A KNIFE DOES DIFFERENT THINGS IN DIFFERENT HANDS
In the heart of this northland wilderness, set amid trees like a green
crystal jewel, was a hard-frozen little lake, solidly rimmed in by
heavy evergreens, its ice blown clear and smooth by the keen winds.
To-day it was calm and deathly still; the very air seemed heavy, bitter
with the doom of men, chilled by the unseen breath which struck so
terribly. In the centre of the lake thrust up a tiny islet of bare
and jagged rock, now blown partially grey and naked, now cloaked with
masses of ice. About the edge of this islet the first ice of winter had
been flung up to form fantastic ridges and caverns.
This was the Spirit Lake. In this spot, to-day, was being enacted a
singular and frightful drama, the more terrible because of its uncanny
certainty, its mystery, its silence and absolute precision. The lake
and islet were not sacred to peace, for no spot in this land was
untouched of blood; but the islet, being the abode of spirits, was
shunned by common consent. The red men did not like the looks of it on
general principles.
No canoe furrowed this lake in summer. Around it for league on league
were to be seen neither lodge-poles of the living nor tree-scaffolds
of the dead. To north and northwest roamed the Stone Men; when they
came down into this country of lakes and streams to seek game, they
encountered the parties of Dacotah upsurging from the south. To the
east, yet keeping careful distance, roved the Crees. The Sauteurs or
Chippewas also came up from the south, but these kept out of strife,
standing neutral between Stone Men and Dacotah. While this islet in the
Spirit Lake was a good place for young warriors to seek medicine and
dream dreams, most of them preferred other quarters for this work.
It was still morning when the heavy green rim of the icebound lake gave
birth to the figure of a man clad in wool capote and sash, short wide
snowshoes slung over shoulder; he was followed by a second in like
guise, both carrying French fusils. They were Sauteurs, belonging to a
band out on winter hunt. They had no enemy to fear, yet approached the
islet warily. Their reason for this approach was a faint trail across
the smooth ice, a trail as of sharp caribou hooves which here and there
had slipped or left distinct marks on the glassy surface.
These two hunters gradually drew closer to the islet, toward which ran
the trail in a direct and undeviating line; that actual hunger drove
them to follow such a trail was evident in their gaunt and famished
aspect. Their eyes searched the jutting mass of ice and rock with sharp
suspicion and wonder. To all appearance the islet was empty of life.
Now the leading warrior drew near to the ice-rimmed shore, his brown
features wrinkled by some indefinable perplexity, by a half-sensed
warning. He came to the fantastic line of icy hummocks, looked down
to be sure the caribou trail led into them, then slowly strode in
among their masses. He vanished instantly. The second warrior stopped
short, uttered a low word, put hand to fusil. Something flashed red in
the air, a streak of vivid scarlet cutting athwart the blue sky. The
Sauteur clutched at his throat and toppled over; he lay motionless,
dead ere he struck the ice, the shaft of a crimson arrow protruding
from his gullet.
Some little time elapsed. Then, although no sign of living men
appeared, there was a movement at the islet’s verge--something
uncoiled, mounted in the air. Out toward the prostrate figure shot a
thin hide rope, unlooping and flying with the certainty of a darting
snake. Its noose caught on the upturned foot of the dead man. The rope
drew taut, the body slowly slid in toward the shore, still tightly
gripping the fusil, and there vanished from sight. All was silent
again, motionless, breathless.
Presently, at a point around the lake shore where the fringe of trees
opened out a little, thirteen men appeared. They doffed snowshoes and
made camp, their fire-smoke rising greyly against the sky. Three of
these were white men, the others Assiniboines or Stone Men; and almost
immediately these latter scattered out to hunt, leaving Crawford and
Frontin alone with Maclish. The three stood gazing about, scanning the
lake, the quiet sky, the silent trees.
“No sign of ’em,” said the Scot, scratching his pointed red beard.
His whitish eyes probed the shores around, and the treetops. “Likely
they’ll come to us when they see our smoke. Let’s find some wet wood
and make a good signal.”
The three turned in among the trees.
