FOR THE WEE LAMB LOST
Beresford, in front of the C.N. Morse & Company trading-post, watched
his horse paw at the snow in search of grass underneath. It was a sign
that the animal was prairie-bred. On the plains near the border grass
cures as it stands, retaining its nutriment as hay. The native pony
pushes the snow aside with its forefoot and finds its feed. But in the
timber country of the North grass grows long and coarse. When its sap
dries out, it rots.
The officer was thinking that he had better put both horse and cariole
up for the winter. It was time now for dogs and sled. Even in summer
this was not a country for horses. There were so many lakes that a
birch-bark canoe covered the miles faster.
Darkness was sweeping down over the land, and with it the first flakes
of a coming storm. Beresford had expected this, for earlier in the day
he had seen two bright mock suns in the sky. The Indians had told
him that these sun dogs were warnings of severe cold and probably a
blizzard.
Out of the edge of the forest a man on snowshoes came. He was moving
fast. Beresford, watching him idly, noticed that he toed in. Therefore
he was probably a Cree trapper. But the Crees were usually indolent
travelers. They did not cover ground as this man was doing.
The man was an Indian. The soldier presently certified his first guess
as to that. But not until the native was almost at the store did he
recognize him as Onistah.
The Blackfoot wasted no time in leading up to what he had to say.
"Sleeping Dawn she prisoner of Bully West and Whaley. She say bring
her father. She tell me bring him quick"
Beresford's body lost its easy grace instantly and became rigid. His
voice rang with sharp authority.
"Where is she?"
"She at Jasper's cabin on Cache Creek. She frightened."
As though the mention of Sleeping Dawn's name had reached him by some
process of telepathy, Tom Morse had come out and stood in the door of
the store. The trooper wheeled to him.
"Get me a dog-team, Tom. That fellow West has got Jessie McRae with
him on Cache Creek. We've got to move quick."
The storekeeper felt as though the bottom had dropped out of his
heart. He glanced up at the lowering night. "Storm brewing. We'll get
started right away." Without a moment's delay he disappeared inside
the store to make his preparations.
Onistah carried the news to McRae.
The blood washed out of the ruddy-whiskered face of the Scot, but his
sole comment was a Scriptural phrase of faith. "I have been young, and
now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken..."
It was less than half an hour later that four men and a dog-train
moved up the main street of Faraway and disappeared in the forest.
Morse broke trail and McRae drove the tandem. Onistah, who had already
traveled many miles, brought up the rear. The trooper exchanged places
with Morse after an hour's travel.
They were taking a short-cut and it led them through dead and down
timber that delayed the party. Tom was a good axeman, and more than
once he had to chop away obstructing logs. At other times by main
strength the men lifted or dragged the sled over bad places.
The swirling storm made it difficult to know where they were going or
to choose the best way. They floundered through deep snow and heavy
underbrush, faces bleeding from the whip of willow switches suddenly
released and feet so torn by the straps of the snowshoes that the
trail showed stains of blood which had soaked from the moccasins.
Onistah, already weary, began to lag. They dared not wait for him.
There was, they felt, not a moment to be lost. McRae's clean-shaven
upper lip was a straight, grim surface. He voiced no fears, no doubts,
but the others knew from their own anxiety how much he must be
suffering.
The gale increased. It drove in bitter blasts of fine stinging sleet.
When for a few hundred yards they drew out of the thick forest into an
open grove, it lashed them so furiously they could scarcely move in
the teeth of it.
The dogs were whimpering at their task. More than once they stopped,
exhausted by the wind against which they were battling. Their eyes
turned dumbly to McRae for instructions. He could only drive them back
to the trail Morse was breaking.
The train was one of the best in the North. The leader was a large
St. Bernard, weighing about one hundred sixty pounds, intelligent,
faithful, and full of courage. He stood thirty-four inches high at his
fore shoulder. Not once did Cuffy falter. Even when the others quit,
he was ready to put his weight to the load.
Through the howling of the wind Beresford shouted into the ear of
Morse. "Can't be far now. Question is can we find Jasper's in this
blizzard."
Morse shook his head. It did not seem likely. Far and near were words
which had no meaning. A white, shrieking monster seemed to be hemming
them in. Their world diminished to the space their outstretched arms
could reach. The only guide they had was Cache Creek, along the bank
of which they were traveling. Jasper's deserted cabin lay back from
it a few hundred yards, but Tom had not any data to tell him when he
ought to leave the creek.
