LAPLANTE AND I RENEW ACQUAINTANCE
The warriors had spoken truth to the Mandanes. Le Grand Diable was not
in the Sioux lodges. I had been at the encampment for almost a week,
daily expecting the warriors' return, before I could persuade the people
to grant me the right of search through the wigwams. In the end, I
succeeded only through artifice. Indeed, I was becoming too proficient
in craft for the maintenance of self-respect. A child--I explained to
the surly old men who barred my way--had been confused with the Sioux
slaves. If it were among their lodges, I was willing to pay well for its
redemption. The old squaws, eying me distrustfully, averred I had come
to steal one of their naked brats, who swarmed on my tracks with as
tantalizing persistence as the vicious dogs. The jealous mothers would
not hear of my searching the tents. Then I was compelled to make friends
with the bevies of young squaws, who ogle newcomers to the Indian camps.
Presently, I gained the run of all the lodges. Indeed, I needed not a
little diplomacy to keep from being adopted as son-in-law by one
pertinacious old fellow--a kind of embarrassment not wholly confined to
trappers in the wilds. But not a trace of Diable and his captives did I
find.
I had hobbled my horses--a string of six--in a valley some distance from
the camp and directly on the trail, where Little Fellow was awaiting me.
Returning from a look at their condition one evening, I heard a band of
hunters had come from the Upper Missouri. I was sitting with a group of
men squatted before my fatherly Indian's lodge, when somebody walked up
behind us and gave a long, low whistle.
"Mon Dieu! Mine frien', the enemy! Sacredie! 'Tis he! Thou cock-brained
idiot! Ho--ho! Alone among the Sioux!" came the astonished,
half-breathless exclamation of Louis Laplante, mixing his English and
French as he was wont, when off guard.
Need I say the voice brought me to my feet at one leap? Well I
remembered how I had left him lying with a snarl between his teeth in
the doorway of Fort Douglas! Now was his chance to score off that
grudge! I should not have been surprised if he had paid me with a stab
in the back.
"What for--come you--here?" he slowly demanded, facing me with a
revengeful gleam in his eyes. His English was still mixed. There was
none of the usual light and airy impudence of his manner.
"You know very well, Louis," I returned without quailing. "Who should
know better than you? For the sake of the old days, Louis, help to undo
the wrong you allowed? Help me and before Heaven you shall command your
own price. Set her free! Afterwards torture me to the death and take
your full pleasure!"
"I'll have it, anyway," retorted Louis with a hard, dry, mirthless
laugh. "Know they--what for--you come?" He pointed to the Indians, who
understood not a word of our talk; and we walked a pace off from the
lodges.
"No! I'm not always a fool, Louis," said I, "though you cheated me in
the gorge!"
"See those stones?" There was a pile of rock on the edge of the ravine.
"I do. What of them?"
"All of your Indian--left after the dogs--it lie there!" His eye
questioned mine; but there was not a vestige of fear in me towards that
boaster. This, I set down not vauntingly, but fully realizing what I owe
to Heaven.
"Poor fellow," said I. "That was cruel work."
"Your other man--he fool them----"
"All the better," I interrupted.
"They not be cheated once more again! No--no--mine frien'! To come here,
alone! Ha--ha! Stupid Anglo-Saxon ox!"
"Don't waste your breath, Louis," I quietly remarked. "Your names have
no more terror for me now than at Laval! However big a knave you are,
Louis, you're not a fool. Why don't you make something out of this? I
can reward you. Hold _me_, if you like! Scalp me and skin me and put me
under a stone-pile for revenge! Will it make your revenge any sweeter
to torture a helpless, white woman?"
Louis winced. 'Twas the first sign of goodness I had seen in the knave,
and I credited it wholly to his French ancestors.
"I never torture white woman," he vehemently declared, with a sudden
flare-up of his proud temper. "The son of a seigneur----"
"The son of a seigneur," I broke in, "let an innocent woman go into
captivity by lying to me!"
"Don't harp on that!" said Louis with a scornful laugh--a laugh that is
ever the refuge of the cornered liar. "You pay me back by stealing
despatches."
"Don't harp on that, Louis!" and I returned his insolence in full
measure. "I didn't steal your despatches, though I know the thief. And
you paid me back by almost trapping me at Fort Douglas."
"But I didn't succeed," exclaimed Laplante. "Mon Dieu! If I had only
known you were a spy!"
