HE WHO DENIES THE INCREDIBLE DENIES GOD
In the silence that followed spoke up Black Kettle, who was less
restrained than the elder chief.
“If the Star Woman knew that Metaminens came to seek her, then her
heart would be glad. She would send her spirit to make him well. She
would send her young men to meet him.”
At this hint, Crawford woke up. Why not, indeed? He seized the opening
and asserted himself, for that was Hal Crawford’s way. His orders
were decisive, and were entirely unquestioned, for the Mohegans were
accustomed to the guidance of a white man.
“Good. Two of us must remain here to move camp and tend Sieur Perrot;
that will be perilous enough. The other two must travel to the Star
Woman and send back her young men to help, and this will be equally
dangerous. Settle between yourselves which is to go. Frontin, you
understand the affair? Clip two sticks and arrange it. Long stick goes,
short stays here. There must be no delay.”
Frontin comprehended perfectly. There was no question of abandoning the
helpless Perrot, the Mohegans were invaluable allies, and a separation
was inevitable. Either of them, with one of the Mohegans, could reach
the Star Woman in half the time it would otherwise take them.
Frontin whipped out his knife, clipped two twigs, and prepared them.
He enclosed them in his hand with the ends showing even, and held them
out. Crawford leaned forward and drew one. Frontin opened his hand
and showed the other--and both were of equal length. At this, the two
Mohegans laughed softly.
“All right, old friend,” said Crawford. “I choose to stay.”
Frontin leaped up. “Which of you goes with me, Loups?”
“I go.” Le Talon rose. “My brother Black Kettle has hurt his foot.
Come!”
The two shook their powder-horns, examined firebags, divided meat and
bullets. In five minutes they were ready.
“Take care of the star, cap’n,” said Frontin. Then he added, in his
assumed cynicism, “_Ora pro nobis!_”
The next moment, with a wave of his hand, he vanished among the trees
in the wake of Le Talon. The two were gone.
Crawford and Black Kettle fell hastily to work, since there was much
to be done ere nightfall. Perrot, fast bound in fever, was tossing and
moaning. After locating a sheltered and hidden spot on a hillside, they
carried him to it; there was a bed of pine boughs to be laid, a shelter
to be constructed, precious dry wood to be uncovered and collected.
The packs had to be moved and the fire-embers transferred. In all this
Black Kettle was at a disadvantage, for he had twisted his ankle badly
and walking was painful.
Crawford resigned himself to this delay, the more easily because of
the singular coincidence which had brought him and Perrot together. Or
was it coincidence? He had come from the northeast, Perrot from the
southeast, roughly aiming at a mutual point; why, then, should they not
have met before reaching that point? It was natural enough.
During two full days he devoted himself to caring for the sick man.
Black Kettle scouted and reported no sign of any foe in forest or
on horizon. During these two days, Crawford pondered the reason for
Perrot’s presence here. The Mohegan explanation, that his manitou had
impelled the action, was absolutely accurate; but Crawford was slow to
accept it. Sieur Perrot was an example of the ingratitude of princes,
since he occupied no position in Canada. He had no official reason to
be here, then.
These thirty years, Nicholas Perrot had sowed where other men had
reaped. No other Frenchman had his influence among the western tribes.
His very name of Little Indian Corn spoke of the godhead with which the
Green Bay tribes had endowed this first white man to come among them.
Since 1665 he had blazed the trails where others walked to wealth and
fame. To the red men, he was always known as the sun-bringer. Where
others fanned hot sparks of wrath, Perrot had made peace, composed
quarrels, kept the tribes in alliance to Onontio. And now he sought the
Star Woman--why? In the end, Crawford renewed this question to Black
Kettle, and received a story whose implications left him thoughtful.
“My brother, I will tell you what I know,” said the Mohegan gravely.