After a time, at another point around the lake, a man emerged upon the
ice. He, too, was following the trail of sharp hooves; it was quite
singular that such a trail should have been left, running straight to
the little islet, and so he found it. He was the Assiniboine chief,
and alone. Had he known that there were more than one of these caribou
trails, all converging on the islet, each made with great cunning to
simulate the stagger of a hurt or wounded beast, he might not have
followed on--but he perceived only the one trail.
All the same, he was uneasy. He stared from ice to islet, paused now
and again to touch a medicine bag at his throat, examined the open ice
around him as a fox scrutinizes the openings about a bait. He slowly
drew in toward the islet, showing on this side the naked rock to face
the wind-blown north. He was taking no chances, either on angry spirits
or maddened beasts. As he approached the shore he primed his musket
afresh, narrowly examining the rocks. Little by little he drew closer,
and presently leaped up to the nearest rock. One instant he stood there
peering around, his figure sharply outlined against the sky--then he
was gone, dragged down by some sinuous, uncoiling thing. A long cry
started up, the death-yell of a chief; it was quenched midway. After
that, the islet was silent again.
For some time the three white men waited about their built-up fire,
which now sent a goodly column of smoke drifting upward. They were not
at ease, however. Frontin was dark and snarling, Crawford moody and
depressed; this contact with the man who had murdered Phelim Burke was
something hard to endure. Maclish knew this, and watched them narrowly,
and after a bit rose. He went to the lake shore and stood gazing out
at the island. The other two exchanged a glance, then joined him.
“Shall we have a look at it?” asked Frontin. “I’d like to see the
spirits there.”
“Ay, let’s have a look,” grunted Maclish. Crawford assented silently.
The three men started off across the smooth, glistening ice. All three
were bareheaded, having doffed their furs, for now the winter chill was
out of the air.
If this were gone, there was another sort of chill which reached them
before half the distance to the islet was covered. Crawford, in the
lead, felt it and knew that the others were also touched by the same
perturbation. Perhaps it came from the tales of the red men, perhaps
from some sixth sense; at all events, that silent mass of rock and
ice imparted a strangely weird and uncanny impression. The feeling
that unseen eyes watched them was acute. Two-thirds of the way to the
island, Frontin suddenly halted.
“Me, I do not like this,” he exclaimed. “If the trail were covered, it
were better. Prime your gun, cap’n.”
Crawford half turned. His moccasined foot slipped on the ice, and he
fell heavily on hands and knees. Maclish grunted with swift malice.
“A bad omen for ye.” Then the words died in a gasp of surprise.
Crawford rose. He fumbled at his breast, where a splendid thing now
glittered. That fall had shaken from inside his coat the star which he
wore there on a thong. He held it up, examining it to see if the jewel
had suffered; the raw gold, the massy emeralds, glinted and glimmered
in the afternoon sunlight. Maclish stared in speechless wonder; it was
his first sight of the thing, his first indication that Crawford bore
such a treasure.
Maclish was not the only one to stare. From the islet ahead rang out
a sharp exclamation, and the three men looked up. They saw a queer
creature standing there on the rocks gazing at them--a tall Indian,
over whose head was flung the skull and robe of a bison, the fur
cloaking his body. At that grotesque and horned apparition all three
gazed, transfixed.
“Come!” To their still greater astonishment, the crested figure spoke
in French. “Smoke the calumet. Come!”
Crawford could not tell whether this were an invitation or not, but
he comprehended that sight of the star at his throat had brought the
apparition.
“_Kola!_ Friend!” said that singular creature perched against the blue
sky, and flung out empty hands. “The Star Woman sent us to meet you.
Come.”
Then the figure vanished. The islet was bare and empty again.
“No spirit, but a trap,” said Frontin, first to recover speech. “There
are our messengers--and have a care, cap’n!”
“Deil take me,” snorted Maclish, “but yon man spoke French! From the
south, belike.”
“Of course,” said Crawford quietly. “Frontin, wait here with the
muskets. It’s no trap, but we’ll not take chances.” He passed his
musket to Frontin. “Coming with me, Maclish?”
“Oh, ay.”