"I wasn't. I came to see Hamilton."
"And you pay me back as if I had succeed," continued Louis, "by kicking
me--me--the son of a seigneur--kicking me in the stomach like a pig,
which is no fit treatment for a gentleman!"
"And you paid me back by sticking your knife in my boot----"
"And didn't succeed," broke in Louis regretfully.
At that, we both laughed in spite of ourselves, laughed as comrades.
And the laugh brought back memories of old Laval days, when we used to
thrash each other in the schoolyard, but always united in defensive
league, when we were disciplined inside the class-room.
"See here, old crony," I cried, taking quick advantage of his sudden
softening and again playing suppliant to my adversary. "I own up! You
owe me two scores, one for the despatches I saw taken from you, one for
knocking you down in Fort Douglas; for your knife broke and did not cut
me a whit. Pay those scores with compound interest, if you like, the way
you used to pummel me black and blue at Laval; but help me now as we
used to help each other out of scrapes at school! Afterwards, do as you
wish! I give you full leave. As the son of a seigneur, as a gentleman,
Louis, help me to free the woman!"
"Pah!" cried Louis with mingled contempt and surrender. "I not punish
you here with two thousand against one! Louis Laplante is a
gentleman--even to his enemy!"
"Bravo, comrade!" I shouted out, full of gratitude, and I thrust forward
my hand.
"No--no--thanks much," and Laplante drew himself up proudly, "not till I
pay you well, richly,--generous always to mine enemy!"
"Very good! Pay when and where you will."
"Pay how I like," snapped Louis.
With that strange contract, his embarrassment seemed to vanish and his
English came back fluently.
"You'd better leave before the warriors return," he said. "They come
home to-morrow!"
"Is Diable among them?"
"No."
"Is Diable here?"
"No." His face clouded as I questioned.
"Do you know where he is?"
"No."
"Will he be back?"
"Dammie! How do I know? He will if he wants to! I don't tell tales on a
man who saved my life."
His answer set me to wondering if Diable had seen me hold back the
trader's murderous hand, when Louis lay drunk, and if the Frenchman's
knowledge of that incident explained his strange generosity now.
"I'll stay here in spite of all the Sioux warriors on earth, till I find
out about that knave of an Indian and his captives," I vowed.
Louis looked at me queerly and gave another whistle.
"You always were a pig-head," said he. "I can keep them from harming
you; but remember, I pay you back in your own coin. And look out for the
daughter of L'Aigle, curse her! She is the only thing I ever fear! Keep
you in my tent! If Le Grand Diable see you----" and Louis touched his
knife-handle significantly.
"Then Diable _is_ here!"
"I not say so," but he flushed at the slip of his tongue and moved
quickly towards what appeared to be his quarters.
"He is coming?" I questioned, suspicious of Louis' veracity.
"Dolt!" said Louis. "Why else do I hide you in my tent? But remember I
pay you back in your own coin afterwards! Ha! There they come!"
A shout of returning hunters arose from the ravine, at which Louis
bounded for the tent on a run, dashing inside breathlessly, I following
close behind.
"Stay you here, inside, mind! Mon Dieu! If you but show your face; 'tis
two white men under one stone-pile! Louis Laplante is a fool--dammie--a
fool--to help you, his enemy, or any other man at his own risk."
With these enigmatical words, the Frenchman hurried out, fastening the
tent flap after him and leaving me to reflect on the wild impulses of
his wayward nature. Was his strange, unwilling generosity the result of
animosity to the big squaw, who seemed to exercise some subtle and
commanding influence over him; or of gratitude to me? Was the noble
blood that coursed in his veins, directing him in spite of his
degenerate tendencies; or had the man's heart been touched by the sight
of a white woman's suffering? If his alarm at the sound of returning
hunters had not been so palpably genuine--for he turned pale to the
lips--I might have suspected treachery. But there was no mistaking the
motive of fear that hurried him to the tent; and with Le Grand Diable
among the hunters, Louis might well fear to be seen in my company. There
was a hubbub of trappers returning to the lodges. I heard horses turned
free and tent-poles clattering to the ground; but Laplante did not come
back till it was late and the Indians had separated for the night.
"I can take you to her!" he whispered, his voice thrilling with
suppressed emotion. "Le Grand Diable and the squaw have gone to the
valley to set snares! And when I whistle, come out quickly! Mon Dieu! If
you're caught, both our scalps go! Dammie! Louis is a fool. I take you
to her; but I pay you back all the same!"
