A DEAD GIRL
"Ah! Dat better! By gar, but I think it was New Jerusalem for you dis
time!"
The words penetrated Stane's consciousness as he opened his eyes, and
were followed by others which he obeyed instinctively. "Tak' anoder
drink. Zee whisky veel vake you proper."
He gulped from the tin pannikin which was held to his lips, and coughed
as the raw, potent spirit burned his throat. Then he sat up and looked
at the man who was befriending him.
"Who ... who are you?" he asked weakly.
"I am Jean Bènard. I come up zee lak' an' hear shots an' I see my cabin
blaze like hell. I tink somethin' ver' badly wrong an' I turn to zee
woods. Den I see you rush out an' I hear you shoot as you run. I see
dat big man struggle with you, I see him keeled by anoder who go down,
aussi, and when zee man with zee ax mak' for you I begin to shoot. I am
in zee wood, an' zee divils they do not see me, an' I pick off un,
deux, trois! Dey are dere still, after dey others grow afraid an' run
like caribou with zee wolves at dere heels. It ees fine sport, an' I
shoot as dey ran, an' presently I am left alone. I shovel snow wit' a
snow-shoe on my burning cabin, for I love dat petite cabin like a
child, an' den I tink I take a look at you. You not dead, so I pour hot
whisky in your mouth an' you return from zee happy-huntin' grounds.
Dere you have zee whole narrative."
"But Helen?" cried Stane, looking round. "Where----"
"I haf seen not any mees!" answered the trapper. "I did not know dat
dere was----"
"Then they have taken her," exclaimed Stane, staggering to his feet,
and looking round.
Jean Bènard also looked round. Except for the figures lying prone in
the snow they were quite alone. "Dey must haf done," he said, "eef dere
was a mees!"
He looked at Stane, as if he doubted his sanity and Stane reassured
him. "Oh I have not gone mad, Bènard. There was a white girl with me in
your cabin, Miss Yardely. You must have heard----"
"Mees Yardely! She ees here?" cried the trapper in sudden excitement.
"She was here!" corrected Stane. "I think she has been carried off. We
must follow!"
"Oui! Oui!" replied Bènard. "I haf heard of her. The factor at Fort
Malsun, he tell me to keep a bright look-out. Dere ees a reward----"
"We must get her!" interrupted Stane. "You must help me and I will
double the reward. You understand?"
"Oui, I understand, m'sieu. Dis girl she ees mooch to you?"
"She is all the world to me."
"Den we go, m'sieu. But first we feed an' rest zee dogs. We travel
queeck, after, vous comprenez? I will a meal make, an' your head it
will recover, den we travel lik' zee wind."
The trapper made his way into the still smouldering hut, and began to
busy himself with preparations, whilst Stane looked round again. The
darkness, and the figures lying in the snow gave the scene an
indescribable air of desolation, and for a moment he stood without
moving; then, as something occurred to him, he began to walk towards
the place where he had been struck down. Three figures lay there
huddled grotesquely in the snow, and to one of them he owed his life.
Which of them was it? Two of the dead lay with their faces in the snow,
but the third was on its back, face upward to the sky. He stood and
looked into the face. It was that of the man whom he had grappled, and
who had been struck down with the knife that he had expected to strike
himself. He looked at the other two. An ax lay close to the hand of
one, and he had no doubt that that one was the man who would have slain
him. The third one was his saviour. He looked again, and as he noted
the dress a cold fear gripped his heart, for it was the dress of a
woman. He fell on his knees and turned the body over, then he bent over
the face. As he did so, he started back, and a sharp cry came from his
lips. The cry brought Jean Bènard from the hut at a run.
"What ees it, m'sieu?" he asked as he reached Stane who knelt there as
if turned to stone.
"It is a dead girl," answered Stane, brokenly--"a girl who gave her
life for mine."
The trapper bent over the prostrate form, then he also cried out.
"Miskodeed!"
"Yes! Miskodeed. I did not know it was she! She killed one of them with
her knife, and she was slain by the other."
