THE QUEST OF THE WHITE SQUAW
Christmas had gone by and the new year was nearing the end of its first
month. It was many weeks since Victor Gagnon had come to the Westley's
dugout on that stormy evening. But his visit had not been forgotten. The
story of the White Squaw had made an impression upon Nick such as the
half-breed could never have anticipated. Ralph had thought much of it
too, but, left to himself, he would probably have forgotten it, or, at
most, have merely remembered it as a good yarn.
But this he was not allowed to do. Nick was enthusiastic. The romance of
the mountains was in his blood, and that blood was glowing with the
primest life of man. The fire of youth had never been stirred within
him, but it was there, as surely as it is in every human creature. Both
men were nearing forty years of age, and, beyond the associations of the
trader's place, they had never mixed with their fellows.
The dream of this beautiful White Squaw had come to Nick; and, in the
solitude of the forest, in the snow-bound wild, it remained with him, a
vision of such joy as he had never before dreamed. The name of "woman"
held for him suggestions of unknown delights, and the weird surroundings
with which Victor had enveloped the lovely creature made the White Squaw
a vision so alluring that his uncultured brain was incapable of shutting
it out.
And thus it was, as he glided, ghost-like, through the forests or scaled
the snowy crags in the course of his daily work, the memory of the
mysterious creature remained with him. He thought of her as he set his
traps; he thought of her, as, hard on the trail of moose, or deer, or
wolf, or bear, he scoured the valleys and hills; in the shadow of the
trees at twilight, in fancy he saw her lurking; even amidst the black,
barren tree-trunks down by the river banks. His eyes and ears were ever
alert with the half-dread expectation of seeing her or hearing her
voice. The scene Victor had described of the white huntress leaning upon
her rifle was the most vivid in his imagination, and he told himself
that some day, in the chances of the chase, she might visit his valleys,
his hills.
At night he would talk of her to his brother, and together they would
chum the matter over, and slowly, in the more phlegmatic Ralph, Nick
kindled the flame with which he himself was consumed.
And so the days wore on; a fresh zest was added to their toil. Each
morning Ralph would set out with a vague but pleasurable anticipation of
adventure. And as his mind succumbed to the strange influence of the
White Squaw, it coloured for him what had been the commonplace events of
his daily life. If a buck was started and rushed crashing through the
forest growths, he would pause ere he raised his rifle to assure himself
that it was not a woman, garbed in the parti-coloured blanket of the
Moosefoot Indians, and with a face radiant as an angel's. His
slow-moving imagination was deeply stirred.
From the Beginning Nature has spoken in no uncertain language. "Man
shall not live alone," she says. Victor Gagnon had roused these two
simple creatures. There was a woman in the world, other than the mother
they had known, and they began to wonder why the mountains should be
peopled only by the forest beasts and solitary man.
As February came the time dragged more heavily than these men had ever
known it to drag before. They no longer sat and talked of the White
Squaw, and speculated as to her identity, and the phenomenon of her
birth, and her mission with regard to her tribe. Somehow the outspoken
enthusiasm of Nick had subsided into silent brooding; and Ralph needed
no longer the encouragement of his younger brother to urge him to think
of the strange white creature. Each had taken the subject to himself,
and nursed and fostered it in his own way.
The time was approaching for their visit to Gagnon's store. This was the
reason of the dragging days. Both men were eager for the visit, and the
cause of their eagerness was not far to seek. They wished to see the
half-breed and feed their passion on fresh words of the lovely creature
who had so strangely possessed their imaginations.
They did not neglect the methodical routine of their duties. When night
closed in Nick saw to the dogs. The great huskies obeyed only one master
who fed them, who cared for them, who flogged them on the trail with
club and whip; and that was Nick. Ralph they knew not. He cooked. He was
the domestic of the abode, for he was of a slow nature which could deal
with the small details of such work. Nick was too large and heavy in his
mode of life to season a stew. But in the trapper's craft it is probable
that he was the better man.
The brothers' nights were passed in long, Indian-like silence which
ended in sleep. Tobacco scented the atmosphere of the hut with a
heaviness that was depressing. Each man sat upon his blankets
alternating between his pannikin of coffee and his pipe, with eyes
lowered in deep thought, or turned upon the glowing stove in earnest,
unseeing contemplation.
The night before the appointed day for starting came round. To-morrow
they would be swinging along over the snowy earth with their dogs
hauling their laden sled. The morrow would see them on their way to
Little Choyeuse Creek, on the bank of which stood Victor Gagnon's store.
There was an atmosphere of suppressed excitement in the doings of that
night. There was much to be done, and the unusual activity almost seemed
a bustle in so quiet an abode. Outside the door the sled stood piled
with the furs which represented their winter's catch. The dog harness
was spread out, and all was in readiness. Inside the hut the two men
were packing away the stuff they must leave behind. Although there was
no fear of their home being invaded it was their custom to take certain
precautions. In that hut were all their savings, to lose which would
mean to lose the fruits of their life's labours.
Nick had just moved a chest from the depths of the patchwork cupboard in
which they kept their food. It was a small receptacle hewn out of a
solid pine log. The lid was attached with heavy rawhide hinges, and was
secured by an iron hasp held by a clumsy-looking padlock. He set it down
upon his blankets.
"Wer'll we put this?" he asked abruptly.
Ralph looked at it with his thoughtful eyes.
"It needs considerin'," he observed. And he leant himself against a
heavy table which stood by the wall.
"We ain't opened it since last fall," said Nick presently, after a long
and steady survey of the object of their solicitude.
"No."
"Ther's a deal in it."