"To whom?" The question throbbed with a rush to my lips.
"Stupid dolt!" snarled Louis. "Follow me! Keep your ears open for my
whistle--one--they return--two--come you out of the tent--three, we are
caught, save yourself!"
I followed the Frenchman in silence. It was a hazy summer night with
just enough light from the sickle moon for us to pick our way past the
lodges to a large newly-erected wigwam with a small white tent behind.
"This way," whispered Louis, leading through the first to an opening
hidden by a hanging robe. Raising the skin, he shoved me forward and
hastened out to keep guard.
The figure of a woman with a child in her arms was silhouetted against
the white tent wall. She was sitting on some robes, crooning in a low
voice to the child, and was unaware of my presence.
"And was my little Eric at the hunt, and did he shoot an arrow all by
himself?" she asked, fondling the face that snuggled against her
shoulder.
The boy gurgled back a low, happy laugh and lisped some childish reply,
which only a mother could translate.
"And he will grow big, big and be a great warrior and fight--fight for
his poor mother," she whispered, lowering her voice and caressing the
child's curls.
The little fellow sat up of a sudden facing his mother and struck out
squarely with both fists, not uttering a word.
"My brave, brave little Eric! My only one, all that God has left to me!"
she sobbed hiding her weeping face on the child's neck. "O my God, let
me but keep my little one! Thou hast given him to me and I have
treasured him as a jewel from Thine own crown! O my God, let me but keep
my darling, keep him as Thy gift--and--and--O my God!--Thy--Thy--Thy
will be done!"
The words broke in a moan and the child began to cry.
"Hush, dearie! The birds never cry, nor the beavers, nor the great, bold
eagle! My own little warrior must never cry! All the birds and the
beasts and the warriors are asleep! What does Eric say before he goes to
sleep?"
A pair of chubby arms were flung about her neck and passionate, childish
kisses pressed her forehead and her cheeks and her lips. Then he slipped
to his knees and put his face in her lap.
"God bless my papa--and keep my mamma--and make little Eric brave and
good--for Jesus' sake----" the child hesitated.
"Amen," prompted the gentle voice of the mother.
"And keep little Eric for my mamma so she won't cry," added the child,
"for Jesus' sake--Amen," and he scrambled to his feet.
A low, piercing whistle cut the night air like the flight of an
arrow-shaft. It was Louis Laplante's signal that Diable and the squaw
were coming back. At the sound, mother and child started up in alarm.
Then they saw me standing in the open way. A gasp of fright came from
the white woman's lips. I could tell from her voice that she was all
a-tremble, and the little one began to whimper in a smothered,
suppressed way.
I whispered one word--"Miriam!"
With a faint cry of anguish, she leaped forward. "Is it you, Eric? O
Eric! is it you?" she asked.
"No--no, Miriam, not Eric, but Eric's friend, Rufus Gillespie."
She tottered as if I had struck her. I caught her in my arms and helped
her to the couch of robes.
Then I took up my station facing the tent entrance; for I realized the
significance of Laplante's warning.
"We have hunted for more than a year for you," I whispered, bending over
her, "but the Sioux murdered our messenger and the other you yourself
let out of the tent!"
"That--your messenger for me?" she asked in sheer amazement, proving
what I had suspected, that she was kept in ignorance of our efforts.
"I have been here for a week, searching the lodges. My horses are in the
valley, and we must dare all in one attempt."
"I have given my word I will not try," she hastily interrupted,
beginning to pluck at her red shawl in the frenzied way of delirious
fever patients. "If we are caught, they will torture us, torture the
child before my eyes. They treat him well now and leave me alone as long
as I do not try to break away. What can you, one man, do against two
thousand Sioux?" and she began to weep, choking back the anguished sobs,
that shook her slender frame, and picking feverishly at the red shawl
fringe.
To look at that agonized face would have been sacrilege, and in a
helpless, nonplussed way, I kept gazing at the painful workings of the
thin, frail fingers. That plucking of the wasted, trembling hands haunts
me to this day; and never do I see the fingers of a nervous, sensitive
woman working in that delirious, aimless fashion but it sets me
wondering to what painful treatment from a brutalized nature she has
been subjected, that her hands take on the tricks of one in the last
stages of disease. It may be only the fancy of an old trader; but I dare
avow, if any sympathetic observer takes note of this simple trick of
nervous fingers, it will raise the veil on more domestic tragedies and
heart-burnings than any father-confessor hears in a year.