“It is now more than thirty winters since my father Metaminens went
among the Iowa and the Dacotah nations. There he met this Star Woman,
who saved his life. What passed between them, I do not know. My father
Metaminens saw her only once or twice, yet he has often spoken of
her. My brother, there are two roads open to every man, of which the
one ends always, soon or late, at the grave; but Metaminens has never
followed that road. Does my brother understand?”
Crawford nodded. He was startled by the unexpected depth of thought in
this redskin, by the dignified significance of these last words. Black
Kettle continued.
“Always the Star Woman has sent her manitou to watch over Metaminens.
Perhaps he met her again in the west, when he was Commandant; I do not
know. He has often told of how her spirit saved him from danger, how
her influence was exerted to help him in time of trouble, how her power
among the western tribes aided him. No other white man has seen the
Star Woman. This is all I know.”
Was this some old romance, then? Crawford frowned thoughtfully.
“Do you know what this Star Woman looks like?”
“She has hair of gold, and blue eyes, and wears a great star of blue
stones.”
An exclamation of astonishment burst from Crawford. Thus had Moses
Deakin described his vision in the witch-fluid! Yet it was impossible
that he should have seen her thus, exactly as Perrot had seen her
thirty years ago. No, undoubtedly he had heard Perrot’s description of
her--this would account for the seeming wonder.
Crawford slept upon the matter, and in the morning found himself still
perplexed. He looked at Perrot, found the latter sleeping easily and
naturally. Black Kettle had been gone for an hour or more, seeking
fresh meat, and Crawford now stole away to get a new stock of wood,
which had to be chosen carefully if the fire were to be smokeless.
In half an hour he returned with his burden. He dropped this by the
fire, straightened up--and found Perrot on one elbow, staring at
him. Those clear and penetrating eyes, looking out at him from the
white-bearded face, were sane. Crawford poured out some hot broth, and
knelt beside the invalid.
“This first, then talk if you must,” he said. Perrot obeyed, then sank
back and scrutinized him in frank wonder. Crawford lighted his pipe and
sat down.
“Where are the Mohegans?” demanded Perrot.
Crawford puffed and considered this question, which contained many
unuttered queries. His patient was weak, but well enough to talk, and
would only fret if left unanswered. So Crawford began to speak, and
went on to relate the most essential parts of his own tale. While he
talked, the gaze of Perrot devoured him and mirrored the man’s inner
mind; the Frenchman passed from amazement to incredulity, and then to a
slow but still more amazed credence.
In his younger days this man, who by dint of his personality alone had
conquered whole tribes, who had walked unarmed into a council-lodge of
hostile Ottawas and had taken captives from the very torture stake, had
shown himself a very Odysseus in craft and guile; but he had also shown
that he could be all things to all men in a most astonishing degree.
So it was now. Once convinced of Crawford’s story, comprehending what
manner of man this was, he attempted no dissimulation but met frankness
with frankness. When the tale was done, he uttered a shaky laugh and
asked to see the Star of Dreams. Crawford displayed the jewel, and
Perrot nodded.
“Thanks be to the saints!” he said slowly. “I perceive now why I came
into this land. You see, my friend, I knew not the reason. Something
urged me to the trip, something forced me despite myself. With men like
you and me, men who obey the hidden voice of the spirit, some reason
always discloses itself. Me, I am a religious man, as the good fathers
at Green Bay have cause to know, yet I also have some belief in the
manitou of the red men. I thought it was only a desire to see the Star
Woman again which drew me, but in truth it was something greater and
more definite. And the same with you.”
Crawford smiled, not comprehending this very clearly.
“Not in the least, Sieur Perrot. I am here only because of my whim.”
“No, my friend.” Perrot spoke gravely. “We are agents of the unseen
destiny which guards this empire of the wilderness--remember that! It
is a stern taskmaster, this destiny; it demands much of one’s spirit
and body. Me, I believe in this unseen destiny.”
“I do not believe in the incredible,” said Crawford.
“He who denies the incredible,” came Perrot’s voice, “must then deny
God.”
Crawford started slightly. “I cannot answer that, Sieur Perrot,” he
said simply. “I think you may have the right of it. What, then, do you
assign as the reason for our presence in this place?”
