"'Tis what I was fearin'. 'Tis some o' Micmac John's work. Now where
be Bob? Somethin's been happenin' t' th' lad. Micmac John's been doin'
somethin' wi' un, an' we must find un."
"We must find un an' run that devil Injun down," exclaimed Ed,
reaching for his adikey. "We mustn't be losin' time about un,
neither."
"'Twill be no use goin' now," said Dick, with better judgment. "Th'
moon's down an' we'd be missin' th' trail in th' dark, but wi'
daylight we must be goin'."
Ed hung his adikey up again. "I were forgettin' th' moon were down.
We'll have t' bide here for daylight," he assented. Then he gritted
his teeth. "That Injun'll have t' suffer for un if he's done foul wi'
Bob."