HATE ENDURES TO DEATH
Bewildered by the inexplicable hatred Nee-tah-wee-gan had carried into
eternity, Donald turned and went out of the cabin. He saw Corrigal and
walked slowly toward him.
"She died," he said, "died hating me and hating you."
The Hudson's Bay man said nothing.
"All her life she has been that way," Donald continued. "The last thing
she said was '_keen nish-e-na-be_.' It is what she has said every time
she has seen me since I left her wigwam."
"Did she tell you anything about Millington?" Corrigal asked. "Did she
say that he was responsible for her death?"
"No, except that he had stolen something from her, a little leather bag
she always carried around her neck. She didn't seem to hold anything
against him but was glad he had gone. Her hate for you and me left room
for nothing else."
"But Millington was responsible. There must have been a struggle if he
stole that bag."
"There's no doubt of it."
Donald was aroused by his own words.
"I don't know what made her what she was," he said, "and now I'll never
know. But even if she were not my mother I wouldn't let Millington get
away with a thing like that. I'm going to catch him."
He turned and walked swiftly away on the trail to the Keewatin post.
Bitter and warping though life had been for him in the last two years,
Donald had come through it without resorting to the natural safety
valve of strong aversion, save in the case of Millington. In Corrigal,
no matter what he had done, there had been an honesty of purpose which
Donald had recognized long before the older man's capitulation. In
Millington there had been only a selfish, crooked, small and cowardly
nature, and Millington had been responsible for bringing about the
crisis in Donald's life.
Now in the murder of Nee-tah-wee-gan the suppressed emotions found a
vent. Hating him though she had to the end, the old Indian woman had
been Donald's sole kin, as he thought. There was no filial devotion.
For years he had given her little consideration but when she died he
had experienced an unaccountable sense of loneliness, of swinging out
into a void, of being a solitary soul wandering through space.
For the first time in his life he felt a savage, vindictive lust,
something altogether different from the cool ferocity with which he
had battled Millington at Fort Bruce. He believed it was a heritage
from that strong, unlimited capacity for hate which had dominated
Nee-tah-wee-gan but he did not care. Rather, he spurred it, just as it
spurred him in his pursuit.
His team was comparatively fresh and in wonderful condition. His driver
was a young half-breed with unbounded pride in his ability on the
trail and yet both men and dogs felt the urge of this new quality that
possessed their master. From noon until midnight they sped westward
without stopping. They were away again long before dawn, racing through
the sub-arctic night, giving their best and always being asked for more.
Yet from the story of the trail it was plain that Millington was
fleeing at equal speed. The long distances between stops for tea and
food told of his fear. The fact that he did not camp until he was sixty
miles from Fort James was evidence that he expected pursuit.
After dark of the third day the eager dogs drew up at the Whitefish
Lake post of the Hudson's Bay. They believed the end had come, though
they were mystified that they should have been driven past the familiar
Keewatin post, half a mile behind.
"Did Millington stop here?" Donald asked when Nicol MacKar came to the
door of the dwelling house.
"Just long enough to get some dog food this noon. What's happened?"
"I want some dog food, too, a hundred and fifty pounds," Donald said.
"And hurry, Nicol."
"You're not going on to-night, man!"
But Donald was running around to the fish house and by the time MacKar
had put on his moccasins and followed he was gone.
Millington's eight hour lead had been reduced to five in 150 miles and
Donald pushed on as hard as before. He was confident that in the 200
miles that lay between him and Fort Bruce he could cut that lead to
victory.
But the next day it began to snow. On a big lake the trail was covered
and they could not see the shore. Twice the lead dog, blinded by the
stinging blast, lost the snowshoe path and precious time was lost in
finding it again.
At last, six days out of Fort James, Donald reached Fort Bruce. His
driver was limping from a strained tendon and his dogs were exhausted.
Donald himself was in little better shape, but the blind rage that had
driven him out onto the trail still possessed him. As at Whitefish
Lake, he drove at once to the Hudson's Bay buildings.
The storm was still on and he was plastered with snow. When he burst
into the trade shop he strode at once to the counter, for he had seen
Merton Layard behind it.
"Where is Millington?" he demanded hoarsely.
The post manager stared in astonishment, but before he could reply a
sudden, glad cry came from the other side of the room.
"Donald!"
He turned to see Janet rushing toward him, her arms outstretched.
"Donald!" she repeated. "You are safe. You----"
He had not expected to find Janet in the trade shop. She seldom visited
it and as he saw her just a foot away, her eyes glowing with happiness,
he could only stare helplessly. It had been part of his life's plan
that he would never be so close to her again, never make it necessary
for him to struggle as he had the previous summer in his office down
the shore.
Now he found himself plunged again into the battle. Her loveliness, her
nearness, the eyes that told more than words, all were enveloping him
with a soft, smothering, numbing aura of herself. He felt as if he were
drugged and though he fought to speak, even to move, he found himself
helpless.
"We were so afraid!" she cried. "We knew something terrible had
happened, and we knew you were out there somewhere."
Donald tore his eyes from her and looked at Merton.
"She means Millington," the father said. "He arrived two hours ago, got
a fresh team and was off in fifteen minutes."
Merton's statement aroused Donald.
"Two hours," he repeated. "He had eight at Fort James."
"And you are after him!" Merton cried. "I thought so. At first he said
he was taking out a message for Corrigal and then just as he was ready
to leave I got suspicious. He seemed desperate. If the two men from
the Mounted hadn't been away I would have had them hold him. As it was,
I tried to do it but he jumped into the cariole and drove away. Later,
when I told Janet, she----"
"I want a man and a fresh team," Donald interrupted. "Mine are done
for."
"You are, too, boy. You can't go on like this, and in such a storm."
"I've got to. Get me a team quick. And your best man. I've got to catch
him."