"Whom I keel with the bullet!" For a moment Jean Bènard said no more,
but when he spoke again there was a choking sound in his voice. "I am
glad I keel dat man! eef I haf not done so, I follow heem across zee
world till it was done." Something like a sob checked his utterance.
"Ah, m'sieu, I love dat girl. I say to myself all zee way from Good
Hope dat I weel her marry, an' I haf the price I pay her fader on zee
sledge. I see her las' winter; but I not know den how it ees with me;
but when I go away my heart cry out for her, an' my mind it ees make
up.... An' now she ees dead! I never tink of dat! I tink only of zee
happy years dat we weel haf togeder!"
He dropped suddenly in the snow, and bent over the face in its frozen
beauty, sobbing as only a strong man can. He bent lower and kissed the
ice-cold lips, whilst Stane staggered to his feet, and moved away. He
could not endure to look on Jean Bènard's grief. As he stood staring
into the darkness of the wood, he had a flashing memory of the Indian
girl's face as she had whisperingly asked him if he could not leave
Helen, the very note in her voice sounded in his ears, and, he knew
what it was no harm for him to know then, that this child of the
wilderness had given him her love, unsought. She had loved him, and she
had died for him, whilst a man who had loved her, now wept over her
poor body. The tragedy of it all shook him, and the irony of Jean
Bènard's grief was almost beyond endurance. A great humility filled his
heart, and whilst he acquitted himself of blame, he regretted deeply
his vehemence of repudiation. All her words came back to him in a
flood. She must have guessed that he loved Helen; yet in the greatness
of her love, she had risked her life without hope, and died for him
without shrinking.
He began to walk to and fro, instinctively fighting the cold, with all
his mind absorbed in Miskodeed's little tragedy; but presently the
thought of Helen came to him, and he walked quickly to where Jean
Bènard still knelt in the snow. The trapper's face was hidden in his
mittened hands. For a moment Stane hesitated, then he placed a hand on
the man's shoulder.
"Jean Bènard," he said quietly, "there is work to do."
Bènard rose slowly to his feet, and in the little light reflected from
the snow Stane read the grief of the man's heart in his face.
"Oui! m'sieu! We must her bury; ma petite Miskodeed."
"That, yes! But there is other work."
"I could not endure to tink dat zee wolves get her----"
"I will help you, Jean. And then you will help me."
"Non! m'sieu. Help I do not need. I weel myself do zee las' duty for ma
pauvre Miskodeed. My hands that would haf held an' fondled her, dey
shall her prepare; an' I dat would haf died for her--I shall her bury.
You, m'sieu, shall say zee prayer, for I haf not zee religion, but----"
"Call me when you are ready!" interrupted Stane, and turned away,
finding the situation intolerably poignant.
He went to the hut, and busied himself with the meal which the trapper
had been preparing, and presently Jean Bènard called him.
The man had swathed the dead girl in a blanket and had bent the tops of
a couple of small spruce, growing close together, almost to the ground,
holding them in position with a sled thong. To the trees he had lashed
the corpse, and he was standing by with a knife in his hand.
"Zee ground," he said in a steady voice, "ees too frozen to dig. We
bury Miskodeed in zee air; an' when zee spring winds blow an' the
ground grow soft again, I dig a grave. Now eef m'sieu ees ready we will
haf zee words of religion."
Stane, almost choked at the poignant irony of the thing, then shaped
his lips to the great words that would have been strange if not
unmeaning to the dead girl.
_"I am the resurrection and the life. He that believeth in Me, though
he were dead yet shall he live...._"
For the comfort of the man, who stood by knife in hand, he recited
every word that he could remember, and when he reached the words, "We
therefore commit her body to the grave," the keen knife severed the
moose-hide thong, and the trees, released, bent back, carrying the
girl's body to its windy sepulchre, amid a shower of snow that
scattered from the neighbouring trees. Stane pronounced the
benediction, waited a few moments, then again he put a hand on the
other's shoulder.
"Bènard, we have done what we can for the dead; now we must think of
the living."
"Oui, m'sieu!"
