Back to Lac Bain, late in September, came MacDonald the map-maker. For
ten days Gregson, the investigating agent, had been Bush McTaggart’s
guest at the post, and twice in that time it had come into Marie’s mind
to creep upon him while he slept and kill him. The Factor himself paid
little attention to her now, a fact which would have made her happy if
it had not been for Gregson. He was enraptured with the wild, sinuous
beauty of the Cree girl, and McTaggart, without jealousy, encouraged
him. He was tired of Marie.
McTaggart told Gregson this. He wanted to get rid of her, and if
he—Gregson—could possibly take her on with him it would be a great
favour. He explained why. A little later, when the deep snows came, he
was going to bring the daughter of Pierrot Du Quesne to the Post. In the
rottenness of their brotherhood he told of his visit, of the manner of
his reception, and of the incident at the chasm. In spite of all this,
he assured Gregson. Pierrot’s girl would soon be at Lac Bain.
It was at this time that MacDonald came. He remained only one night, and
without knowing that he was adding fuel to a fire already dangerously
blazing, he gave the photograph he had taken of Nepeese to the Factor.
It was a splendid picture.
“If you can get it down to that girl some day I’ll be mightily obliged,”
he said to McTaggart. “I promised her one. Her father’s name is Du
Quesne—Pierrot Du Quesne. You probably know them. And the girl——”
His blood warmed as he described to McTaggart how beautiful she was that
day in her red dress, which had taken black in the photograph. He did
not guess how near the boiling point McTaggart’s blood was.
The next day MacDonald started for Norway House. McTaggart did not show
Gregson the picture. He kept it to himself, and at night, under the glow
of his lamp, he looked at it with thoughts that filled him with a
growing resolution. There was but one way. The scheme had been in his
mind for weeks—and the picture determined him. He dared not whisper his
secret even to Gregson. But it was the one way. It would give him
Nepeese. Only—he must wait for the deep snows, the mid-winter snows.
They buried their tragedies deepest.
McTaggart was glad when Gregson followed the map-maker to Norway House.
Out of courtesy he accompanied him a day’s journey on his way. When he
returned to the Post, Marie was gone. He was glad. He sent off a runner
with a load of presents for her people, and the message: “Don’t beat
her. Keep her. She is free.”
Along with the bustle and stir of the beginning of the trapping season
McTaggart began to prepare his house for the coming of Nepeese. He knew
what she liked in the way of cleanliness and a few other things. He had
the log walls painted white with the lead and oil that were intended for
his York boats. Certain partitions were torn down, and new ones were
built; the Indian wife of his chief runner made curtains for the
windows, and he confiscated a small phonograph that should have gone on
to Lac la Biche. He had no doubts, and he counted the days as they
passed.
Down on the Gray Loon Pierrot and Nepeese were busy at many things, so
busy that at times Pierrot’s fears of the Factor at Lac Bain were
forgotten, and they went out of the Willow’s mind entirely. It was the
Red Moon, and it thrilled with the anticipation and excitement of the
winter hunt. Nepeese carefully dipped a hundred traps in boiling
caribou-fat mixed with beaver-grease, while Pierrot made fresh deadfalls
ready for setting on his trails. When he was gone more than a day from
the cabin, she was always with him.
But at the cabin there was much to do, for Pierrot, like all his
Northern brotherhood, did not begin to prepare until the keen tang of
autumn was in the air. There were snowshoes to be rewebbed with new
_babiche_, there was wood to be cut in readiness for the winter storms;
the cabin had to be banked, a new harness made, skinning-knives
sharpened and winter moccasins to be manufactured—a hundred and one
affairs to be attended to, even to the repairing of the meat rack at the
back of the cabin, where, from the beginning of cold weather until the
end, would hang the haunches of deer, caribou, and moose for the family
larder and, when fish were scarce, the dogs’ rations.
In the bustle of all this Nepeese was compelled to give less attention
to Baree than during the preceding weeks. They did not play so much;
they no longer swam, for with the mornings there was deep frost on the
ground, and the water was turning icy cold: they no longer wandered deep
in the forest after flowers and berries. For hours at a time Baree would
now lie at the Willow’s feet, watching her slender fingers as they
weaved swiftly in and out with her snowshoe _babiche_; and now and then
Nepeese would pause to lean over and put her hand on his head, and talk
to him for a moment—sometimes in her soft Cree, sometimes in English or
her father’s French.
It was the Willow’s voice which Baree had learned to understand, and the
movement of her lips, her gesture, the poise of her body, the changing
moods which brought shadow or sunlight into her face. He knew what it
meant when she smiled; he shook himself, and often jumped about her in
sympathetic rejoicing, when she laughed; her happiness was a part of
him, a stern word from her was worse than a blow. Twice Pierrot had
struck him, and twice Baree had sprang back and faced him with bared
fangs and an angry snarl, the crest along his back standing up like a
brush. Had one of the other dogs done this, Pierrot would have half
killed him. It would have been mutiny, and the man must be master. But
Baree was always safe. A touch of the Willow’s hand, a word from her
lips, and the crest slowly settled and the snarl went out of his throat.
