A LEAP FOR FREEDOM
On the third morning following, Loseis and Conacher were seated at a
little table in the kitchen of the Women’s House, with a scarcely
touched meal between them. In the inner room Mary-Lou was lying on a
mattress with her face turned towards the wall, asleep—or despairing.
In the kitchen all was in apple pie order; a fire burning on the
well-swept hearth with a small pot of water bubbling upon it; the
shutter of the little window flung back, and the sunshine streaming in;
outside all green and peaceful to the eye. There was nothing to indicate
the horror of the situation but the faces of the two at the table. Those
gaunt and gray young faces, deeply seamed and sunken eyed, told a tale
of seventy-two hours’ horror. Neither had had more than a snatch or two
of broken sleep. Three endless nights and days and no hope of relief. It
was the absence of hope which had aged them.
Conacher rested his cheek in his palm, and gloomily traced imaginary
lines on the oilcloth cover with his fork. Loseis’ eyes, which looked
truly enormous now, were fixed on the young man’s face, all tenderness.
“You have brought all this on your head through mixing in my miserable
affairs,” she murmured.
He looked up quickly. “Oh, don’t say a thing like that!” he protested,
hurt to the quick. “It seems to divide us. How can we be divided now?
Your fate is my fate and mine yours!”
Loseis looked down, somewhat comforted. But she yearned for more
explicit comfort still. “I wonder you do not hate me,” she whispered.
“Loseis!” he said sharply, “if you say such things to me, you will have
me blubbering like Mary-Lou. That would be a nice thing!” And the tears
actually stood in his eyes.
The sight of those tears was sweet to Loseis; but she went on
perversely: “Sometimes I think you do hate me. You do not like to look
at me any more. Always you turn your eyes away.”
Conacher turned his eyes away then. “The truth is, I can’t bear to look
at you,” he murmured. “Such a child as you are, and so plucky and proud;
never a word of complaint out of you. It drives me wild to think I can’t
save you from this!”
Loseis glided swiftly around the table, and caught his head against her
breast. “Ah, you blessed Paul!” she crooned, brooding over him. “I was
just trying to make you say again that you loved me. You mustn’t grieve
so over me. Think what it would be for me if you weren’t here!”
She dropped to her knees beside his chair. Speech would no longer serve
to convey their feelings. They snatched a moment of poignant happiness
out of the surrounding horror.
Finally Conacher, partly withdrawing himself from her arms, sat up
straight. “This can’t go on!” he said, striking the table.
“What is in your mind?” she asked anxiously.
“We have plenty of food,” he said, “and the water is still holding out;
but what is the use of it all? To be trapped like this would break
anybody’s nerve; knowing night and day that the guns were covering you.
If we stay here they’re certain to get us in the end. Time is passing.
If we give them no opportunity to pick us off, they’ll drive us out of
our shelter. They have only to build a fire against the back wall of
this house . . .”
“Oh, Heaven!” murmured Loseis.
“I don’t want to frighten you unnecessarily,” he said, stroking back her
hair; “but we’ve got to face the worst. I’ve been looking for it to
happen every night. That’s why I couldn’t sleep. How simple for Gault to
shoot us down as we ran out, and throw our bodies back on the fire . . .
I say we must make a break for it, while we are able to choose our own
time.”
“But where could we go?” faltered Loseis.
“I’ve been thinking about that. God knows, I have had plenty of time!
The three obvious ways out are closed to us, but there is a fourth way
. . .”
“Where?”
“Across the river and over the prairie to the north or northwest.”
“But that is the unknown country!” said Loseis with widening eyes. “No
white man has ever been across there!”
“True,” said Conacher; “but after all it’s just a country like any
other. And I’m accustomed to making my own way.”
“Nobody knows what is on the other side!”
“I know,” said Conacher. “It’s part of my job to map this country; and I
carry the existing map in my mind. Two or three hundred miles away—I
can only make a rough guess as to the distance; there is an important
river called the Mud River. We only have reports of it from the Indians.
