On the Creek Path
It was early twilight when the old Indian once again reached
Bushwhackers’ Place. All day he had kept to the trail, jogging along
without a mouthful to eat, simply tightening his belt when hunger gnawed
at his stomach. It was a long journey from Rond Eau Point to St. Thomas,
and over rough ground—a very long journey for a man of Noah’s age to
attempt. But he was an Indian and his years did not weigh him down. His
sinews were tough like the seasoned hickory fiber, and his spirit was
young like the spirit of the great shadowed woodland. Age counted for
naught where life derived its strength from its environment.
To the old man Gloss was a star that had loosened itself from some
strange firmament and strayed into the green uplands. He had watched her
grow from a slender girl into a graceful creature with beauty that
nothing of the woodland could match. One with eyes that held all the
lights that ever shone on lake or wood, and life that bubbled and
laughed and defied.
For her and her protectors Noah had undertaken the trying mission of
visiting the rich man Hallibut, and advising him to leave the men of the
hardwoods alone.
He had taken the portrait on the lonely man’s walls for that of Gloss,
but this was not strange. The old man’s eyes were growing dim and they
sometimes played pranks on him. But the incident was sufficient to bind
his loyalty to the man who threatened the Bushwhackers.
Noah was willing to act as watchman aboard the schooner. He had lost all
the impetuosity of youth. He was old and wise, and he would watch and
wait—and act, if necessary, when the time came.
Gloss, coming up from the spring with a pail of foaming milk, newly
strained and ready for “setting,” caught sight of her old friend and
gave a call like the trill of a marsh-lark. The Indian, without
speaking, overtook her and reached for the pail, which he carried to the
house and set on the block outside the cellar door.
Big McTavish was chopping logs for the evening fire, and caught sight of
Noah as he came around the corner of the house.
“Well, well, Chief,” he cried, “thought maybe you was on the warpath.
Ain’t seen you here for days. Come along in and get some supper.”
“Good,” grunted the old man, and followed McTavish into the kitchen.
Gloss laid the cloth for the visitor’s supper. Her eyes brightened and
her red lips smiled when the old man turned his wrinkled face toward
her.
“Noah,” she said, “you mus’n’t stay away from Gloss so long again. It’s
heap lonely without you here.”
Noah’s eyes flashed at the words, and he spoke, using only the mellowest
words of the English tongue, as was his custom.
“Wild-bird no lonely where wild world be. Gloss speak to make Injun
heart glad: now Injun speak to make wild-bird sing. Big water,” pointing
southward, “big forest,” sweeping his arm about, “all stay same. No
change. Good, much good. Noah, he know.”
Granny McTavish, coming from the bedroom, caught the words of the
Indian.
“Reet, Noah,” she smiled, “there’ll be na’ change teel God wulls, and
may He na’ wull it frae lang.”
“Ugh, you tell Boy,” said Noah, “tell ’um Noah say it.”
The old lady held up her hands.
“There’s na’ tellin’ him at all whatever,” she sighed. “He’s muckle
disturbed and he’ll na’ listen to reason. He’s oot there noo trudgin’
the wet woods, but he’ll noo get comfort there, mon; he maun seek it i’
the guid Book. I’ve told him o’ it, aye, I’ve told him o’ it aften enoo.
God forgive him for th’ wild creature he is—and he’s a guid lad at
heart enoo, a guid lad at heart——”
“Tush, Granny,” chided Big McTavish. “Boy’s not worryin’ over anythin’.
He’s a bit unsettled, that’s all. He’s out in the woods ’cause he loves
th’ woods. See, you’ve spoiled Noah’s supper for him. He’s thinkin’
Boy’s a bit crazy, maybe.”
Noah pushed back his chair from the table and arose.
“You’re not going so soon, surely, Noah?” cried Gloss.
“Noah must go to Point,” answered the Indian. “Canoe down on Eau shore.”
Gloss snatched up her cap.