“Ah, but we are here for France!” Perrot’s voice gathered strength,
and a swift flash leaped into his eyes. “I struck axe into earth at
Michillimackinac and took all that region for France. I did the same at
Saint Anthony’s Falls, in the far west. With your help, I shall do the
same here----”
“Not with my help,” intervened Crawford coolly. “I take no land for
France, and I have no interest in the matter. I shall stop Maclish
because he murdered Phelim Burke; I was a fool not to kill the dog
when I could have done so, but we all make mistakes. I desire to find
the Star Woman--why? Because she is unknown, inaccessible, a mystery!
That’s all. So you have come to do the errands of King Louis, eh?”
“Not at all,” replied Perrot, studying him. “I came because I
was drawn by the spirit; and now I see that work is awaiting me.
Maclish--Maclish! This man must be defeated in his aim. The Stone Men
and the Dacotah must be restrained from war. You, who know not why you
came hither--oh, the mad humour of it! Have you, like Maclish, some
dream of marrying the Star Woman?”
“Heaven forbid!” Crawford laughed a little. “If you knew her thirty
years ago, she’s no slender lass now. Besides, I’ve put the world
behind me, Perrot. I’ve rotted in irons, I’ve had my moments of
happiness and of tears; now it’s dead. I want to go over the horizon,
wander on to the end while there are things to be done and seen. That’s
all.”
Perrot eyed him with a singular expression, partly cynical, partly sad.
Then it seemed as though a veil dropped over the man’s thoughts. There
was something deep in his mind, some mystery, which he had been about
to explain; he refrained. Instead, he came to one elbow.
“Look!” he exclaimed. “Play your own hand; you are a man whom I could
love, and you do not interfere with me. As for me, I shall do what
is given me to do. Here is my mission--I must turn Maclish’s game
back upon him. Maclish, the blind fool, has an awakening ahead of
him! He thinks to seize the Star Woman, make peace between Stone Men
and Dacotah, and get all the inland trade for the bay. It is an idle
dream, but I shall utilize it, you comprehend? Me, I shall prevent the
seizure, confirm the peace between these tribes, and draw the trade
of the Stone Men to the Lake Superior posts. France shall have a new
empire here in the northwest!”
“Another idle dream.” Crawford shook his head. “They are too firmly
wedded to the English--but play your own game, and I’ll play mine. So
the Star Woman is not young, eh?”
Perrot veiled his gaze. “How should she be?” he said evasively. “I saw
her thirty years ago, and again a few years later. Are many of the
Dacotah with her?”
“A few lodges only.”
“She is a great medicine woman, living off to herself by this lake of
many stars. She is a healer, a communer with the good God, to whom the
chiefs and medicine men go for advice. It may be blasphemous, but I
think she is little short of a saint, my friend.”
Crawford did not reply.
He began to perceive why this man, despite his great deeds, was still
simple Sieur Perrot instead of being a great seigneur. Here was a man
of action, yes; but behind that a dreamer, a visionary. He had now
conceived a vague scheme not half so coherent as that which Maclish
was pursuing. Perrot was a fanatic on the question of winning the west
to France; and those who sat in high places, having all the wilderness
country they could well handle already, wanted none of his plans. So
now, driving off into the northwest, Perrot was only too eager to grasp
at the work which he conceived to be awaiting his hand.
Suddenly and without a sound, Black Kettle appeared in the clearing
and set down the hind quarters of a caribou. He stood erect, his eyes
flickering to Perrot, and grunted.
“My father Metaminens is awake--good! I crossed the trail of three
Stone Men and heard them talking. One they call Red Bull is following,
with three-score young men. They have English muskets. They are going
to take the Star Woman as a wife for Red Bull.”
To this Perrot sat up. “Give me food, for to-morrow we must abandon our
packs and travel.”
Crawford shrugged, deeming travel on the morrow an impossibility.
