THE LAST OF LOUIS' ADVENTURES
I think, perhaps, the reason good enterprises fail so often where evil
ventures succeed, is that the good man blunders forward, trusting to the
merits of his cause, where the evil manipulator proceeds warily as a cat
over broken glass. And so, altogether apart from his services as guide,
I felt Louis Laplante's presence on the river a distinct advantage.
"The Lord is with us, lad. She shall be delivered! The Lord is with us;
but don't you bungle His plans!" ejaculated Father Holland for the
twentieth time; and each time the French trapper looked waggishly over
his shoulder at me and winked.
"Bungle! Pah!" Louis clapped his paddle athwart the canoe and laughed a
low, sly, defiant laugh. "Bungle! Pah! Catch Louis bungle his cards, ha,
ha! Trumps! He play trumps--he hold his hand low--careless--nodings in
it--he keep quiet--nodings worth play in his hand--but his sleeve--ha,
ha!" and Louis laughed softly and winked at the full moon.
"The daughter of L'Aigle, she cuff Louis, she slap his cheek, she call
him lump--lout--slouch! Ha, ha!--Louis no fool--he pare the claws of
L'Aigle to-night!"
At that, Little Fellow's stolid face took on a vindictive gleam, and he
snapped out something in Indian tongue which set Louis to laughing.
Suddenly the Indian's paddle was suspended in mid-air, and Little Fellow
bent over the prow, gazing at the moon-tracked water.
"_Sacredie!_" cried Louis, catching up water that trickled through his
fingers, "'tis dried rabbit thong! They are ahead of us! They have
passed while that Scotch mule was balk! We must catch the Englishman,"
and he began hitting out with his paddle at a great rate.
We had overtaken Mr. Sutherland's canoe within half an hour of Louis'
discovery, and Eric wheeled about with a querulous demand.
"What's wrong? Are they ahead? I thought you said they were behind," and
he turned suspiciously to Laplante.
"You thought wrong," said Louis, ever facile with subterfuges. "You
thought wrong, Mister High-and-Mighty! Camp here and watch; they come
before morning!"
"No lies to me," shouted Eric, becoming uncontrollably excited. "If you
mislead us, your life shall----"
"Pig-head! I no save your wife for back chin! Camp here, I say," and
Louis' fitful temper began to show signs of sulking.
"For goodness' sake, Eric, do what you're told! We've made a bad enough
business of it----"
"Give the Frenchman a chance! Do what you're told, I say, ye blunderers!
Troth, the Lord Himself couldn't bring success to such blundering
idiots," was Father Holland's comment.
"I'll take na orders frae meddlesome papists," began the Scotchman; but
Little Fellow had forcibly turned the prow of the canoe shoreward. I
gave them a shove with my paddle. Frances took the cue, and while her
father was yet scolding raised her paddle and had them close to the
river bank.
"Get your tent up here," I called to conciliate them. "Then come to the
bank and watch for the Indians."
A bit of clean gravel ran out from the clay cliff.
"That's the ground," said I, as the other canoe bumped over the pebbles;
and I stopped paddling and dangled my hand in the water.
Something in the dark drifted wet and soft against my fingers.
Ordinarily such an incident would not have alarmed me; but instantly a
shudder of apprehension ran through my frame. I scarce had courage to
look into the river lest the white face of a woman should appear through
the watery depths. Clutching the water-soaked tangle, I jerked it up.
Something gave with a rip, and my hand was full of shawl fringe.
"What's that, Rufus?" asked Father Holland. "Don't know." I motioned
him to be silent and held it up in the moonlight. Distinctly it was, or
had been, red fringe.
"Do you think--" he began, then stopped. Our keel had rubbed bottom and
Hamilton was springing out of the other canoe.
"Yes, I do," I replied, choking with dread. "This is too terrible! He'll
kill himself! Go up the bank with him! Keep him busy at the tent! Little
Fellow and I'll pole for it. The water's shallow there----"
"What do _you_ think?" said the priest to Laplante.
"T'ink! I never t'ink! I finds out." But all the same, Louis' assurance
was shaken and he peered searchingly into the river.
"Aren't you coming? What's your plan?" called Eric.