Crawford resumed his course, Maclish at his elbow. Between these two
men had passed few words since the previous day. Hatred lay between
them, and fear. Maclish was a subtle and a canny man, but he could not
fathom the stern silence and self-control of Crawford. Nor had the
latter missed certain indications which warned him that Maclish was
even now carrying on some treacherous game. The Stone Men had sent
up lengthy smoke-signals which he could not read, and messengers had
departed. It was tacitly understood that after meeting the Dacotah
envoys, the quarrel between the two men would be settled--Maclish
doubtless counting on murdering both Frontin and Crawford.
Now, gaining the shore ice, Crawford passed in among the hummocks,
gained the rocks beyond, and mounted them. He heard Maclish coming to
his side, and then jumped down. It was a hideous scene which greeted
the two men, a scene which could not fail to give the impression
intended.
Here was a hollow among the rocks, and in the centre of it a blackened
space of old fires showing that the Dacotah envoys had been camped
here for some little time. In the centre of this blackened area now
blazed a fire of a few dry sticks--a very tiny fire, without smoke
or heat, serving only to keep the red spark of life in being. Across
from this fire sat in grave silence the man who had summoned them, his
face streaked with white and vermilion under the horned bison robe;
with him was a second man who wore the head and pelt of a grey timber
wolf in similar fashion. Both of them regarded Crawford and Maclish
with steady scrutiny--but the two white men were staring hard at the
lifeless things behind the two Dacotah.
These had been men, all six of them. Two Sauteurs, three Crees, and
the Assiniboine chief of Maclish’s party; they were dead, sitting in
frozen silence as though watching the council fire, cunningly placed
soon after death so that their rigid bodies assumed the sitting posture
naturally. They had not been scalped. Only the horrible fixedness
of eye and sinew betrayed their condition. A cry of fury broke from
Maclish at sight of the chieftain.
“I’ll have your scalps for this, ye rogues!”
“My brothers are welcome,” said the bison-chief in French. “We do not
understand the strange talk that is like the crackling of dried leaves.”
“You’ll understand it soon enough,” retorted Maclish, in groping and
barbarous French, and added an oath. “You’ve murdered the chief!”
Crawford, inwardly laughing at all this, struck in smoothly. The fact
that these chiefs spoke French, which was obviously difficult for
Maclish, was a godsend.
“This man is an Englishman,” and he gestured toward Maclish, who
was purple with fury. “He is my enemy, and leads the Stone Men. He
seeks the Star Woman, and so do I. Presently he and I will settle our
quarrel. We await your message.”
“That is good,” said the Dacotah. “Standing Bull and Yellow Sky have
brought belts from the Star Woman. We are of the nation of The Men, the
Issanti clan of the Dacotah. The Star Woman ordered us to meet in this
fashion the white man who came to seek her, and to give him the belts.
We have waited long. Now we do not understand who is to receive these
belts. It was said that the white man was an Englishman, having red
hair.”
At these words Crawford started slightly. It was true that his hair was
a reddish brown.
Maclish did not comprehend all that was said, between his poor command
of French and his overpowering rage. Crawford, however, made a swift
and shrewd guess that the message from the Star Woman was not a nice
one; remembering the token she had sent Moses Deakin, he resolved to
gamble heavily on this presumed fact. Now, as Standing Bull produced a
calumet and a bag of willow-bark, Maclish spat hot words at him.
“I will not smoke with you! Am I to smoke with you while the eyes of
that dead chief reproach me?”
“The calumet has not been offered you,” was the calm response. “We do
not smoke with Englishmen, who are enemies of our brothers the French.
Which of you is to receive the belts?”
Crawford intervened with precision.
“This man Red Bull seeks to marry the Star Woman and to carry her off
among the Stone Men. It is to him that your belts are sent. I am an
Irishman. With me is my friend, who is a Frenchman. I will call him.”
This drew an approving grunt of surprise and pleasure. “_Was-te!
Was-te!_” The burly Scot, with the game thus taken out of his hands,
scowled. Crawford touched his arm.
“Watch yourself, Maclish! There may be other Dacotah stationed among
the rocks, so go slowly. Their message seems to be for you.” He lifted
his voice and called. “Ho, Frontin! Leave the guns and come along.”