Yet, incredible as it seemed, Sieur Nicholas Perrot was on his feet
the next morning; before breakfast he was shaven, dressed and ready
to depart. Crawford held his peace, for he realized that Perrot would
regard no reason, and in this he was right. He was not right in
thinking Perrot’s ambitious scheme impossible, however. Crafty old
Perrot knew the redskins better than any other white man alive, knew
his own ability, and was entirely competent to bring his dream to
fruition if he had the chance.
For thirty years Perrot had been encountering men like Maclish, and had
one by one left them defeated behind him. For thirty years Metaminens
had ruled the western tribes, compelling them from war to peace. No
other man was like him or would be like him again, in this singular
influence which he exerted.
The packs were cached away and the three men set forth, carrying only
arms and food. Perrot started off gaily enough, but within two hours he
was staggering from exhaustion. Deaf to all protests, he drove ahead
by dint of his iron will alone. The woods were silent and deserted, no
sign of life appeared, but now Crawford knew that Maclish and the Stone
Men were not many miles distant.
It was close to noon when Perrot silently collapsed in his tracks. And
now Crawford, aiding the Mohegan to cut pine boughs and make camp, felt
his last hope gone. For days to come the old rover could only nurse
back strength, and was out of the game. Even did Standing Bull send
help, even did Frontin and Le Talon reach the Star Woman, what could be
expected from them? Nothing. Crawford felt that in this vast wilderness
three wandering men could not be located. The immensity of the country
smote him and weighed him down. And meantime, he knew, Maclish was
sweeping the war-party forward.
So, when he had done what he could for Sieur Perrot, Crawford lighted
his pipe and stared gloomily through the smoke, being tempted of the
devil to leave his companions and plunge into the wilderness alone.
He had no sympathy with Perrot’s ambitions. He wanted to be on his way
to Frontin, pushing his quest for the Star Woman; to sit here doing
nothing was maddening. The spur of freedom was goading him roughly.
When he was playing a lone hand, dependent only on himself, he was
happiest--there was his tragedy, if you like. Yet he could not gainsay
the urge, and this news of Maclish was like a thorn in his flesh.
Now, while Crawford smoked and pondered temptation, and the Mohegan
picked over dry wood, and Perrot lay in exhausted coma, there came
quavering up through the trees from far away a thin, queer cry. That
high cry sent a shiver over Crawford, for it was foreign to his limited
northland experience, with its uncanny cadence of shaking mirth, its
hint of weird and unearthly laughter. He had never before heard the
call of a loon. Black Kettle stood like a dog pointing birds, but for a
very different reason; the Mohegan had never before heard the call of a
loon at high twelve.
“What was that?” asked Crawford. Black Kettle wrinkled up his nose.
“That,” he said, putting hand to powder-horn, “was the cry of a bird,
which came from the throat of a man.”
Crawford saw that the redskin was puzzled and alarmed, so asked no more
questions. He loaded and primed his gun, and came to his feet. Once
again that strange cry reached them, and this time it was much closer.
Crawford distinctly saw the Mohegan shiver to the sound of it, as
though reading something singular and terrible in the cry.
Black Kettle gestured. Crawford followed him out from camp among the
trees. He soon realized that the other was retracing their trail of
the morning; it was an easy one to follow, because of Perrot’s heavily
plunging tracks. A third time lifted that quavering call, now so close
upon them that Black Kettle made a startled gesture and vanished from
sight among the trees. Crawford waited, peering through the dead brown
masses of a fallen pine.
A moment of waiting--then a man came into sight, following the trail.
But what a man! He was a misshapen Indian, with a huge head set between
wide shoulders, a shaven scalp, and a fearful caricature of a face;
it was the distorted countenance of an idiot. His dress was peculiar
and remarkable, being composed of snake-skins sewn over hide, the
heads hanging intact. Once seen, this hideous creature could never be
forgotten--and perhaps this fact was the reason for such a costume. The
wilderness is a stickler for simple and logical causes of apparently
remarkable effects.
