TWO TRAILS MAY HAVE THE SAME END
During the following week, Crawford’s knowledge of the Star Woman
remained exactly where it had been. The Dacotah refused to talk, being
troubled and uneasy in spirit. All five men were in fast and furious
flight, acute peril pricking them on; although they had left the Spirit
Lake safely, the Stone Men were hard on their heels. That Maclish had
tricked them all, was fully appreciated.
The Dacotah envoys were not happy in the event; perhaps, under the
leaden skies, they suspected that their belts had been delivered amiss.
With the passing days, they began to regret some things and to ponder
others. Storm had been gathering for days. The last of winter was
in the air; the moon of the carp passed into that of the crane, the
snow-crust was disintegrating underfoot, and the black tempest might
be of either snow or rain. The Dacotah were praying for this storm to
burst and save them, yet it held off--and they now considered their
peril as a punishment for bringing Crawford with them.
It was not until after this week of hard marching that they took
counsel with Crawford and Frontin. Both these latter were thoroughly
alive to the situation. The sudden changes of direction, the spurts of
speed, the stratagems, all showed that the Dacotah were desperately
striving to fling off the encircling enemy whose signal smokes rose now
and again into the leaden sky. Hampered by their slower companions, the
efforts of the Dacotah were futile.
When Standing Bull broke his silence, it was at the evening camp after
a stiff day of marching. Overhead was lowering storm, with pines and
cedars all amoan in the darkness. Crawford had lost all sense of
direction, had not glimpsed a soul outside their own party, and had no
idea of his whereabouts; but about noon he had seen two signal smokes
to their right, and was not blind to the angry nervousness of the red
men. And Standing Bull, having come to the point of speech, delivered a
word that was blunt enough.
“Let my brothers open their ears,” he said abruptly. “We have helped
them; without our aid the Stone Men would have danced their scalps. We
have done as we promised. If Wandering Star had killed the Red Bull,
the Stone Men would not now be on our trail.”
Crawford shrugged. Standing Bull gravely continued.
“Among the hills at the sacred lake of many stars, lives the Star
Woman. She has spent the winter there with five lodges of my young
men, who seek medicine before being admitted to the brotherhoods.
Here is the lake,” and to represent it, he drew a circle in the snow.
“That lies half a moon’s journey from this place.” To indicate their
present position, he drew a cross, orientating the diagram. “The Spirit
Lake, where my brothers came to meet us, lies here.” He completed his
map with a black cinder, which formed a rude triangle with the other
points.
This mute witness in the snow spoke eloquently enough. Crawford
saw that instead of heading straight from the Spirit Lake to the
Star Woman, they had come far to the south. The reason for this
circumlocution was now shown by a flint which the chief took from his
French firebag and laid down--the flint standing for the Assiniboines
or Stone Men, who had driven the party well off their direct course.
“Death of my life, but he should be royal cartographer!” exclaimed
Frontin admiringly. “I thought that accursed Maclish was a tricky
rogue. When he agreed to take us to the Spirit Lake with ten men, the
sly fox tricked us--he brought down the whole pack of Assiniboines on
our heels!”
Crawford nodded, and caught an assenting gleam in the eyes of the
chief. Standing Bull resumed his exposition of affairs, and swept a
brown finger in the snow, well to the southward.
“Here is the country of The Men. The Spirit Woman lives far from us;
she is a friend of all people, and many tribes send to her for healing
or counsel. I have spent the winter in her lodge with my young men,
hunting for her needs and trapping castor for the French posts. Now I
must go to her swiftly with Old Bear, here,” and he indicated the third
Dacotah, who was a young man despite his name. “The trail must now be
forked in three ways. I go ahead with Old Bear, because my brothers
cannot travel fast. Here to the south must go Yellow Sky, seeking the
villages of my people, to bring a war-party against the Stone Men.”
“Oh!” Crawford perceived that he and Frontin were abandoned. “And what
about us?”