“I’ll go down to th’ shore with you,” she cried. “Maybe I’ll meet Boy.”
“No,” said Noah, “Gloss no come.”
“But I say yes,” replied Gloss, dancing nimbly in front of the old man.
“Remember, I haven’t seen you for ages, and I must go. Come along.”
She took his hand and they passed out together. They walked along, Gloss
taking the lead, and neither speaking a word. They understood each other
well, and something unbreakable bound them together while life should
last.
When they reached the canoe, hidden in thick rushes on the edge of the
bay, the girl patted the old Indian’s wrinkled cheek gently and bade him
good-by.
When the black rushes of the moon-lit Eau hid his craft, the girl turned
homeward on the path again. A tender smile was on her face, and the red
blood was dancing in her veins. Her whole young being was alive and
calling—calling for—she wondered what!
Where the woodland trail met the creek path a wide sheet of moonlight
lay shrouding the dead leaves. When she reached this spot she clasped
her hands and raised them to the deep chaotic arch of the skies.
“Boy,” she breathed chokingly, “oh, Boy——” Then the long lashes hid
her eyes and something splashed upon the dead sheeted leaves. “—Oh God,
I mean,” she whispered, “take care of him; take care of Boy.”
Far down in the dark swales a panther wailed and a loon sent its weird
call from the marshlands. A fleeting cloud drifted across the moon and
the path darkened. The girl quickened her pace into a run. As she
rounded a curve in the path she gave a little cry.
Standing directly in the path was a man.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “it’s only me.”
“You?” she repeated. “Oh, yes, it’s Mr. Simpson. I must hurry on—I
must——”
He did not attempt to move aside, and the girl’s head went back and her
eyes flashed.
“Please let me past,” she said imperiously.
Simpson laughed.
“All in good time. But I want to say something first. Won’t you listen,
Gloss?”
“If it’s what you said before, I don’t want to hear it,” she answered.
“You—you mus’n’t keep me here; it’s dangerous—dangerous for you.”
“Or you?” he laughed.
He came toward her and she recoiled.
“You held me once—in your arms,” she panted, “and against my will. You
mus’n’t hold me so again. If you do—I’ll kill you.”
“I’ll take the chance,” he said hoarsely; “it’s worth dying for.”
She stood tall and white before him, her great eyes fastened to his, and
looking deep into the craven soul of him. He reached for her hands—then
something, a new and strange helplessness, overpowered him, and he sank
trembling on the moss.
“Mr. Simpson,” said the girl quietly, “you must go—for your own sake.
You must go now.”
“Gloss, oh Gloss!” he murmured brokenly, “how I love you, girl! You
cannot know how much. I was mad—mad. Can you forgive me, Gloss?”
“No, I can’t forgive you. I have no power to forgive you. It wasn’t me
you hurt once—it’s not me you would hurt again.”
“Don’t say that,” he cried. “I merely held you in my arms, and kissed
you. Yes, I held you in my arms—I kissed you——”
He struggled to his feet, trembling, his hair matted to his brow with
perspiration.
“I did kiss you once,” he repeated, “and I would give my life either to
undo it or to do it again.”
“You haven’t the power to do either,” she said earnestly; “believe me,
you have not.”
“You are right,” he sighed. “Oh, yes, you are right. That other night
when I met you on the path I was actuated by a passing fancy—just a
passing fancy. I took you in my arms. You struggled. I kissed you. I
looked into your soul—I looked into your soul, and saw what I must
forever be banished from, Gloss. Am I not punished! Do you think I can
ever forget?”
“I—I don’t know. Now, I must go.”
He stood aside and let her pass.
“Will you forgive?” he asked.
“Will you be strong?”
He shivered, but his moving lips gave out no sound.
When the moon trailed down below the tree-fringe of the Point he was
still standing where the girl had left him. The panther’s howl was
still, but away down in the mucky marshlands the loon sent his weird cry
to the cold stars.