"Certainly we are, but get this truck to higher ground, will you?" I
hoisted out the camp trappings. "I want to paddle out for something."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Something lost out there. I lost it out of my hand."
Frances Sutherland, I know, suspected trouble from the alarm which I
could not keep out of my speech; for she pressed to the water's edge.
"Get the tent ready," I urged.
"What's the meaning of this mystery?" persisted Hamilton sharply. "What
have you lost?"
"Don't press him too closely. Faith, it may be a love token,"
interjected Father Holland, as he stepped ashore; but he whispered in my
ear as he passed, "You're wrong, lad! You're on the wrong track!"
I leaped back to the canoe, Little Fellow and the Frenchman following,
and we paddled to the shallows where I had caught the fringe. I prodded
the soft mud below and trailed the paddle back and forward over the clay
bottom. Louis did likewise; but in vain. Only soft ooze came up on the
blade. Then Little Fellow stripped and dived. Of course it was dark
under water, as it always is dark under the muddy Red, and the Indian
could not feel a thing from which fringe could have ripped. Had my jerk
disturbed whatever it was and sent it rolling down to mid-current? I
asked Father Holland this when I came back.
"Tush, faint-heart," he muttered, drawing me aside. "'Tis only a trial
of your faith."
I said something about trials of faith which I shall not repeat here,
but which the majority of people, who are on the tenter-hooks of such
trials, have said for themselves.
"Faith! Pah!" exclaimed Louis, joining our whispered conference, while
Eric and Mr. Sutherland were hoisting a tent. "That shawl, it mean
nodings of things heavenly! It only mean rag stuck in the mud and reds
nearabouts here! I have told the Great Bear and his snarl Englishman the
Indians not come till morning. They get tent ready and watch! You follow
Louis, he lead you to camp. The priest--he good for say a little
prayer; the Indian for fight; Louis--for swear; Rufus--to snatch the
Englishwoman, he good at snatching the fair, ha-ha."
He darted to the shore, calling Little Fellow from the canoe and leaving
Father Holland and me to follow as best we could.
"We'll be back soon, Eric," I shouted. "We're going to get the lie of
the land. Keep watch here," and I broke into a run to keep up with the
French trapper and the Indian, who were leading into the woods away from
the river. I could hear Father Holland puffing behind like a wind-blown
racer. Abruptly the priest came to a stop.
"By all the saints," he ordered. "Go back to the tent!"
I turned. A white form emerged from the foliage and Frances was beside
me.
"May I not come?" she asked.
"No--dearest, there will be fighting."
"No--Lord--no," panted Father Holland coming up to us. "We're not
swapping one woman for another. What would Rufus do without ye?"
"You are going for Miriam?" she questioned, holding my hand. "God speed
you and bring you back safely!"
"Say rather--bring Miriam," and I unfastened the clinging hand almost
roughly.
"Come on, slugs, sloths, laggards," commanded Laplante impatiently, and
we dashed into the thick of the woods, leaving the white figure alone
against the shadowy thicket. She called out something, of which I heard
only two words, "Miriam" and "Rufus"; but I knew those names were
uttered in supplication and they filled my heart with daring hope.
Surely, we must succeed--for the Little Statue's prayers were following
me--and I bounded on with a faith as buoyant as the priest's blind
trust. Thus we ran through the moon-shafted woods pursuing the flitting,
lithe figures of trapper and Indian, who scarce disturbed a fern leaf,
while Father Holland and I floundered through the underbrush like
ramping elephants. Then I found myself panting as hard as the priest and
clinging to his arm for support; for illness had taken all the bravery
out of my muscles, like champagne uncorked and left in the heat.
"Brace yourself, lad," said the priest. "The Lord is with us, but don't
you bungle."
A long, low whistle came through the dark, a whistle that was such a
perfect imitation of the night hawk, no spy might detect it for the
signal of a runner. After the whistle, was the soft, ominous hiss of a
serpent in the grass; and we were abreast of Louis Laplante and Little
Fellow standing stock still sniffing forward as hounds might scent a
foe.
"She may not be there! She may be drown;" whispered Louis, "but we creep
on, quiet like hare, no noise like deer, stiller than mountain cat,
hist--what that?"
