A RESCUE
The gray day wore itself away into the deeper darkness of early dusk.
Like a wild beast attacking its prey, the hurricane still leaped with
deep and sullen roars at the little cabin on Bull Creek. It beat upon
it in wild, swirling gusts. It flung blasts of wind, laden with snow
and sleet, against the log walls and piled drifts round them almost to
the eaves.
Long since Whaley had been forced to take the dogs into the cabin to
save them from freezing to death. It was impossible for any of the
three human beings to venture out for more than a few minutes at a
time. Even then they had to keep close to the walls in order not to
lose contact with the house.
When feeding-time came the dogs made pandemonium. They were
half-famished, as teams in the Lone Lands usually are, and the smell
of the frozen fish thawing before the fire set them frantic. West and
Whaley protected Jessie while she turned the fish. This was not easy.
The plunging animals almost rushed the men off their feet. They had
to be beaten back cruelly with the whip-stocks, for they were wild as
wolves and only the sharpest pain would restrain them.
The half-thawed fish were flung to them in turn. There was a snarl, a
snap of the jaws, a gulp, and the fish was gone. Over one or two that
fell in the pack the train worried and fought, with sharp yelps
and growls, until the last fragment had been torn to pieces and
disappeared.
Afterward the storm-bound trio drank tea and ate pemmican, still
fighting back the pack. West laid open the nose of one in an ugly cut
with the iron-bound end of his whip-butt. Perhaps he was not wholly to
blame. Many of the dog-trains of the North are taught to understand
nothing but the sting of the whip and will respond only to brutal
treatment.
The second night was a repetition of the first. The three were divided
into two camps. Whaley or Jessie McRae watched West every minute.
There was a look in his eye they distrusted, a sulky malice back of
which seemed to smoke banked fires of murderous desire. He lay on the
floor and slept a good deal in short cat-naps. Apparently his dreams
were not pleasant. He would growl incoherently through set teeth and
clench great hairy fists in spasms of rage. Out of these he wakened
with a start to glare around suspiciously at the others. It was clear
the thought was in the back of his mind that they might destroy him
while he was asleep.
Throughout the third day the storm continued unabated. Whaley and
West discussed the situation. Except for a few pounds of fish, their
provisions were gone. If the blizzard did not moderate, they would
soon face starvation.
During the night the wind died down. Day broke clear, a faint and
wintry sun in the sky.
To West the other man made a proposal. "Have to get out and hunt food.
We'll find caribou in some of the coulées along the creek. What say?"
The convict looked at him with sly cunning. "How about this girl?
Think I'm gonna leave her to mush out an' put the police on my trail?
No, sir. I'll take her snowshoes with me."
Whaley shrugged his shoulders. "She couldn't find her way home if she
had shoes. But please yourself about that."
West's shifty gaze slid over him. The proposal of a hunt suited him.
He must have a supply of food to carry him to Lookout. Whaley was a
good shot and an expert trailer. If there were caribou or moose in the
vicinity, he was likely to make a kill. In any event there would be
hundreds of white rabbits scurrying through the woods. He decided
craftily to make use of the gambler, and after he was through with
him--
The men took with them part of the tea and enough fish to feed the
dogs once. They expected to find game sufficient to supply themselves
and stock up for a few days. Whaley insisted on leaving Jessie her
rifle, in order that she might shoot a rabbit or two if any ventured
near the cabin. She had three frozen fish and a handful of tea.
Before they started Whaley drew Jessie aside. "Can't say how long
we'll be gone. Maybe two days--or three. You'll have to make out with
what you've got till we get back." He hesitated a moment, then his
cold, hard eyes held fast to hers. "Maybe only one of us will come
back. Keep your eyes open. If there's only one of us--and it's
West--don't let him get into the house. Shoot him down. Take his
snowshoes and the team. Follow the creek down about five miles, then
strike southwest till you come to Clear Lake. You know your way home
from there."
Her dark eyes dilated. "Do you think he means to--to--?"
The man nodded. "He's afraid of me--thinks I mean to set the police on
his trail. If he can he'll get rid of me. But not yet--not till we've
got a couple of caribou. I'll be watching him all the time."
"How can you watch him while you're hunting?"
He lifted his shoulders in a shrug. It was quite true that West could
shoot him in the back during the hunt. But Whaley knew the man pretty
well. He would make sure of meat before he struck. After the sled was
loaded, Whaley did not intend to turn his back on the fellow.
Jessie had not been brought up in the North woods for nothing. She had
seen her brother Fergus make many a rabbit snare. Now she contrived
to fashion one out of some old strips of skin she found in the cabin.
After she had bent down a young sapling and fastened it to a fallen
log, she busied herself making a second one.