But the name tells you what kind of a river it is. It must be a prairie
river like this one; fairly deep and moderately swift. If there are
cottonwood trees I could make a rough dug-out; or I could always make
rafts. The Mud River eventually falls into the Sinclair. It is up the
Sinclair River that my outfit is making its way at present. According to
their schedule they will make the mouth of the Mud River on July
fifteenth. That gives us a month. If we are too late we could follow
them up the Sinclair. They travel slow on account of the work they have
to do. It is the best chance I see. No woman has ever made such a
journey, but men have; and you are as plucky and strong as a boy.”
“I can do it if you can,” said Loseis quickly. “But how could we escape
from here with an outfit; grub, blankets, ax, gun, ammunition?”
“It would have to be a mighty slim outfit,” said Conacher. “I could feed
you with my gun if I had to.”
“Across the river there are only a few broken horses,” said Loseis. “We
could not be sure of finding them at the moment we needed them.”
“We may have to walk,” said Conacher.
“But when Gault missed us, he could swim his horses over. What chance
would we have then?”
“Not much of a one. . . . But a crazy idea has been coming back to me
again and again. Maybe the very craziness of it is in its favor. . . .”
“What is it?”
“If we could persuade Gault that we had committed suicide in our
desperation . . . . ?”
Loseis’ eyes widened like a child’s.
“Can you swim?” asked Conacher.
She sadly shook her head.
“Hm! that’s awkward. . . . But maybe I could manage. . . . There is that
little air pillow in my outfit. . . .”
They heard Mary-Lou approaching out of the next room, and drew apart.
“What on earth will we do with her?” whispered Loseis.
Conacher shook his head in complete perplexity. “We’ll talk it over
later,” he whispered.
Mary-Lou had come to clean up the breakfast dishes. The past four days
had made a shocking change in the appearance of the comely Indian girl.
She was too apathetic to resent being excluded from their counsels; and
Conacher and Loseis went on with their whispering.
All day they alternately whispered together, and parted from each other
to think over the matter afresh. To have this absorbing matter to talk
over relieved the tension; the hours passed more quickly. They surveyed
their plan from every angle, continually rejecting this expedient, and
accepting that. Little by little they built up a reasonable-seeming
structure. Of course the best plan they could make depended upon so many
chances for its success, that there were many moments when they
despaired. But at such moments Conacher would always say: “Still,
anything would be better than this!” Whereupon they would set their wits
to work afresh.
Some hours later Conacher said: “One thing is certain. It would have
twice as good a chance of success if we could prepare Gault’s mind
beforehand for such a thing to happen. We ought to send him a letter.”
“How could we send him a letter?” asked Loseis.
Recollecting the Indian trophies that hung on the walls of Loseis’ room,
Conacher went in there. Loseis, following, saw him take down a bow, and
test the string.
“It has hardened some,” he said: “But it will do.”
Loseis, getting the idea, smiled. “But would they dare to come out and
get it?” she asked.
“Oh, curiosity is a strong motive,” said Conacher. “And anyway, I have
suspected every night that they came part way across the square at the
darkest time before the moon comes up, to make sure that we didn’t slip
out.”
They sat down to concoct the letter. “You must write it,” said Conacher.
“It would be more effective.”
After a couple of hours’ work and many drafts, they produced the
following:
“TO GAULT:
“Why do you torture me so? I have never harmed you. Mary-Lou
died the first night, and we buried her under the floor. Our
water is gone. Conacher is acting so strangely I am afraid of
what he may do. He doesn’t know I am writing this. I will shoot
it over to you while he sleeps. If there is any decency or mercy
in your heart let me see you ride away from this place
to-morrow. I cannot stand this any longer.
“LAURENTIA BLACKBURN.”
Conacher and Loseis smiled grimly over this effusion. But Loseis quickly
frowned.
“I cannot bear to have him think I would whine for mercy like that,” she
murmured.