The night breeze set the leaves all atremble--clapping their hands, as
the Indians call it--and a whiff of burning bark tainted the air.
"That's it," said I under my breath.
The smoke was blowing from wooded flats between us and the river.
Cautiously parting interlaced branches and as carefully replacing each
bough to prevent backward snap, we turned down the sloping bank. I
suppose necessity's training in the wilds must produce the same result
in man and beast; and from that fact, faddists of the various "osophies"
and "ologies" may draw what conclusions they please; but I affirm that
no panther could creep on its prey with more stealth, caution and
cunning than the trapper and Indian on the enemy's camp. I have seen
wild creatures approaching a foe set each foot down with noiseless
tread; but I have never seen such a combination of instincts, brute and
human, as Louis and Little Fellow displayed. The Indian felt the ground
for tracks and pitfalls and sticks, that might crackle. Louis, with his
whole face pricked forward, trusted more to his eyes and ears and that
sense of "feel," which is--contradictory as it may seem--utterly
intangible. Once the Indian picked up a stick freshly broken. This was
examined by both, and the Indian smelt it and tried his tongue on the
broken edge. Then both fell on all fours, creeping under the branches of
the thicket and pausing at every pace.
"Would that I had taken lessons in forest lore before I went among the
Sioux," I thought to myself. Now I knew what had been incomprehensible
before--why all my well-laid plans had been detected.
A wind rustled through the foliage. That was in our favor; for in spite
of our care the leaves crushed and crinkled beneath us. At intervals a
glimmer of light shone from the beach. Louis paused and listened so
intently our breathing was distinctly audible. A vague murmur of low
voices--like the "talking of the trees" in Little Fellow's
language--floated up from the river; and in the moonlight I saw Laplante
laugh noiselessly. Trees stood farther apart on the flats and brushwood
gave place to a forest of ferns, that concealed us in their deep
foliage; but the thick growth also hid the enemy, and we knew not at
what moment we might emerge in full view of the camp. So we stretched
out flat, spying through the fern stalks before we parted the stems to
draw ourselves on a single pace. Presently, the murmur separated into
distinct voices, with much low laughing and the bitter jeers that make
up Indian mirth. We could hear the crackling of the fire, and wormed
forward like caterpillars.
There was a glare of light through the ferns, and Louis stopped. We all
three pulled abreast of him. Lying there as a cat watches a mouse, we
parted first one and then another of the fronds till the Indian
encampment could be clearly seen.
"Is that the tribe?" I whispered; but Louis gripped my arm in a vice
that forbade speech.
The camp was not a hundred feet away. Fire blazed in the centre. Poles
were up for wigwams, and already skins had been overlaid, completing
several lodges. Men lay in lazy attitudes about the fire. Squaws were
taking what was left of the evening meal and slave-women were putting
things to rights for the night. Sitting apart, with hands tied, were
other slaves, chiefly young women taken in some recent fray and not yet
trusted unbound. Among these was one better clad than the others. Her
wrists were tied; but her hands managed to conceal her face, which was
bowed low. In her lap was a sleeping child. Was this Miriam? Children
were with the other captives; but to my eyes this woman's torn shawl
appeared reddish in the fire glow.
"Let's go boldly up and offer to buy the slaves," I suggested; but
Louis' grip tightened forbiddingly and Little Fellow's forefinger
pointed towards a big creature, who was ordering the others about. 'Twas
a woman of giant, bronzed form, with the bold stride of a conquering
warrior and a trophy-decked belt about her waist. The fire shone against
her girdle and the stones in the leather strap glowed back blood-red.
Father Holland breathed only one word in my ear, "Agates;" and the fire
of the red stones flashed like some mystic flame through my being till
brain and heart were hot with vengeance and my hands burned as if every
nerve from palm to finger-tips were a blade point reaching out to
destroy that creature of cruelty.
"Diable's squaw," I gasped out, beside myself with anger and joy. "Let
me but within arm's length of her----"
"Hold quiet," the priest hissed low and angry, gripping my shoulder like
a steel winch. "'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord! See that you save
the white woman! Leave the evil-doer to God! The Lord's with us, but I
tell you, don't you bungle!"