Standing Bull touched Crawford’s shirt, beneath which hung the Star of
Dreams.
“My brother’s manitou is strong. It will protect him.”
Crawford’s lips twitched ironically. Frontin broke into a gay laugh of
mirth.
“Well touched, cap’n! Those buccaneers of Joppa said the same thing
when they pitched Jonah overboard, eh? Well, they were right; and I am
not so sure but that the chief here is also right!”
Crawford ignored this comment, and also disdained to argue with the
Dacotah. These, obviously, were determined to abandon the white men
and flee. Since one was heading south to raise a war-party, the danger
must be pressing indeed. Their resolve angered him, yet he was helpless
before it.
“Very well, I’ll trust to the star,” he said. “How shall we find this
lake of many stars, since we do not know this country at all? According
to this diagram, it lies northwest of us; but there are no trails in
the wilderness.”
“Your medicine is very strong, it will whisper in your ear,” said the
chief sententiously. “It will confuse the Stone Men and throw them off
your trail. It will guide you----”
Crawford lost his temper at this.
“You are not warriors, but women; may the foul fiend fly away with you!
Go, and the sooner the better.”
Somewhat to his consternation, Standing Bull and the other two redskins
instantly took him at his word; they were very close to panic. The
three caught up their packs, pulled their snowshoes from the snow, and
in two minutes had melted away into the darkness.
Frontin, slow to comprehend that the Dacotah were actually departing,
stared after them, then burst into a storm of bitter oaths.
“Why, the scurvy rogues mean to follow along the ice of that little
river below us--leaving the enemy to swoop down on our trail in the
snow! Unless we go the same way.”
Crawford nodded. The Dacotah, frightened, were leaving the whites as a
scalp-gift to the Stone Men; the danger, then, was imminent. He stared
with sombre eyes over his pipe into the tiny fire-glow, then began to
study that diagram in the snow.
“At least, they got us away from Maclish and his men,” he said. “See,
now! We must strike to the northwest until we reach hills; that’s clear
enough. This frozen river below us comes from the northwest or runs
that way--sink me if I can tell which. We must take to the ice.”
“And trail the Dacotah?”
“No; they’ll cover their trail. Undoubtedly Maclish tricked us
smoothly. When Standing Bull laid that belt over the knees of the dead
Assiniboine chief, he declared war. Crafty Maclish will make the most
of that, be sure! If he can persuade them to capture the Star Woman and
bring the Dacotah to terms, he may yet win his game and be a second
Kelsey. Well, I wish we were out of this accursed ice and snow! Winter
lasts forever in this land.”
“We’ll be out of it when the storm breaks----”
“Unless the storm brings snow. Sly fellows, those Dacotahs! If snow
comes, their tracks are covered, while we are lost. Suppose we dine.”
The decamping redskins had left a fair share of dried meat, with two
rabbits which hung over the fire. Crawford and Frontin quieted their
hunger, then lighted pipes and smoked in silence. Crawford fully
realized the difficulty of finding the Star Woman in this wilderness;
the very thought was oppressive, hopeless. A fortnight of snow-travel
was not only vague, but implied great distances.
“I made a mistake,” he said, and at this admission Frontin shot him
a look. “When I left Maclish alive, I took for granted that the Star
Woman lived among the Dacotah, or close to them. So, as Maclish was
bound to follow us, the future looked safe. As it now turns out,
nothing is certain. Well, no matter! Have you any idea of what the
month might be? I’ve quite lost track.”
Frontin held a brand to his pipe. Then he held his hand up in air and
waited a moment.
“The month is April,” he said, so positively that Crawford regarded him
in surprise.
“How do you know?”
“A snowflake came down on my hand, and was rain before it more than
touched the skin.”
A slight hiss from the embers emphasized the words, and Crawford
straightened up. The storm was indeed close at hand. From the dark
forest was coming a queer stir and rustle, then Crawford felt the touch
of snow on his cheek. He leaped to his feet.