Cuffy solved the problem for him. The St. Bernard stopped, refused
the trail Beresford and Morse were beating down in the deep snow. He
raised his head, seemed to scent a haven, whined, and tried to plunge
to the left.
McRae came forward and shouted to his friends. "We'll gi'e Cuffy his
head. He'll maybe ken mair than we do the nicht."
The trail-breakers turned from the creek, occasionally stopping to
make sure Cuffy was satisfied. Through heavy brush they forced a way
into a coulée. The St. Bernard led them plump against the wall of a
cabin.
There was a light inside, the fitful, leaping glow of fire flames.
The men stumbled through drifts to the door, McRae in the lead. The
Scotchman found the latch and flung open the door. The other two
followed him inside.
The room was empty.
At first they could not believe their eyes. It was not reasonable to
suppose that any sane human beings would have left a comfortable house
to face such a storm. But this was just what they must have done. The
state of the fire, which was dying down to hot coals, told them it had
not been replenished for hours. West and Whaley clearly had decided
they were not safe here and had set out for another hiding-place.
The men looked at each other in blank silence. The same thought was
in the mind of all. For the present they must give up the pursuit.
It would not be possible to try to carry on any farther in such
a blizzard. Yet the younger men waited for McRae to come to his
decision. If he called on them to do more, they would make a try with
him.
"We'll stay here," Angus said quietly. "Build up the fire, lads, and
we'll cast back for Onistah."
Neither of the others spoke. They knew it must have cost the Scotchman
a pang to give up even for the night. He had done it only because he
recognized that he had no right to sacrifice all their lives in vain.
The dogs took the back trail reluctantly. The sled had been unloaded
and was lighter. Moreover, they followed a trail already broken except
where the sweep of the wind had filled it up. McRae cheered them to
their work.
"Up wi' ye, Koona! Guid dog. Cha, cha! You'll be doin' gran' work,
Cuffy. Marché!"
Morse stumbled over Onistah where he lay in the trail. The Blackfoot
was still conscious, though he was drowsing into that sleep which is
fatal to Arctic travelers caught in a blizzard. He had crawled on
hands and feet through the snow after his knees failed him. It must
have been only a few minutes after he completely collapsed that they
found him.
He was given a gulp or two of whiskey and put on the sled. Again the
dogs buckled to the pull. A quarter of an hour later the party reached
the cabin.
Onistah was given first aid. Feet and face were rubbed with snow to
restore circulation and to prevent frost-bite. He had been rescued in
time to save him from any permanent ill effects.
In the back of all their minds lay a haunting fear. What had become
of Jessie? There was a chance that the blizzard had caught the party
before it reached its destination. Neither West nor Whaley was an
inexperienced musher. They knew the difficulties of sub-Arctic travel
and how to cope with them. But the storm had blown up with unusual
swiftness.
Even if the party had reached safety, the girl's troubles were not
ended. With the coming of darkness her peril would increase. As long
as Whaley was with West there was hope. The gambler was cold-blooded
as a fish, but he had the saving sense of sanity. If he meant to
return to Faraway--and there was no reason why he should not--he dared
not let any harm befall the girl. But West was a ruffian unmitigated.
His ruthless passion might drive him to any evil.
In front of the fire they discussed probabilities. Where had the two
free traders taken the girl? Not far, in the face of such a storm.
They canvassed places likely to serve as retreats for West.
Once McRae, speaking out of his tortured heart, made an indirect
reference to what all of them were thinking. He was looking somberly
into the fire as he spoke.
"Yea, the darkness hideth not from Thee, but the night shineth as the
day: the darkness and the light are both alike to Thee."
He found in his religion a stay and comfort. If he knew that under
cover of darkness evil men do evil deeds, he could reassure himself
with the promise that the hairs of his daughter's head were numbered
and that she was under divine protection.
From a pocket next his shirt he drew a small package in oilskin. It
was a Bible he had carried many years. By the light of the leaping
flames he read a chapter from the New Testament and the twenty-third
Psalm, after which the storm-bound men knelt while he prayed that God
would guard and keep safe "the wee lamb lost in the tempest far frae
the fold."
Morse and Beresford were tough as hickory withes. None in the North
woods had more iron in the blood than they. Emergencies had tested
them time and again. But neither of them was ashamed to kneel with the
big rugged Scotchman while he poured his heart out in a petition for
his lass. The security of the girl whom all four loved each in his own
way was out of the hands of her friends. To know that McRae had found
a sure rock upon which to lean brought the younger men too some
measure of peace.