"You must eat! I have prepared a meal. And when you have eaten and the
dogs are ready we must start on the trail of Miss Yardely."
"Oui, m'sieu."
They returned to the hut together, and noting that some of the outer
logs were still smouldering, the trapper shovelled snow against them
with his snow-shoes, then they entered. The cabin was not so badly
burned as Stane had expected to find it. The bunk had burned out, but
the inner wall of the cabin had scarcely caught and the place was still
tenable. Bènard blocked the window, and they sat down to eat. For a
time the meal progressed in silence, Stane deliberately refraining from
speech out of consideration for the feelings of his companion, though
from time to time glancing at him he caught an expression of perplexity
on the trapper's face. Suddenly Bènard spoke.
"But, m'sieu, I do not understand eet. You haf no quarrel with zee
tribe?"
"None," answered Stane, and then told him the facts communicated to him
by Miskodeed.
"Ah! then, m'sieu, dere ees a white man at zee back of things. Dat
Chigmok, he ees no good, he what you call a rotter, but he not dare to
do this ting heemself."
"That is how I feel," answered Stane. "But how we are to get at the
truth of the matter, I do not know."
"We weel go to zee encampment. We weel mak' Chief George tell zee
truth."
"If we can!" commented Stane dubiously.
"As you say, eef we can. But somethings we shall learn, m'sieu, dat ees
certain."
"I hope so, Jean."
An hour afterwards they started, following the trail up the lake left
by the fugitives, a broadly marked trail, which revealed that a sledge
had been used, for there were the marks of the runners both coming and
going. As they started, the trapper pointed this out.
"You see, m'sieu, dey come prepared. Dey know dat your Helen she weel
not walk; therefore dey bring zee sled, an' lash her thereto."
"Yes! That seems likely," agreed Stane, his heart aflame with wrath at
the thought of the possible indignities to which the girl might have
been subjected. In silence they travelled up the lake, and after a time
reached the place where the moose-hide tepees lifted their shadowy
forms against the background of snow and trees. The camp was dark and
silent as a place of the dead. For a moment the thought that the whole
tribe had moved away, deserting their tents, held Stane's mind; but it
was dispelled by the whisper of Jean Bènard.
"Do you stay here with zee dogs, m'sieu, whilst I go drag out Chief
George. Have zee rifle ready; an' eef dere is trouble, be prompt at zee
shootin'. Vous comprenez?"
"Yes," answered Stane, "if there is trouble I will not hesitate."
He stood with the rifle ready, watching Bènard's progress across the
snow. He saw him reach the chief's tepee, and throw open the moose-hide
flap, then disappear inside. He waited for what seemed an intolerable
time, and once heard a rustle from the nearest tepee, and divined that
in spite of the stillness of the camp, quick eyes were watching the
doings of his companion and himself. Then he caught a coughing grunt,
and out of the tepee which the trapper had entered, emerged two forms,
the first bent and shambling, the other that of Jean Bènard. They
picked their way, walking close together, between the moose-hide tents,
and as they drew near the sledge, Stane saw that the shambling form was
that of Chief George, and that he walked with the muzzle of the
trapper's pistol in the small of his back.
"We weel go forwards up zee lak' a leetle way, m'sieu, out of
arrow-shot. Den Chief George he weel talk or die."
They marched up the lake five hundred yards or more, the camp behind
them maintaining the silence of the dead, then Bènard halted.
"Now," he said, "we weel talk!"
Pointing his pistol at the Indian and speaking in the patois of the
tribe, he addressed him.
"What means the attack upon my cabin?"
"I know nothing," mumbled the Indian, shaking with fear or cold. "It
was Chigmok--my sister's son--who led the young men away."
"So! But thou hast seen the rifles and the burning water, the blankets,
the tea and the molasses which are the price to be paid. I know that
thou hast seen them." At the words the Chief started a little, then he
made a mumbling admission:
"Yes, I have seen them. They are a great price."
"But who pays?"
"I know not. A white man, that is all I know. The rest is known to
Chigmok alone."