“Quick--our chance! If those rascals had only waited! In another hour
it will be raining. Get our stuff together; we must travel along the
ice until we can’t lift a foot! If we go fast and far enough, the trail
will be covered.”
“Ah!” said Frontin. “I have just recollected something important.”
“What, then?” said Crawford impatiently.
“When Standing Bull delivered that belt to Maclish, he stated where the
Star Woman lived--and the red Scot caught the words.”
“What of it?”
“Nothing.” Frontin rose, shrugged, and smiled thinly. “These stiff
moccasins! But better stiff shoes than stiff toes. Ready--belay all!
I’d give a year of life to be on the ocean again.”
The two men started into the darkness, feeling their way by the broken
trail which the Dacotah had left. Ten minutes later they had gained the
open sweep of the river below, while slushy rain pelted them and the
storm burst with a rush and a wild howl.
Until past midnight they pushed on, following the river-ice; then,
too spent to crawl another rod and soaked to the skin, they curled
up beneath a dripping spruce and slept in utter exhaustion until the
grey dawn broke. Once more forward, along the trail of the river under
driving squalls of cold rain, until by afternoon they were forced to
leave this easy road. The heavy rainfall, combined with sluices of
melted snow from the hillsides, formed a knee-deep stream above the ice
and sent them staggering through slushy snow toward higher ground.
There, amid a thick copse of trees, they dared to kindle a fire with
the rusty heart of a dead birch and some dry wood from beneath an old
stump; and made a shelter of boughs.
Here for two days they remained, miserable and half starved, having
lost part of their meagre supplies. Further progress was impossible;
the storm continued with unabated fury, pouring down wet snow or
flooding all things with blinding rain. Every ravine was a foaming
torrent, the lower ground was a vast morass; muskegs had become lakes,
and the higher ground was still sticky with half-melted drifts of snow.
A six-month of winter does not vanish in three days of rain. Their sole
consolation was that the trail was swept away, and the enemy could be
in no better situation. No sign of human life was visible. Finally, on
the fourth morning the skies had emptied themselves, the sun came out
strong and glorious, and the soaked forest began to steam. With their
last food gone, the two men broke camp and set forth.
All that morning they pushed steadily toward the northwest, following a
long rolling ridge which walled the valley. Sharply as they scanned sky
and horizon, closely as they searched the green-banked treecrests and
the farther slopes, they could detect no indication of life, no greyish
trickle of ascending smoke. Yet it was unthinkable that Maclish would
give up his pursuit.
Early in the afternoon Crawford, desperate for food and confident that
the enemy were left far behind, knocked over a rabbit with his musket,
the shot sending mighty echoes from the trees. Half an hour later the
two men built a cautious fire and made shift to cook the rabbit in the
heart of a fir-thicket. Hunger partially appeased, they lighted pipes
and rested while their outer moccasins, moss-stuffed, dried by the
fire-embers. Over his pipe Frontin evinced a growing uneasiness, and at
last growled out an oath.
“I think the loneliness of this accursed wilderness has crept into my
brain. I have the feeling that eyes are watching us.”
Crawford flung him a sharp look. “Any reason for it?”
“None.”
“We’ve scouted well, and the woods are open enough. If we were in
Mohawk land,” added Crawford thoughtfully, “it would be different; but
these northern Indians are not Iroquois, and don’t know how to work in
Iroquois fashion.”
“But they are no fools, as we know to our cost.” Frontin swept the
trees around with his fierce hawk-like gaze. At this instant Crawford
caught the distinct “click” of a fusil brought to cock; and from close
at hand a voice addressed them in French.
“Have my brothers never heard who taught the dogs of Iroquois how to
hunt? Let them look through the forest. Perhaps they will see the chief
of the Wolf nation.”