"Bungle!" I could have shouted out defiance to the whole band. "Let go!"
I ordered, trying to struggle up; for the iron hand still held me. "Let
go, or I'll----"
But Louis Laplante's palm was forcibly slapped across my mouth and his
other hand he laid significantly on his dagger, giving me one
threatening look. By the firelight I saw his lips mechanically counting
the numbers of the enemy and mechanically I audited his count.
"Twenty men, thirty squaws and the slaves," said he under his breath.
An Indian left the fire and approached the captives.
"See! Watch! Is that woman Miriam?" demanded the priest. "She'll take
her hands from her face now."
"Of course it is!" I was furious at the restraint and hesitancy; but as
I said before, the experienced intriguer proceeds as warily as a cat.
"You not sure--not for sure--_Mon Dieu_--no," muttered Laplante; and he
was right. With the forest shadows across the captives, it was
impossible to distinguish the color of their faces. Taking a knife from
his belt, the Indian cut the cords of all but the woman with her hands
across her face. A girl brought refuse of food; but this woman took no
notice, never moving her hands. Thereupon the young squaw sneered and
the Indian idlers jeered loud in harsh, strident laughter. This roused
the big squaw. She strode up, Little Fellow all the while with
glistening teeth following her motions as a cat's head turns to a mouse.
With the flat of her hand she struck the silent woman, who leaped up and
ran to a wigwam. In speechless fear, the child had scrambled to its feet
and backed away from the angry group towards the ferns; but the light
was fitful and shadowy, and we could recognize neither woman, nor child.
"I can't stand this any longer," I declared. "I must know if that's
Miriam. Let's draw closer."
Father Holland and I crawled stealthily to the very border of fern
growth, Louis and the Indian lying still and muttering over some plan of
action.
"Hist," said the priest, "we'll try the child."
Unlike naked Indian children, the little thing had a loose garment
banded about its waist; but its feet were bare and its hair as raven
black as that of any young savage. It stood like some woodland elf in
the maze of heavy sleepiness, at each harsh word from the camp, sidling
shyly closer to our hiding-place. We dragged forward till I could have
touched the child, but feared to startle it.
Putting his hand out slowly, Father Holland caught the little creature's
arm. It gave a start, jerked back and looked in mute wonderment at our
strange hiding-place.
"Pretty boy," crooned the priest in low, coaxing tones, gently
tightening his hold.
"Is it white?" I whispered.
"I can't see."
"Good little man," he went on, slowly folding his hands about it.
Drawing quickly back, he lifted the child completely into his arms.
"Is boy sleepy?" he asked.
"Call him 'Eric,'" I urged.
"Is Eric sleepy?"
The child's head fell wearily against the priest's shoulder. Snuggling
closer, he lisped back in perfect English, "Eric's tired."
At once Father Holland's free hand caught my arm as if he feared I might
rush out. For a moment neither of us spoke.
Then he said, "Give me your coat."
I ripped off my buckskin-smock. Wrapping the sleeping boy about, the
priest laid him gently among the ferns.
"Where's the mother?" asked Father Holland with a catching intake of
breath.
I pointed to the wigwam. The big squaw had come out, leaving Miriam
alone and was engaged in noisy dispute with the men. Louis and Little
Fellow had now wriggled abreast of us.
"Ha, ha, _mon brave_--your time, it come now! You save the white woman!
I pay my devoirs to the lady, ha, ha--I owe her much--I pay you both
back with one stroke, one grand stroke. Little Fellow, he watch for
spring surprise and help us both! Swoop--snitch--snatch--snap her up!
'Tis done--tra-la!" and Louis drew up for all the world like a tiger
about to spring, but the priest drew him down.
"Listen," commanded the churchman, in the slow, tense way of one who
intended to be obeyed. "I'll go back and come up by the beach. I'll
brow-beat them and tongue-whack them for having slaves. They'll offer
fight; so'll I. They'll all run down; that's your chance. Wait till they
all go. I'll make them, every one. That's your chance. You rush! Try
that! If it fail, in the name of the Lord, have y'r weapons ready--and
the Lord be with us!"