Without snowshoes she did not find it possible to travel far, but she
managed to shoot a fox that adventured near the hut in the hope of
finding something to fill its lean and empty paunch.
Before leaving, Whaley had brought into the house a supply of wood,
but Jessie added to this during the day by hauling birch poles from
the edge of the creek.
Darkness fell early. The girl built up a roaring fire piled the wood
up against the door so that nobody could get in without waking her.
The rifle lay close at hand. She slept long and soundly. When she
shook the drowsiness from her eyes, the sun was shining through the
window.
She breakfasted on stew made from a hindquarter of fox. After she had
visited her snares and reset one that had been sprung, she gathered
balsam boughs for a bed and carried them to the house to dry before
the fire. Whaley had left her a small hatchet, and with this she began
to shape a snowshoe from a piece of the puncheon floor. All day she
worked at this, and by night had a rough sort of wooden ski that might
serve at need. With red-hot coals, during the long evening, she burned
holes in it through which to put the straps. The skin of the fox, cut
into long strips, would do for thongs. It would be a crude, primitive
device, but she thought that at a pinch she might travel a few miles
on it. To-morrow she would make a mate for it, she decided.
Except for the bed of balsam boughs, her arrangements for the night
were just as they had been the first day. Again she built up a big
fire, piled the wood in front of the door, and put the rifle within
reach. Again she was asleep almost at once, within a minute of the
time when she nestled down to find a soft spot in the springy mattress
she had made.
Jessie worked hard on the second ski. By noon she had it pretty well
shaped. Unfortunately a small split in the wood developed into a
larger one. She was forced to throw it aside and begin on another
piece.
A hundred times her eyes had lifted to sweep the snow field for any
sign of the hunters' return. Now, looking out of the window without
much expectation of seeing them, her glance fell on a traveler, a
speck of black on a sea of white. Her heart began to beat a drum of
excitement. She waited, eyes riveted, expecting to see a second figure
and a dog-team top the rise and show in silhouette.
None appeared. The man advanced steadily. He did not look backward.
Evidently he had no companion. Was this lone traveler West?
Jessie picked up the rifle and made sure that it was in good working
order. A tumultuous river seemed to beat through her temples. The
pulses in her finger-tips were athrob.
Could she do this dreadful thing, even to save honor and life, though
she knew the man must be twice a murderer? Once she had tried and
failed, while he stood taunting her with his horrible, broken-toothed
grin. And once, in the stress of battle, she had wounded him while he
was attacking.
The moving black speck became larger. It came to her presently with
certainty that this was not West. He moved more gracefully, more
lightly, without the heavy slouching roll.... And then she knew he was
not Whaley either. One of her friends! A little burst of prayer welled
out of her heart.
She left the cabin and went toward the man. He waved a hand to her and
she flung up a joyful gesture in answer. For her rescuer was Onistah.
Jessie found herself with both hands in his, biting her lower lip to
keep back tears. She could not speak for the emotion that welled up in
her.
"You--all well?" he asked, with the imperturbable facial mask of his
race that concealed all emotion.
She nodded.
"Good," he went on. "Your father pray the Great Spirit keep you safe."
"Where is Father?"
He looked in the direction from which he had come. "We go Jasper's
cabin--your father, red soldier, American trader, Onistah. You gone.
Big storm--snow--sleet. No can go farther. Then your father he pray.
We wait till Great Spirit he say, 'No more wind, snow,' Then we move
camp. All search--go out find you." He pointed north, south, east, and
west. "The Great Spirit tell me to come here. I say, 'Sleeping Dawn
she with God, for Jesus' sake, Amen.'"
"You dear, dear boy," she sobbed.
"So I find you. Hungry?"
"No. I shot a fox."
"Then we go now." He looked at her feet. "Where your snowshoes?"
"West took them to keep me here. I'm making a pair. Come. We'll finish
them."
They moved toward the house. Onistah stopped. The girl followed his
eyes. They were fastened on a laden dog-train with two men moving
across a lake near the shore of which the cabin had been built.
Her fear-filled gaze came back to the Indian. "It's West and Mr.
Whaley. What'll we do?"
Already he was kneeling, fumbling with the straps of his snowshoes.
"You go find your father. Follow trail to camp. Then you send him
here. I hide in woods."
"No--no. They'll find you, and that West would shoot you."
"Onistah know tricks. They no find him."
He fastened the snow-webs on her feet while she was still protesting.
She glanced again at the dog-train jogging steadily forward. If she
was going, it must be at once. Soon it would be too late for either of
them to escape.
"You will hide in the woods, won't you, so they can't find you?" she
implored.
He smiled reassurance. "Go," he said.
Another moment, and she was pushing over the crust along the trail by
which the Blackfoot had come.