Both men leaped to their feet. They stood gazing about, searching the
trees yet finding nothing. Save for the shadowed leaf-play of the
evergreens, nothing moved in the sunshine. A low laugh sounded; then,
not twenty feet distant, appeared the tall figure of an Indian who
stood carefully uncocking his fusil. For a moment he regarded them
in amusement, keenly gratified by their puzzled alarm, then advanced
toward them. He was an old, gaunt, erect redskin of great dignity. He
was unpainted, naked to the waist save for crossed baldricks which
carried firebag, bullets and horn. His head was shaven to a grizzled
scalplock.
“My brothers are Frenchmen; that is good,” he said gravely. “My father
Metaminens, who is ill, heard the sound of a gun. He sent Le Talon,
a war-chief of the Wolf nation, to see who fired that gun. Come!
Metaminens will smoke with you, if he is awake.”
Crawford was pardonably astonished. He knew that the Loups, whom the
English called Mohegans, were an almost extinct tribe, divided in
allegiance between Iroquois and French. What any of them were doing in
this country was problematical; also, this Le Talon conveyed in his
manner an extraordinary impression. He was no common warrior.
“He wears a crucifix at his girdle,” commented Frontin. “You’ll go?”
“Of course.” Crawford addressed the Mohegan chief. “Has Le Talon seen
anything of other men near by?” A shake of the head made answer, and
Crawford continued. “We are pursued by the Stone Men. The storm has
thrown them off, but if they pick up our trail, it will mean danger to
you and your father Metaminens.”
The wrinkled brown face of the old warrior flashed in a quick, scornful
laugh.
“One who has taken many Iroquois scalps does not fear wandering dogs of
the west. Our camp is not a mile from here. Do you come?”
Crawford nodded, and signed for the chief to lead the way. As he and
Frontin fell in behind, he flung a quick word at his friend.
“All these Mohegans are wandering devils, loving intrigue and war above
aught else, and we can’t afford to pass by the chance. They may know
this country, or may be glad to come with us. Besides, there is an air
of mystery about this chief.”
“And who has more curiosity than a woman--unless it be a man?” said
Frontin ironically.
Crawford soon found himself hard taxed to keep the pace set by the old
Mohegan chief, who glided among the trees like a shadow, making no more
sound than a shadow, and whose flitting figure had all the mottled
impermanence of a shadow as it passed from opening to opening. These
Mohegans were beyond question friends; probably hunters or traders
who had wandered up from the French posts on Lake Superior or the
Mississippi.
When it came to fighting or trailing, two of them would be worth more
than a score of Crees.
Presently the old chieftain lifted his head and flung up a sharp
wolf-howl.
“That is my brother Chaudière Noire,” he grunted, as a response came
from farther ahead. “Black Kettle waits at the fire of our father
Metaminens.”
Three Mohegans, then! So much the better, thought Crawford, knowing
what grim warriors were these men whom even the Mohawks deemed worthy
of adoption and alliance. Their very presence in this wilderness was
proof of their worth.
Presently they came to a rivulet which ran thigh-deep with icy water.
Plunging through this torrent of melted snow, Le Talon came to an
abrupt halt on the farther brink. From the bushes above him emerged a
figure, stripped to the waist, scalplock greased, face painted; this
was Black Kettle, a younger man than his companion. He spoke briefly to
Le Talon.
“The sickness is on Metaminens. He sleeps. Be careful not to waken him.”
Crawford made a sign of assent, then followed Black Kettle and Le Talon
into a marshy thicket of spruce saplings, where the muskeg quivered
like jelly underfoot. In the midst of this thicket, perfectly screened
from all discovery, was a brush shelter covering a blanketed figure.
Caribou meat hung drying over a small fire. Packs of goods were near by.
All four halted to gaze at the sick man. Crawford stepped forward--then
repressed an exclamation of amazement. This man, whom the Mohegans in
their own fashion of speech had termed “father,” was a white man! Now,
in the midst of his amazement, Crawford caught a mutter of feverish
delirium from the invalid, and turned. He drew Le Talon to one side and
spoke quietly, swiftly, Frontin joining them.