"They'll kill you," I protested. "Let me go!"
"You? What about Frances?"
"Pah!" said Louis. "I go myself--I trick--I trap--I snare 'em----"
"Hush to ye, ye braggart," interrupted the priest. "Gillespie is as
flabby as dough from an illness. 'Tis here you sit quiet, and help with
Miriam as ye'd save y'r soul! Howld down with y'r bouncing nonsense,
lad, and the saints be with ye; for it's a fight there'll be, and there
is the fightin' stuff of a soldier in ye! Never turn to me--mind ye
never turn to help me, or the curse of the fool be on y'r head--and the
Lord be with us!"
"Amen." But I spoke to vacancy. While a rising wind set the branches
overhead grating noisily, he had risen and darted away. Louis Laplante,
contrary to the priest's orders, also rose and disappeared in the woods.
Little Fellow still lay by me, but I could not rely on him for
intelligent action, and there came over me that sense of aloneness in
danger, which I knew so well in the Mandane country. The child's
slightest cry might alarm the camp, and I shivered when he breathed
heavily, or turned in his sleep. The Indians might miss the boy and
search the woods. Instinctively my hand was on my pistol. It was well to
be as near Miriam's tent as possible; and I, too, took advantage of the
wind to change my place. I moved back, signalling the Indian to follow,
and skirted round the open till I was directly opposite Miriam's wigwam.
Why had Louis gone off, and why did he not come back? Had he gone to
keep secret guard over the priest, or to decoy the vigilant Sioux woman?
In his intentions I had confidence enough, but not in his judgment. At
that moment my speculations were interrupted by a loud shout from the
beach. Every Indian in camp started up as if hostiles had uttered their
war-cry.
"Hallo, there! Hallo! Hallo!" called the priest. Indians dashed to the
river, while bedraggled squaws and naked children rushed from wigwams
and stood in clamorous groups between the lodges and the water. The
topmost branches of the trees swayed back and forward in the wind,
alternately throwing shafts of moonlight and shadows across the opening
of Miriam's wigwam. When the light flooded the tent a solitary,
white-faced form appeared in dark, sharp outline. The bare arms were
tied at the wrists, and beat aimlessly through the darkness. And there
was a sound of piteous weeping.
Should I make the final, desperate dash now? "Don't bungle His plans,"
came the priest's warning; and I waited. The squaws were very near; and
the angular figure of Diable's wife hung on the rear of the group. She
was scolding like a termagant in the Sioux tongue, ordering the other
women to the fray; but still she kept back, looking over her shoulder
suspiciously at Miriam's tent, uncertain whether to go or stay. We had
failed in every other attempt to rescue Miriam. If the Lord--as the
priest believed--had planned the sufferer's aid, His instruments had
blundered badly. There must be no more feeble-fingering.
"Thieves! Thieves! Cut-throats!" bawled Father Holland in a storm of
abuse. "Ye rascals," he thundered, cutting the air with his stick and
purposely backing away from the camp to draw the Indians off. Then his
voice was lost in a chorus of shrill screams.
The moonlight shone across the wigwam opening. The captive had heard the
English tongue, and was listening. But the Sioux squaw had also heard
and recognized the voice of a former prisoner. She ran forward a pace,
then hesitated, looking back doubtfully. As she turned her head, out
from the gloom of the thicket with the leap of a lynx, lithe and swift,
sprang the crouching form of Louis Laplante. I felt Little Fellow all in
a tremor by my side; the tremor not of fear, but of the couchant
panther; and he uttered the most vicious snarl I have ever heard from
human throat. Louis alighted neatly and noiselessly, directly behind the
Sioux woman. She must have felt his presence, for she turned round and
round expectantly. Louis, silent and elusive as a shadow, circled about
her, tripping from side to side as she turned her head. But the fire
betrayed him. She had wheeled towards the forest as if spying for the
unseen presence among the foliage, and Louis deftly dodged behind. The
move put him between the fire and his antagonist, and the full profile
of his queer, bending figure was shadowed clear past the woman. She
turned like some vengeful, malign goddess, and I thought it all up with
the daring trapper; but he doffed his red toque and swept the advancing
fury the low bow of a French courtier. Then he drew himself erect and
laughed insolently in the woman's face. His careless assurance allayed
her suspicions.