Although he certainly could not see either of the hidden men, the
demented redskin now came to a sudden halt. He peered around, lifted
that horrible countenance, and sniffed the air. A loose grin came
to his lips. He spoke aloud in a mingled Cree and English which was
comprehensible to Crawford.
“Where are you, Wandering Star? I bring you a talking bark, a message
from afar. I am Singing Loon, and no man harms me because my medicine
is very strong. The Stone Men are afraid to hurt me. Where are you,
Wandering Star? I can smell you close by. I have followed your trail a
long way from the lodges of the Crees.”
This, in effect, was one of those unhappy beings whom the red men
believed touched by the Great Spirit, and from whom they shrank in fear
and awe; none of them, at any cost, would lift a finger to harm this
man. Crawford did not hesitate, but laid down his gun and stepped out
to face the messenger.
“So here you are, Wandering Star!”
The idiot grinned. How he recognized Crawford was a mystery; yet, at
the creature’s girdle, Crawford saw one of his own old and cast-off
moccasins, and caught that sniffing gesture again. Did this imbecile,
then, have some remarkable gift of scent? Perhaps.
“Here is my message for you.” Singing Loon fumbled beneath his
snake-skins and produced a roll of birchbark. “I smell another man
hidden, but he will not hurt me. You should have seen how the Stone Men
ran away when they saw me yesterday! Now I shall go and frighten them
again.”
Giving the birch roll into Crawford’s hand, the chuckling idiot turned
and disappeared at a shambling but rapid run.
Crawford stood transfixed, gripped by the wonder of it--the way
this creature had come straight to him amid the wilderness! It was
almost past his comprehension; but to the Mohegan it was not at all
incredible. Black Kettle came into sight, crossed himself twice like
the good Christian he was, and stepped forward.
“I did well not to fire. That man has a powerful spirit. What did he
say?”
“He brought me a message.”
“His spirit knew where to find you. Good.”
Crawford unrolled the stiff bark. Words had been scrawled on the inner
surface of the bark, scrawled there with a sharpened bullet. They were
not easy to decipher, some of them were lost; but he knew that Art
Bocagh had been one of Phelim Burke’s Irishmen, able to read and write
in English.
“The Kriqs have us saff. The Saxons are dead. The Scots red men slue
themm. Fower of us live. Wee goe to Ft. Nue Sevann. Art Bocagh.”
Keen news, this, from Art the Lame! Instead of sending Crawford’s men
to the coast, Maclish had ordered the Assiniboines to slaughter them.
Four of the Irish had somehow escaped and were safe among the Crees, on
their way to New Severn--one of the two posts remaining to the English
on the bay. Art Bocagh had sent this word that Crawford might be warned
against Maclish, and might know where to find the remnant of his men if
ever he returned.
“The murdering hound!” said Crawford. A swirl of hatred swept up in his
heart. Something burst within him--all his restraint was gone, all his
self-control, all his cold caution. He whirled on Black Kettle, a blaze
in his blue eyes. “You shall look after Metaminens--he needs only food
and rest. This message says that Red Bull has murdered my men. I am
going on ahead of him, past him, over him, to find the Star Woman--and
to find him, also!”
The Mohegan regarded him steadily, then made indirect protest.
“My white brother is very angry. Does his manitou tell him that anger
is a good companion on such a trail?”
Crawford snarled an oath. The murder of his men was the last straw.
Every atom of his cold reserve was swept away.
“If I find that dog Maclish I’ll slit his throat instead of his face,
this time! What about you and Perrot? Will the Stone Men follow that
idiot here?”
“No,” said the Mohegan. “They are not coming this way. They are north
of us.”
“You’ll be safe if the Dacotah war-party finds you, then?”
“My father Metaminens is a chief of the Dacotah.”
“Then farewell.”
The Mohegan grunted in reply. Pausing only to retrieve his musket,
Crawford plunged into the trees, with hatred of Maclish burning like a
living flame in his heart.