"Miriam," said I, in answer to her timid protest, "Eric has risked his
life seeking you. Won't you try all for Eric's sake? There'll be little
risk! We'll wait for a dark, boisterous, stormy night, and you will roll
out of your tent the way you thrust my Indian out. I'll have my horses
ready. I'll creep up behind and whisper through the tent."
"Where _is_ Eric?" she asked, beginning to waver.
Two shrill, sharp whistles came from Louis Laplante, commanding me to
come out of the tent.
"That's my signal! I must go. Quick, Miriam, will you try?"
"I will do what you wish," she answered, so low, I had to kneel to catch
the words.
"A stormy night our signal, then," I cried.
Three, sharp, terrified whistles, signifying, "We are caught, save
yourself," came from Laplante, and I flung myself on the ground behind
Miriam.
"Spread out your arms, Miriam! Quick!" I urged. "Talk to the boy, or
we're trapped."
With her shawl spread out full and her elbows sticking akimbo, she
caught the lad in her arms and began dandling him to right, and left,
humming some nursery ditty. At the same moment there loomed in the tent
entrance the great, statuesque figure of the Sioux squaw, whom I had
seen in the gorge. I kicked my feet under the canvas wall, while
Miriam's swaying shawl completely concealed me from the Sioux woman and
thus I crawled out backwards. Then I lay outside the tent and listened,
listened with my hand on my pistol, for what might not that monster of
fury attempt with the tender, white woman?
"There were words in the tepee," declared the angry tones of the Indian
woman. "The pale face was talking! Where is the messenger from the
Mandanes?"
At that, the little child set up a bitter crying.
"Cry not, my little warrior! Hush, dearie! 'Twas only a hunter
whistling, or the night hawk, or the raccoon! Hush, little Eric!
Warriors never cry! Hush! Hush! Or the great bear will laugh at you and
tell his cubs he's found a coward!" crooned Miriam, making as though she
neither heard, nor saw the squaw; but Eric opened his mouth and roared
lustily. And the little lad unconsciously foiled the squaw; for she
presently took herself off, evidently thinking the voices had been those
of mother and son.
I skirted cautiously around the rear of the lodges to avoid encountering
Diable, or his squaw. The form of a man hulked against me in the dark.
'Twas Louis.
"Mon Dieu, Gillespie, I thought one scalp was gone," he gasped.
"What are you here for? You don't want to be seen with me," I protested,
grateful and alarmed for his foolhardiness in coming to meet me.
"Sacredie! The dogs! They make pretty music at your shins without me,"
and Louis struck boldly across the open for his tent. "Fool to stay so
long!" he muttered. "I no more ever help you once again! Mon Dieu! No! I
no promise my scalp too! They found your horses in the valley! They--how
you say it?--think for some Mandane is here and fear. They rode back
fast on your horses. 'Twas why I whistle for, twice so quick! They ride
north in the morning. I go too, with the devil and his wife! I be gone
to the devil this many a while! But I must go, or they suspect and knife
me. That vampire! Ha! she would drink my gore! I no more have nothing to
do with you. Before morning, you must do your own do alone! Sacredie! Do
not forget, I pay you back yet!"
So he rattled on, ever keeping between me and the lodges. By his
confused words, I knew he was in great trepidation.
"Why, there are my horses!" I exclaimed, seeing all six standing before
Diable's lodge.
"You do your do before morning! Take one of my saddles!" said Louis.
Sure enough, all my saddles were piled before the Iroquois' wigwam; and
there stood my enemy and the Sioux squaw, talking loudly, pointing to
the horses and gesticulating with violence.
"Mon Dieu! Prenez garde! Get you in!" muttered Louis. We were at his
tent door, and I was looking back at my horses. "If they see you, all is
lost," he warned.
And the warning came just in time. With that animal instinct of
nearness, which is neither sight, nor smell, my favorite broncho put
forward his ears and whinnied sharply. Both Diable and the squaw noted
the act and turned; but Louis had knocked me forward face down into the
tent.
With an oath, he threw himself on his couch. "Take my saddle," he said.
"I steal another. Do your do before morning. I no more have nothing to
do with you, till I pay you back all the same!"
And he was presently fast asleep, or pretending to be.