Bènard considered the answer for a moment, and entertaining no doubt
that it was the true one, wasted no further time in that direction.
"Whither has the white maiden been carried?"
Chief George waved his hand to the East. "Through the woods to the lake
of Little Moose, there to meet the man who pays the price."
"These words are the words of truth?" asked the trapper, harshly. "If
thou liest----"
"Wherefore should I lie, since so much is already known to thee?"
interrupted the Indian.
"It would be unwise," agreed Bènard, and then asked: "What is to be
done to the white girl by the man who pays the price?"
"I know not; belike he will take her for his squaw, or wherefore should
he pay so great a price?"
Bènard looked at Stane. "Dere ees nothing more dat he can tell. I sure
of dat, an' we waste time."
"Yes! Let him go."
The trapper nodded and then addressed the Indian once more. "Thou wilt
go back to thy lodge now, but this is not the end. For the evil that
hath been done the price will have to be paid. Later the men of the
law, the riders-of-the-plains, will come and thee they will take----"
"It is Chigmok, my sister's son, who planned----"
"But it is thee they will take for punishment and Chigmok also. Now
go!"
Chief George waited for no second bidding, but began to shamble off
across the snow towards his encampment. The two men watched him go, in
silence for a little time, and then Stane spoke.
"This lake of the Little Moose, where is it?"
"About sixteen miles to zee East. It ees known to me. A leetle lak'
desolate as hell, in zee midst of hills. We weel go there, an' find dis
white man an' Mees Yardely."
"We must make speed or the man may be gone," responded Stane.
"Oui, I know! We weel travel through zee night. There be two ways
thither, the one through zee woods an' zee oder between zee hills. Zee
way of zee woods ees zee mos' easy, but dat of zee hills ees shorter.
We weel take dat, an' maybe we give Chigmok and his white man one
surprise."
Under the light of the stars, and helped by the occasional flashing
light of the aurora, they travelled up the lake for some distance, then
leaving its surface they turned abruptly eastward, following an
unbroken trail through a country which began rapidly to alter in
character. The great woods thinned out and the way they followed took
an upward swing, whilst a steady wind with the knife-edge cold of the
North began to blow in their faces. Stane at the gee-pole of the
sledge, bent his head before the sharp particles of ice-like snow that
it brought with it, and grew anxious lest they should be the vanguard
of a storm. But looking up he saw the stars clear overhead, and
guessing that the particles came from the trees and the high ground on
either side of them, his fears left him.
Then a new and very real trouble assailed him. He began to have cramps
in the calves of his legs, and it seemed as if his muscles were tying
themselves into knots. Sharp pains in the groin made it a torture to
lift his feet above the level of the snow; and once or twice he could
have groaned with the pain. But he set his teeth grimly, and endured it
in silence, thinking of the girl moving somewhere ahead in the hands of
a lawless and ruthless man. He knew that the torture he was suffering
was what was known among the voyageurs as _mal de roquette_, induced by
a considerable tramp on snow-shoes after a long spell of inactivity,
and that there was no relief from it, until it should gradually pass
away of its own accord.
The trail was not an easy one, and the dogs whined as they bent to the
collars, but Jean Bènard, with a frame of iron and with muscles like
steel-springs marched steadily on, for what to Stane seemed hours, then
in the shelter of a cliff crowned with trees he called a halt.
"We rest here," he said, "an' wait for zee daylight. Den we look down
on zee lak' of zee Leetle Moose. We mak' fire behind zee rock."
Without more ado, he slipped the harness from the dogs and fed them,
whilst Stane collected wood for a fire, which was made as an Indian
makes his fire, small and round, and which, built behind a mass of
rock, was hidden from any one on the lake-side of the trail. Then a
meal was prepared of which both partook heartily; and over the pipes
they sat to await the dawn. After a little while Stane, in spite of his
consuming anxiety for Helen, under the genial warmth of the fire and
the fatigue induced by the strenuous march, began to nod, and at last
fell sound asleep. But Jean Bènard watched through the night, a look of
hopelessness shadowing his kindly face.