“Yes, but think of the pleasure of fooling him later,” Conacher pointed
out.
To send their letter they chose a moment after sunset, while there was
still light enough to aim it. Throwing open the door, they all stood
back on the chance of receiving a bullet from across the way: but their
enemies gave no sign. It fell to Loseis’ part to dispatch the letter,
since she was accustomed to handling the bow and arrow. The letter had
been fastened around the shaft with a thread. After waiting a moment or
two, Loseis took up her stand far enough back from the door so that she
could not possibly be seen. Drawing the bow-string to her ear, she let
it twang. The arrow sped across the open space, and stuck fast in the
wall of the men’s house, a few inches from the door. Conacher slammed
their door shut.
Next morning as soon as it became light, they perceived that the arrow
still remained fixed in the wall. Their hearts sunk, thinking that their
ruse had failed. But as the light strengthened Loseis’ sharp eyes
discovered that the white band around the shaft was gone.
“They have it!” she cried.
All day long they anxiously watched for any sign of activity on the part
of their enemies. If any reply had been made to their letter it might
have seriously embarrassed them, but none was made. As the endless,
endless day finally rounded towards its close, Conacher said grimly:
“It must be to-night.”
Loseis nodded.
They did not take Mary-Lou into their confidence until the latest
possible moment. They supped; and the dishes were washed. Finally when
Conacher began to lay out the bundles they were to carry, she had to be
told. The mind of the overwrought girl was distracted by the thought of
more danger.
“Let me stay here,” she moaned. “Let me stay here and die!”
“Why die?” said Conacher patiently. “We’re offering you a chance to
live!”
“I cannot do it!”
“You have the easiest part of all,” Loseis pointed out.
“We have told them that you are dead and buried,” said Conacher
laughing. “Whether they believe it or not, they’re not going to bother
about you until they catch Loseis and me. We have only got to run from
the door to the corner of the house. There’s not one chance in a hundred
they can get us in that space if we run abreast. Once around the corner
we are out of range until they can get out of the house.”
After long persuasion, Mary-Lou agreed to try it.
“Now listen,” said Conacher, with an appearance of great cheerfulness;
“here’s the plan. At the corner of the house we divide. Loseis and I run
down to the flat, and strike for my dug-out, while you hit directly into
the woods behind this house. You are to make your way entirely around
the Post by the side hill, and cross the creek, and make your way as
best you can to the Slavi village. Take your time to it. If you get
there by to-morrow night it will do. When it is dark to-morrow night
take three horses . . .”
“But not my horse,” put in Loseis. “She is too well known.”
“Three horses,” resumed Conacher; “and as much grub as Tatateecha will
let you have. . . .”
“They have plenty of smoked meat and smoked fish,” said Loseis.
“What place can I appoint for a meeting?” asked Conacher of Loseis.
“The Old Wives’ Slough. It is the furthest point that I have been with
my father. About ten miles west of here, and the same distance north of
the Slavi village.”
“Have you been there?” Conacher asked Mary-Lou.
She shook her head.
“Do you know the North Star?”
She nodded.
“Good! Then take the horses and the grub when it becomes dark to-morrow
night, and ride ten miles in the direction of the North Star to that
slough in the prairie.”
“There is a trail from the Slavi village,” put in Loseis.
“Loseis and I will be waiting for you there,” said Conacher.
“In the poplar bluff on the south side of the slough,” added Loseis.
“If we are not there,” added Conacher with a smile for Loseis’ benefit,
“why, turn around and ride back to the Slavi village.”
Conacher repeated these instructions over again, and made Mary-Lou say
it all after him. Both he and Loseis feared that in the unnerved red
girl they had but a broken reed to lean upon. However they had no other.
Once clear of that den of horror they hoped that she might recover
herself somewhat.