“What does this mean? Who is this man?”
“He is Metaminens,” was the surprised response. “In the great lodge of
Onontio at Montreal he is called Sieur Nicholas Perrot, but throughout
the frontier he is Metaminens--Little Indian Corn--the bringer of peace
whose canoe is always filled with ransomed captives. Who are you, that
you have not heard this name?”
“I have heard it,” said Crawford, and dark Frontin whistled softly.
Heard it, indeed! Who had not heard that name, so blackly cursed by the
English, so adoringly reverenced by voyageur and engagé of the French!
And here, delirious and helpless, beyond aid or comfort, lay the
explorer and first opener of the west, the man who had saved to Canada
all her western empire--the famous Nicholas Perrot.
“We must get him out of here at once,” said Crawford decisively. “In
this marsh he will die, for fever is on him. Give us some food and we
will talk.”
They were soon wolfing some of the caribou meat. Crawford had already
made up his mind what course to take, for it was impossible to abandon
Sieur Perrot. So the four men squatted at one side of the little
opening among the trees, and Crawford talked.
He told the Mohegans how he had come hither and what he sought,
showed them the star at his throat, spoke briefly as possible--for
the afternoon was fast drawing on. He was startled by the utter
stupefaction of the two redskins at his words; sight of the Star of
Dreams brought a wondering awe into their eyes. They were far too
courteous to interrupt him, however, and sat in grave silence while
he told them the present situation; none the less, a certain blaze of
excitement was in their eyes.
“We must take instant decision,” he concluded. “Sieur Perrot is in
grave danger here, both from fever and from the Stone Men. Are other
men with you? Is any post near by?”
“No,” said Le Talon. “We are in strange country. We came from Montreal,
with Metaminens.”
“Last summer?”
“No. We came by canoe to the Nottawasaga, for the streams were open.
Here in the north they were closed, and we came on by the ice to this
spot.”
Crawford stared at them. “A journey before the rivers were open--why,
it was madness! What caused your trip? What is Sieur Perrot doing in
this country?”
The two Mohegans glanced at each other, exchanged a nod, and Le Talon
continued. In the brown faces was a quiet excitement, an air of keen
suspense.
“Long years ago, before my father Metaminens carried a grey scalplock,
he met a woman in the lodges of the Dacotah. In those days Metaminens
was Commandant of the West, and ruled for Onontio. Also, he was a chief
among the Dacotah; he was the first white man to visit them and bring
them trade. Now Metaminens is old, and his scalplock is grey. His
manitou has whispered to him that he must seek this woman again. We,
his children, came with him. That is all.”
Crawford frowned, guessing that the chief was leading up to some
surprise.
“A woman? But the lodges of the Dacotah are not in this direction!”
“Metaminens seeks the Star Woman,” said Le Talon bluntly.
A sardonic smile touched the lips of Frontin. Crawford, after a slight
start of surprise, regarded the Mohegans; in their intent gaze he read
a vivid eagerness, a breathless suspense--for they were waiting to see
how this tale would affect him.
That they told the truth was indubitable. He could not question the
fact, incredible as it seemed--Perrot, like himself, had come seeking
this Star Woman! More, it appeared that Sieur Perrot had actually known
her in days past. Well, that was possible enough; he knew that this
explorer had been the one to tell Iberville about the Star Woman. And
at this, a sudden wonder seized upon him.
“Metaminens told about this Star Woman to Pierre le Moyne d’Iberville,”
he said slowly. “And Iberville told me--hence I am here. A strange
business, a strange business!”
The Indians stared at him in awe, knowing well the name of Iberville
and the man himself; but Frontin laughed softly, thinly.
“Strange? Not at all, cap’n! _Mort de ma vie_, we are going to have
some interesting times ahead, you and I and Perrot--and Maclish!”
Crawford frowned darkly.