"Oh, 'tis you!" she growled.
"'Tis I, fleet-foot, winged messenger, humble slave," laughed Louis,
with another grotesque bow; but the rogue had cleverly put himself
between the squaw and Miriam's tent.
I should have rushed to Miriam's rescue long since, instead of watching
this by-play between trapper and mountain cat; but as the foray waxed
hotter with the priest, the young braves had run back to their tents for
guns and clubs.
"Stand off, ye scoundrels," roared the priest, in tones of genuine
anger; for the Indians were closing threateningly about him. "Stand
back, ye knaves, ye sons of Satan," and every soul but Louis Laplante
and the Sioux squaw ran with querulous shouts to the river.
"Cruel! Cruel! Cruel!" sobbed a voice from the wigwam; and there was a
straining to break the thongs which bound her. "Cruel! Cruel! Hast Thou
no pity? O my God! Hast Thou no pity? Shall not a sparrow fall to the
ground without Thy knowledge? Is this Thy pity? O my God!" The voice
broke in a torrent of heart-piercing cries.
I could endure it no longer.
"Have at ye, ye villains! Come out like men! Now, me brave bhoys, show
the stuff that's in ye! A fig for y'r valor if ye fail! The curse o' the
Lord on the coward heart! Back with ye; ye red divils! Out with ye,
Rufus! The Lord shall deliver the captive! What, 'an wuld ye dare strike
a servant o' the Lord? Let the deliverer appear, I say," he shouted,
weaving in commands to us as he dealt stout blows about him and receded
down the river bank. "Take that--and that--and that," I heard him shout,
with a rat-tat-too of sharp thuds from the staff accompanying each
word. Then I knew the quarrel on the beach was at its height; and Louis
Laplante was still foiling the Sioux's approach to Miriam's wigwam like
a deft fencer.
"Follow me, Little Fellow," I commanded. "Have your knife ready," and I
had not finished speaking when three shrill whistles came from Louis.
'Twas his old-time signal of danger. Above the hubbub at the river the
Sioux squaw was screaming to the braves.
Bounding from concealment, I tore off the layer roofing of the wigwam,
plunged through the tapering pole frame, shaking the frail lean-to like
a house of cards, and was beside Miriam. Again I heard Louis' whistle
and again the squaw's angry scream; but Little Fellow had followed on my
heels and stood with knife-blade glittering bare at the tent-entrance.
"Hush," I whispered, slashing my dagger through the thongs around her
hands and cutting the rope that held her to the central stake. "We've
found you at last. Come! Come!" and I caught her up.
"O my God!" she cried. "At last! At last! Where is the child? They have
taken little Eric!"
"We have him safe! His father is waiting! Don't hesitate, Miriam!"
"Run, Little Fellow," I ordered, "Across the camp. Get the child," and I
sprang from the wigwam, which crashed to the ground behind me. I had
thought to save skirting the woods by a run across the camping-ground;
but when my Indian dashed for the child and the Sioux saw me undefended
with the white woman in my arms, she made a desperate lunge at Laplante
and called at the top of her voice for the braves.
Louis, with weapons in hand, still kept between the fury and Miriam; but
I think his French chivalry must have been restraining him. Though the
Sioux offered him many opportunities and was doing her best to sheathe a
knife in his heart, he seemed to refrain from using either dagger or
pistol. An insolent laugh was on his face. The life-and-death game which
he was playing was to his daring spirit something novel and amusing.
"The lady is--perturbed," he laughed, dodging a thrust at his neck; "she
fences wide, tra-la," this as the barrel of his pistol parried a drive
of her knife; "she hits afar--ho--ho--not so fast, my fury--not so
furious, my fair--zipp, ha--ha--ha--another miss--another miss--the
lady's a-miss," for the squaw's weapon struck fire against his own.
"Look out for the braves, have a care," I shouted; for a dozen young
bucks were running up behind to the woman's aid.
"Ha--ha---_prenez garde_--my tiger-cat has kittens," he laughed; and he
looked over his shoulder.