Then the packs were made. Each was to take a blanket with a small
package of food rolled up inside it. In addition Conacher had his gun
and an ammunition belt containing a hundred shells, and a small
cooking-pot packed with matches, tea and tobacco. Loseis was to take a
smaller belt of shells and a small ax. Mary-Lou was given Conacher’s
smaller gun and ammunition for it. Everything was to be strapped on
their backs, in order to leave both arms free.
“How shall we know the proper moment to start out?” asked Loseis.
“The moon does not rise to-night until after midnight,” said Conacher.
“The darkest time will be about two hours after sundown. I will mark a
candle and light it when the sun goes down. When it has burned two
inches we will make a break.”
“That will only give us an hour or so before the moon comes up.”
“The first few minutes will decide everything,” he said, smiling at her.
They were ready, of course, long before it was time to set out. Conacher
made it his job to keep up the spirits of his little party. He suggested
having another meal, but no one ate but himself. After that there was
nothing to do but sit down and look at the candle. Very hard on the
nerves. A half a dozen times Loseis sprang up like a haggard little
panther, crying:
“It’s perfectly dark. Let’s start.”
To which Conacher would always reply in his calm and cheerful style:
“No! When you settle on a thing, you must stick to it.”
As the candle burned down towards the fateful mark, the three pairs of
eyes were fixed on it in painful intensity, and three hearts rose slowly
into three throats. The last ten minutes were the hardest.
“Now!” said Conacher briskly, at last.
They adjusted their packs. Under her pack Loseis wore the deflated air
pillow fastened between her shoulders by a harness of twine contrived by
Conacher. Both Loseis and Conacher felt that this might well be the
moment of farewell, but neither spoke of it. It was all expressed in an
exchange of looks. Mary-Lou was piteously striving to get her breath.
Conacher’s last act before leaving was to throw a pailful of the
precious water on the fire, that no reflection of the glow might betray
them when the door was opened. The room was filled with hissing steam.
“Wait a moment,” whispered Conacher in the darkness. “They might
possibly have heard that sound. Give them time to forget it. . . . Me
first, then Loseis, then Mary-Lou. Take hands. Run like hell around the
corner of the house. . . . I am opening the door now. . . .”
They ran out and turned, putting every nerve into it. Instantly, the
guns across the grass roared out. They heard the twin bullets plug deep
into the logs behind them. The guns crashed again. They gained the
corner of the house unhurt. Immediately the cry of the coyote was raised
not a hundred yards away; almost in their ears it seemed. It was more
human than coyote. Their enemies were outside the house. Already they
could hear the sound of running feet. Other cries answered the first
one: from the hill behind; from the ravine; from the river.
Loseis gave Mary-Lou a gentle push; and the Indian girl disappeared
noiselessly into the bush back of the house. Conacher and Loseis took
hands and raced down the grassy rise. A voice behind them shouted in
English:
“There they go!”
Conacher whispered: “Make first for the creek; then double back towards
the willows!”
The surface of the natural meadow was rough, and Conacher went down
twice, but was up again like the recoil of a spring. Loseis had the
mysterious sure-footedness of an Indian. Behind them they heard their
pursuers falling and cursing. Gault’s voice shouted a command in Cree.
“He is telling them to make for the creek,” whispered Loseis.
When they had almost reached the edge of the creek bank, they turned
sharply to the right, and headed back obliquely across the flat towards
the point where the dug-out was hidden. They slackened their pace that
they might not betray their whereabouts by further falls. This maneuver
was successful for the moment. They heard their pursuers halt at the
creek bank. Gault called to men who were evidently approaching down the
bed of the creek.
The fugitives gained the river bank, and crawling under the thick
willows, presently stumbled on the dug-out lying in a fissure in the
earthen bank. So far so good. However, they were not unmindful of the
dug-out manned by four Crees somewhere out on the river; and they waited
awhile listening.
They heard them coming up-stream, paddling at a furious rate. They
passed close to the bank, not half a dozen yards from where Loseis and
Conacher were crouching. Conacher gave them a minute, then started to
slide the dug-out off the mud.