“You will see that I speak truly,” he said to the two chiefs. “My
medicine has sent me to meet you, that you may take me with you to seek
the Star Woman. I shall go with you, and her heart will be glad. Look,
here is my medicine!”
He laid bare the star of gold and emeralds, and at closer sight of this
Star of Dreams, astonishment seized the two red men. Obviously, they
had heard that the man seeking the Star Woman carried this jewel; they
were visibly shaken by sight of it, knowing not what to say or do. Its
effect upon them was profound, and it also plunged them into perplexity.
Now Frontin came scrambling over the rocks, and their eyes shifted to
him. When he spoke in French, they grunted in recognition.
“Death of my life!” said he coolly, looking at the dead men. “This is a
pretty scene!”
“Join me and smoke.” Crawford seated himself opposite the Dacotah. The
younger of these leaned forward and pointed at the star.
“What is the name of this medicine? Why does not the Red Bull wear it?”
Crawford laughed slightly and evaded. “It is the Star of Dreams, and it
came to me from afar, in order to lead me to the Star Woman.”
There was in his voice a certain surety which was impressive--for he
himself had now come to believe in this jewel. This sincerity made
itself felt as no mere words would have done.
Yet the gamble was a stiff one; and had not Maclish been so fumbling
with his French, the affair might have gone otherwise, for the Scot was
nobody’s fool. He, however, comprehending that the message had somehow
been turned to him, mastered his anger and once more became the coolly
dangerous rascal. Seating himself, he growled that he would accept the
belts which had been sent.
Crawford now waited to see whether the calumet would be offered him.
He was confident that this acquiescence from Maclish had settled the
matter of the message, but he depended on the two Dacotah to get him
and Frontin safely away, as he had implied to them. Sight of the Star
of Dreams had confused the whole issue for the two chieftains.
They were in no haste, those redskins; this affair was so extraordinary
that they were somewhat at a loss. Finally Standing Bull got the pipe
stuffed, and held a brand to it. When the pipe was lighted, he puffed
ceremoniously to the winds, the sun and the earth. His companion did
likewise--and the pipe was then handed to Crawford.
So far, the game was won.
While Frontin smoked in turn, then handed the pipe back, Maclish sat
waiting, intent and narrow-eyed, fully aware by this time of his own
impotence. The pipe was refused him, and he knew what this meant. It
was doubtful if the Stone Men were yet aware that the three whites had
gone to the islet. Maclish would be in sharp jeopardy unless he were
careful, so the burly Scot bottled up his anger and settled down to
play his game.
Laying aside the pipe, Standing Bull now came to his feet. He put
a hand beneath his robe and produced a belt of ordinary porcelain
trade-beads, which he dropped at the feet of Maclish.
“This belt,” he began, “says that the Star Woman has heard of your
search for her. It says that her manitou does not love Englishmen,
who are allies of the Iroquois and enemies of our father Onontio at
Montreal.”
Standing Bull produced a second belt of the same material, turned to
the circle of dead men, and laid that belt across the knees of the
Assiniboine chieftain, whom he addressed.
“This second belt is for the Stone Men; let their eyes look upon it,
let their ears be opened to it! It says that their manitou is bad, and
therefore the Star Woman has punished them. It says that they have done
wrong to befriend the English, for the Dacotah people have a French
father.”
Now, turning back to Maclish, Standing Bull produced a third belt--not
of white porcelain this time, but a flaming crimson belt of valuable
wampum shells, which he dropped before the Scot.
“This third belt is for you, Red Bull. It says: ‘You cannot go farther;
the trail is closed against you. The Star Woman knows your people for
bad men and does not desire to look upon your face. Go back. If you
come farther your scalp will be dried in the lodges of The Men, your
skin will be stretched on the bark wall of the council house; your
_manzakawan_, your iron tube in which dwells a spirit, will sit in the
lodge of the Star Woman above the lake of many stars, and will spit no
more bullets.’ I have spoken.”
Standing Bull seated himself and drew his robe about his knees.