Pierrot was not at all displeased.
“_Dieu._ I will never go so far as to try and whip that out of him,” he
told himself. “He is a barbarian—a wild beast—and her slave. For her he
would kill!”
So it came, through Pierrot himself—and without telling his reason for
it—that Baree did not become a sledge-dog. He was allowed his freedom,
and was never tied, like the others. Nepeese was glad, but did not guess
the thought that was in Pierrot’s mind. To himself Pierrot chuckled. She
would never know why he kept Baree always suspicious of him, even to the
point of hating him. It required considerable skill and cunning on his
part. With himself he reasoned: “If I make him hate me, he will hate all
men. Mey-oo! That is good.”
So he looked into the future—for Nepeese.
Now the tonic-filled days and cold, frosty nights of the Red Moon
brought about the big change in Baree. It was inevitable. Pierrot knew
that it would come, and the first night that Baree settled back on his
haunches and howled up at the Red Moon, Pierrot prepared Nepeese for it.
“He is a wild dog, _Ma Nepeese_,” he said to her. “He is half wolf, and
the Call will come to him strong. He will go into the forests. He will
disappear at times. But we must not fasten him. He will come back. _Ka_,
he will come back!” And he rubbed his hands in the moon-glow until his
knuckles cracked.
The Call came to Baree like a thief entering slowly and cautiously into
a forbidden place. He did not understand it at first. It made him
nervous and uneasy, so restless that Nepeese frequently heard him whine
softly in his sleep. He was waiting for something. What was it? Pierrot
knew, and smiled in his inscrutable way.
And then it came. It was night, a glorious night filled with moon and
stars, under which the earth was whitening with a film of frost, when
they heard the first hunt-call of the wolves. Now and then during the
summer there had come the lone wolf-howl, but this was the tonguing of
the pack; and as it floated through the vast silence and mystery of the
night, a song of savagery that had come with each Red Moon down through
unending ages, Pierrot knew that at last had come that for which Baree
had been waiting.
In an instant Baree had sensed it. His muscles grew taut as pieces of
stretched rope as he stood up in the moonlight, facing the direction
from which floated the mystery and thrill of the sound. They could hear
him whining softly; and Pierrot, bending down so that he caught the
light of the night properly, could see him trembling.
“It is _Mee-Koo_!” he said in a whisper to Nepeese.
That was it, the call of the blood that was running swift in Baree’s
veins—not alone the call of his species, but the call of Kazan and Gray
Wolf and of his forbears for generations unnumbered. It was the voice of
his people. So Pierrot had whispered, and he was right. In the golden
night the Willow was waiting, for it was she who had gambled most, and
it was she who must lose or win. She uttered no sound, replied not to
the low voice of Pierrot, but held her breath and watched Baree as he
slowly faded away, step by step, in the shadows. In a few moments more
he was gone. It was then that she stood straight, and flung back her
head, with eyes that glowed in rivalry with the stars.
“Baree!” she called. “Baree! Baree! Baree!”
He must have been near the edge of the forest, for she had drawn a slow,
waiting breath or two before he was back at her side. But he had come,
straight as an arrow, and he whined up into her face. Nepeese put her
hands to his head.
“You are right, _mon père_,” she said. “He will go to the wolves, but he
will come back. He will never leave me for long.” With one hand still on
Baree’s head, she pointed with the other into the pitlike blackness of
the forest. “Go to them, Baree!” she whispered. “But you must come back.
You must. _Cheamao!_”
With Pierrot she went into the cabin; the door closed behind them, and
Baree was alone. There was a long silence. In it he could hear the soft
night sounds: the clinking of the chains to which the dogs were
fastened, the restless movement of their bodies, the throbbing whir of a
pair of wings, the breath of the night itself. For to him this night,
even in its stillness, seemed alive. Again he went into it, and close to
the forest once more he stopped to listen. The wind had turned, and on
it rode the wailing, blood-thrilling cry of the pack. Far off to the
west a lone wolf turned his muzzle to the sky and answered that
gathering-call of his clan; and then out of the east came a voice, so
far beyond the cabin that it was like an echo dying away in the vastness
of the night.
A choking note gathered in Baree’s throat. He threw up his head.
Straight above him was the Red Moon, inviting him to the thrill and
mystery of the open world. The sound grew in his throat, and slowly it
rose in volume until his answer was rising to the stars. In their cabin
Pierrot and the Willow heard it. Pierrot shrugged his shoulders.
“He is gone,” he said.
“_Oui_, he is gone, _mon père_,” replied Nepeese, peering through the
window.