“They’ll see us!” whispered Loseis in alarm.
“Somebody must see us, or we can’t pull off the double suicide,” said
Conacher grimly.
They launched the dug-out and climbed in. Since the paddlers in the
other dug-out had their backs turned to them, they could have gained the
other shore unseen; but Conacher headed diagonally up-stream, laying
such a course that they must be at least heard by those gathered around
the mouth of the creek. And they were heard. A chorus of cries was
raised. Conacher then steered straight for the opposite shore. In a
moment they heard the other dug-out splashing after them.
Immediately to the north of the high-cut bank, there was a smallish flat
covered with grass, through the center of which a tiny stream wound its
way to the river. It was the usual willow-bordered rivulet flowing quite
deep between overhanging banks, which were held from caving in by the
roots of the thickly springing willows. The branches of the willows
interlaced overhead. This muskrat-haunted stream was an important factor
in the plans of the fugitives; but they were not ready to use it yet.
Conacher landed alongside its mouth. The instant the nose of the dug-out
touched, they were out. The other dug-out was already half way across
the river. They raced through the grass alongside the willow-bordered
stream, slipping out of their packs as they ran. A hundred yards or so
from the river, Conacher took both packs and boring through the outer
willows, tied the packs to branches overhanging the little stream.
Returning to Loseis, they doubled on their tracks, and ran for the steep
grassy rise which culminated in the bold knoll where the two graves
were. The Crees, having just landed, were stumbling through the grass at
a loss. Presently the fugitives were seen, as they wished to be. With
renewed cries to their friends across the river, the Crees set after
them. Gault’s roaring voice was heard from the river.
“They told him that we were running up the hill,” whispered Loseis; “and
he’s telling them to work around back, and head us off on top.”
“We may take our time then,” said Conacher, falling to a walk.
On top of the knoll they came to a stand. The little enclosure
containing the two graves was behind them; and behind that again, the
grove of pines. On either side the ground sloped steeply down, and in
front it broke off into nothingness.
“Well, here we are,” said Conacher lightly; “that was easy!”
“The hardest is before us,” murmured Loseis.
Stepping to the edge of the cut-bank, they looked over. The precipitous
slide of earth, almost as pale as snow at their feet, was gradually
swallowed in the murk. The fact that they could not see the bottom of
it, made the leap appear doubly terrible.
“Does your heart fail you, dear?” murmured Conacher.
“Not as long as you are beside me,” she whispered.
“Remember to let yourself go limp when you hit the dirt,” he said.
“Gravity will do the rest. I’ll be there before you, because I’m
heavier.”
He blew up the little air cushion that was strapped to her back.
They could hear the Crees working around the north side of the hill. It
was evidently expected that the fugitives meant to run back along the
top of the ridge. Below them the river revealed itself merely as a
grayish band, a shade or two lighter than its shores. They could just
make out the disturbance created by two furiously driven bark canoes
about to land below. These had headed for the south side of the hill.
There was some underbrush on that side; and when the occupants landed
they could be heard smashing through it. They were evidently working up
that side with the object of coming in touch with the other party.
“This is better than I could have hoped for,” said Conacher cheerfully.
“We have got them all on the hill.”
“Is it time to go now?” asked Loseis nervously.
“No! No! Wait until they are right on top of us.”
Somewhere back of them the two parties met on top of the ridge. There
was a whispered consultation, then a silence, very hard for the
listeners to bear. Conacher held Loseis’ hand tightly squeezed within
his own. Up there under the wide spreading night sky they became queerly
aware of their insignificance. A long silence; then from half a dozen
sounds their sharpened senses informed them that their enemies were
creeping towards them through the pines.
Loseis caught her breath sharply, and moved towards the edge.
“Steady, sweetheart,” whispered Conacher.
Suddenly there was an astonished cry of: “There!” and a rush of feet.
Loseis and Conacher cried out wildly, as they had rehearsed together:
“Good-by! . . . Good-by, all!” And leaped.