For a long moment, Maclish was absolutely beyond words with torrential
fury. He saw now that he had been tricked into receiving these belts,
which had been meant for Crawford. More, the Dacotah were openly
hostile to him and friendly to Crawford, while he himself was trapped
and helpless on this islet. A slight stir among the rocks betokened
that at least one other redskin lay hidden. His red features whitened
and became almost livid, then crimsoned again. His breath came
hoarsely. Yet he tried to master himself, his big bearded jaw jutting
forth, his hands clenched until the knuckles showed white. The effort
succeeded.
He moved, stirred his broad bulk, opened his wool coat and flung it
off. One hand went out to the red wampum belt and drew it in; the other
went to his belt and produced a long knife. With a swift motion he
drove the knife through the centre of the wampum belt, which he twisted
about the haft; he flung belt and knife at the feet of Standing Bull.
“There is my answer to the Star Woman,” he said, and with an angry
laugh rose to his feet. “So her lodge is pitched at the lake of many
stars? Good. I shall come and take her as my squaw. The Stone Men shall
dance with your scalps and put you into the kettle, taking your women
as slaves. That is my response. As for this rascal,” and he whirled on
Crawford with a baleful glare, “stand up and fight, ye vagabond rogue!
Settle our affairs, as ye said, and I’ll crop your ears for ye.”
Crawford rose, his face very bleak and hard.
“Fight? Who said fight?” he demanded, giving Maclish a cool stare.
“I’ve no intention of fighting with you. I said we’d settle our
business--ay! But we’ll not fight.”
The Scot stared at him, amazed, jaw fallen in sheer astonishment.
“Eh, man? But----”
Swift as light, his careless attitude giving no warning of his
intention, Crawford swung on his heel and drove his fist into the pit
of the big man’s stomach. It was a terrific blow, with body weight
behind it. Caught all astare and unsuspecting, Maclish grunted as the
breath was smashed out of him. An expression of mute agony swept into
his face, and he slowly toppled forward, gasping and senseless.
“_Was-te!_” came the guttural approval of the two chiefs. Crawford,
standing above the unconscious Maclish, looked at them for a moment.
“The star fights for me. Will you take us with you or not?”
“Our brother Wandering Star shall go with us, and his friend.”
“This is a red bull who never gives up,” and Crawford stirred the
senseless Maclish with his toe. “He will lead the Stone Men after us.”
“Let my brother drink his blood,” said Standing Bull.
“The time for that has not come. Later on I shall kill him, but first I
shall put my mark upon him, so that all men may know that he belongs
to me. If he does follow us, the Dacotah will capture him, then I shall
take him and kill him.”
Crawford did not scrutinize the brown faces as he said this, or he
might have noted that the chiefs showed no great delight in his
prediction. He took out his knife and stooped over Maclish. With
deliberation, he slit the skin on that sweating, agonized forehead;
when he had finished, the Scot was branded with a five-pointed star. It
bled copiously.
“He has lived well, the bleeding will give him strength,” said Frontin
cynically. “You mistake, cap’n, not to put the knife into his heart. He
promised to crop your ears.”
“Let him live with this brand on him,” said Crawford. “I shall find him
again.”
Frontin shrugged. The two red men rose and bestirred themselves. From
among the rocks came a third warrior, bearing a pack of dried meat.
When the three had obtained snowshoes and warbags, they took the short
forest snowshoes belonging to the two dead Sauteurs, and gave these to
their white companions. Frontin retrieved the muskets he had left at
the shore.
“Come, my brothers!” said Standing Bull. “Even if they see us go, the
Stone Men will not follow us--until after they have found their chief.”
Crawford followed them to the edge of the islet, on the side farthest
from the camp of the Stone Men. There, as all five came to the open
ice, with the islet to cover them from sight of Maclish’s men, Frontin
suddenly halted.
“I’ll be along in a moment, don’t wait,” he said, then darted back and
vanished among the rocks.
The others went on. They were half-way across the open ice to the
shore, when Crawford saw Frontin running and sliding after them. He was
wiping his knife as he came, and Crawford turned upon him with an angry
look. Frontin laughed and made answer to the tacit question.
“No, my cap’n! I did no more than crop the rogue’s ears,” and with this
he flung two small objects on the ice. “I, too, loved Phelim Burke a
little.”
There were strange things beneath the shell of this dark Frontin.