That backward look gave the fury her opportunity. In the firelight blue
steel flashed bright. The Frenchman reeled, threw up his arms, and
fell. One sharp, deep, broken draw of breath, and with a laugh on his
lips, Louis Laplante died as he had lived. Then the tiger-cat leaped
over the dead form at Miriam and me.
What happened next I can no more set down consecutively than I can
distinguish the parts in a confused picture with a red-eyed fury
striking at me, naked Indians brandishing war-clubs, flashes of powder
smoke, a circle of gesticulating, screeching dark faces in the
background, my Indian fighting like a very fiend, and a pale-faced woman
with a little curly-headed boy at her feet standing against the woods.
"Run, _Monsieur_; I keep bad Indians off," urged Little Fellow.
"Run--save white squaw and papoose--run, _Monsieur_."
Now, whatever may be said to the contrary, however brave two men may be,
they cannot stand off a horde of armed savages. I let go my whole
pistol-charge, which sent the red demons to a distance and intended
dashing for the woods, when the Sioux woman put her hand in her pocket
and hurled a flint head at Little Fellow. The brave Indian sprang aside
and the thing fell to the ground. With it fell a crumpled sheet of
paper. I heard rather than saw Little Fellow's crouching leap. Two forms
rolled over and over in the camp ashes; and with Miriam on my shoulder
and the child under the other arm, I had dashed into the thicket of the
upper ground.
Overhead tossed the trees in a swelling wind, and up from the shore
rushed the din of wrangling tongues, screaming and swearing in a clamor
of savage wrath. The wind grew more boisterous as I ran. Behind the
Indian cries died faintly away; but still with a strength not my own,
always keeping the river in view, and often mistaking the pointed
branches, which tore clothing and flesh from head to feet, for the hands
of enemies--I fled as if wolves had been pursuing.
Again and again sobbed Miriam--"O, my God! At last! At last! Thanks be
to God! At last! At last!"
We were on a hillock above our camp. Putting Miriam down, I gave her my
hand and carried the child. When I related our long, futile search and
told her that Eric was waiting, agitation overcame her, and I said no
more till we were within a few feet of the tents.
"Please wait." I left her a short distance from the camp that I might go
and forewarn Eric.
Frances Sutherland met me in the way and read the news which I could not
speak.
"Have you--oh--have you?" she asked. "Who is that?" and she pointed to
the child in my arms.
"Where's Hamilton? Where's your father?" I demanded, trembling from
exhaustion and all undone.
"Mr. Hamilton is in his tent priming a gun. Father is watching the
river. And oh, Rufus! is it really so?" she cried, catching, sight of
Miriam's stooped, ragged figure. Then she darted past me. Both her arms
encircled Miriam, and the two began weeping on each other's shoulders
after the fashion of women.
I heard a cough inside Hamilton's tent. Going forward, I lifted the
canvas flap and found Eric sitting gloomily on a pile of robes.
"Eric," I cried, in as steady a voice as I command, which indeed, was
shaking sadly, and I held the child back that Hamilton might not see,
"Eric, old man, I think at last we've run the knaves down."
"Hullo!" he exclaimed with a start, not knowing what I had said. "Are
you men back? Did you find out anything?"
"Why--yes," said I: "we found this," and I signalled Frances to bring
Miriam.
This was no way to prepare a man for a shock that might unhinge reason;
but my mind had become a vacuum and the warm breath of the child
nestling about my neck brought a mist before my eyes.
"What did you say you had found?" asked Hamilton, looking up from his
gun to the tent-way; for the morning light already smote through the
dark.
"This," I said, lifting the canvas a second time and drawing Miriam
forward.
I could but place the child in her arms. She glided in. The flap fell.
There was the smothered outcry of one soul--rent by pain.
"Miriam--Miriam--my God--Miriam!" "Come away," whispered a choky voice
by my side, and Frances linked her arm through mine.
Then the tent was filled and the night air palpitated with sounds of
anguished weeping. And with tears raining from my eyes, I hastened away
from what was too sacred for any ear but a pitying God's. That had come
to my life which taught me the depths of Hamilton's suffering.
"Dearest," said I, "now we understand both the pain and the joy of
loving," and I kissed her white brow.