"But Donald!" Janet cried fearfully. "What has he done? He's dangerous.
Father says he has a rifle in his cariole."
He risked a glance at her and then whirled back to Merton.
"Millington killed my mother," he said in a low voice.
Merton leaped over the counter and ran out the door. "I'll have a team
here in ten minutes," he shouted back.
Donald started after him but Janet sprang to his side.
"You'll be careful!" she cried. "He's dangerous. I knew something
terrible had happened. You will be careful?"
He had to steel himself against her and he was worn by the long days
and nights on the trail.
"Why?" he demanded gruffly.
She shrank back as if he had struck her and instantly all the fight
went out of him.
"Janet!" he groaned. "I didn't mean it! I had to do it to--to----"
He could not finish and suddenly he threw open the door and ran out
into the storm.
That night he did not stop until he had caught up with Millington. And
Millington, who had made camp, was waiting for him. The dogs warned him
of Donald's approach and he slipped back parallel to the trail, with
his rifle ready.
But Donald was riding and his fresh driver was running ahead of the
dogs and drew the shot. Donald immediately rolled off the toboggan and
crawled into the brush beside the trail. The half-breed, in accordance
with Donald's previous instructions, dropped into the snow, the bullet
having passed through the hood of his parka, and the dogs piled up
beside him.
Donald lay perfectly quiet, hidden by the thick spruce saplings. Soon
Millington came creeping forward, his rifle ready. For a time he waited
within ten feet of Donald. There was no sound except the whining and
snarling of the dogs and at last Millington started toward the trail.
He heard Donald's rush but turned only in time to present his jaw to a
crushing blow.
Before he recovered consciousness he had been dragged to his own camp
site and Donald had explained to his driver the crime for which the
fleeing manager was wanted and had enlisted his aid in taking him back
to the Mounted Police at Fort Bruce.
When at last Millington opened his eyes and sat up on the boughs
spread before the fire he found himself facing three silent men. He
studied the half-breeds for a moment and understood that they were
hostile and could not be counted on to help him escape.
Then he glanced furtively at Donald, who sat staring into the fire. His
face, drawn and deeply lined by the week of terrific toil, was like
that of some grim, avenging spirit, and Millington, still dazed by the
blow and by his sudden capture, sank back in despair.
In silence the four ate their supper. When the dishes had been put away
the prisoner turned to his captor.
"I'd like to talk to you alone," he whispered.
"You can't say anything I care to listen to," Donald answered.
"What are you going to do with me?"
"Take you back to Fort Bruce and turn you over to the Mounted."
Millington drew back in sudden fear.
"Then----?" he gasped.
"Yes," Donald said harshly. "She died before I left that morning."
"You can't prove anything!" Millington cried wildly.
"We can easily, even without the evidence you carried away with
you--the thing you stole."
For a long time the prisoner did not speak again. He knew he faced the
end, that once he was returned to Fort Bruce there would be no hope. He
had failed once with Corrigal but with Donald it might be different,
for Donald's need was greater. The only chance lay in buying his
freedom now, and he was thankful he had not obeyed his first impulse to
throw away the ring.
Yet he doubted whether he had the price. He believed that in the end
Nee-tah-wee-gan had talked and that Donald knew the truth, but when he
remembered the old woman's venom, the hatred that had been so intense
and so dominant, he wondered if it had not persisted to the last.
Again, there had been Donald's reference to the thing he had stolen.
Nee-tah-wee-gan must have told of that or he would not have known.
Millington saw that he did not know where he stood, that he did not
know whether he had anything to offer, and he set himself to the task
of finding out.
"Did your mother accuse me?" he asked.
"She said enough and it was easy to see what had happened."
"I had no intention----" Millington faltered. "I never dreamed
that--why, I didn't even know she was hurt until you just told me she
was dead."
A tightening of the lines in Donald's face was the only answer but
Millington, past his first fright, was too intent upon his purpose to
care.
"I didn't know you thought so much about your mother that you would
chase me like this," he said deliberately.
Donald started up furiously.
"That will do!" he cried. "I'm having enough difficulty keeping my
hands off you as it is. Even if she had not been my mother I would
have been glad to chase you across Canada."
When he sank back into his place and stared at the fire Millington's
eyes lighted with sudden joy and he waited a few minutes before he
spoke again.
"Norton," he began so seriously that Donald glanced up in surprise,
"the thing that you want most in the world is to be free of your Indian
parentage, isn't it?"
Donald sprang from a sitting position. All the pent-up fury of the
last two years was unleashed in his attack and he choked Millington
until he was nearly unconscious before realizing what he was doing.
Then as he drew away and stood above the cringing heap on the spruce
boughs, knowing that he wished nothing better than to kill this man, he
wondered why he did not.
Always he had been balked, always he had been cheated of the things
he wished most, and expression of emotion always would be denied him.
He looked ahead through the years to a dreary, endless succession of
stifled desires and he wondered why he should go on, why he should not
end it all in one great, soul-satisfying orgy of mad, delirious hate.
"I can't be white," he muttered. "I may as well be all red."
He stepped forward and kicked Millington.
"Get up!" he commanded. "I'm going to kill you now."
The man glanced up in terror. Standing there in the light of the
big fire, his face distorted by suddenly released passion, Donald
presented only one thing. All around stretched the vast, empty forest.
Trees cracked in the cold. Far away the ice in a lake boomed and roared
beneath the frost. Across the fire, as savage as the surroundings, sat
the two half-breeds, their eyes bright with anticipation.
"Norton! Norton!" Millington cried. "For God's sake listen to me!"
He rolled over and crawled to Donald's feet.
"Nee-tah-wee-gan wasn't your mother. You're white, Norton. All white.
Listen! You've got to listen. I'm the only one who knows."