Ralph groped at the neck of his shirt. Nick watched his brother's
movements.
"Maybe we'll figure it up agin."
Ralph fell in with his brother's suggestion and drew out the key which
was secured round his neck. He unlocked the rusty padlock and threw open
the lid. The chest contained six small bags filled to bursting point and
securely tied with rawhide; one bag, half-full and open; and a thick
packet of Bank of Montreal bills.
Nick knelt down and took out the bills and set them on one side.
"Ther's fi' thousand dollars ther," he said. "I 'lows they've been
reckoned careful." Then he picked up one of the bags and held it up for
his brother's inspection. "We tied them seven bags up all weighin'
equal, but we ain't jest sure how much dust they hold. Seven," he went
on reflectively, "ther's on'y six an' a haf now, since them woodbugs got
at 'em, 'fore we made this chest. I 'lows Victor's 'cute to locate the
dust in them furs. It wa'n't a good layout wrappin' the bags in black
fox pelts. Howsum, I'd like to know the value o' them bags. Weighs nigh
on to three poun', I'm guessin'."
Ralph took the bag and weighed it in his hand.
"More," he said. "Ther's fi' poun' o' weight ther'."
"Guess them bags together means fifteen to twenty thousan' dollars,
sure," said Nick, his eyes shining at the thought.
"I don't rightly know," said Ralph. "It's a goodish wad, I 'lows."
Nick returned the store to the chest which Ralph relocked.
"Where?" asked Nick, glancing round the hut in search of a secure
hiding-place.
"We'll dig a hole in the floor under my blankets," said Ralph after a
pause. "Maybe it'll be tol'ble safe there."
And for greater security the chest was so disposed. The work was quickly
done, and the clay floor, with the aid of water, was smeared into its
usual smooth appearance again. Then the brothers sought their rest.
At daybreak came the start. Nick harnessed the dogs, five great huskies
who lived in the shelter of a rough shed outside the hut when it
stormed, and curled themselves up in the snow, or prowled, baying the
moon, when the night was fine. Fierce-looking brutes these with their
long, keen muzzles, their high shoulders and deep chests, their drooping
quarters which were massed with muscle right down to the higher sinews
of their great feet. Their ferocity was chiefly the animal antagonism
for their kind; with Nick they were easy enough to handle, for all had
been well broken beneath the heavy lash which the man knew better than
to spare.
While the dogs were being hitched into their places Ralph secured the
door of the dugout. There were no half measures here. The door was
nailed up securely, and a barrier of logs set before it. Then, when all
was ready, the men took their poles and Nick broke out the frost-bound
runners of the sled. At the magic word "Mush!" the dogs sprang at their
breast-draws, and the sled glided away down the slope with Nick running
beside it, and Ralph following close behind.
Down they dropped into the depths of the silent valley, Nick guiding his
dogs by word of mouth alone. The lead dog, an especially vile-tempered
husky, needed nothing but the oft-repeated "Gee" and "Haw" where no
packed path was, and when anything approaching a trail was struck Nick
issued no commands. These creatures of the wild knew their work, loved
it, lived for it, as all who have seen them labouring over snow and ice
must understand.
By the route they must take it was one hundred miles to Little Choyeuse
Creek. One hundred miles of mountain and forest; one hundred miles of
gloomy silence; one hundred miles of virgin snow, soft to the feet of
the labouring dogs, giving them no foothold but the sheer anchorage of
half-buried legs. It was a temper-trying journey for man and beast. The
dogs snapped at each other's heels, but the men remained silent, hugging
their own thoughts and toiling amidst the pleasure of anticipation.
Skirting the forests wherever possible, and following the break of the
mammoth pine-trees when no bald opening was to hand they sped along. The
dogs hauled at the easy running sled, while, with long, gliding strides,
the two men kept pace with them. The hills were faced by the sturdy dogs
with the calm persistence of creatures who know their own indomitable
powers of endurance, while the descents were made with a speed which was
governed by the incessant use of Nick's pole.
The evening camp was pitched in the shelter of the forest. The dogs fed
voraciously and well on their raw fish, for the journey was short and
provisions plentiful. The two men fared in their usual plain way. They
slept in their fur-lined bags while the wolfish burden-bearers of the
North first prowled, argued out their private quarrels, sang in chorus
as the northern lights moved fantastically in the sky, and finally
curled themselves in their several snow-burrows.
The camp was struck at daylight next morning and the journey resumed.
The dogs raced fresh and strong after their rest, and the miles were
devoured with greedy haste. The white valleys wound in a mazy tangle
round the foot of tremendous hills, but never a mistake in direction was
made by the driver, Nick. To him the trail was as plain as though every
foot of it were marked by well-packed snow; every landmark was
anticipated, every inch of that chaotic land was an open book. A "Gee,"
or a sudden "Haw" and a fresh basin of magnificent primeval forest would
open before the travellers. And so the unending ocean of mountain
rollers and forest troughs continued. No variation, save from the dead
white of the open snowfields to the heavy shadows of the forest. Always
the strange, mystic grey twilight; the dazzling sparkle of glinting
snow; the biting air which stung the flesh like the sear of a red-hot
iron; the steady run of dogs and men. On, on, with no thought of time to
harass the mind, only the destination to think of.
And when they came to Little Choyeuse Creek they were welcomed in person
by Victor Gagnon. He awaited them at his threshold. The clumsy stockade
of lateral pine logs, a relic of the old Indian days when it was
necessary for every fur store to be a fortress, was now a wreck. A few
upright posts were standing, but the rest had long since been used to
bank the stoves with.
The afternoon was spent in barter, and the time was one of beaming good
nature, for Victor was a shrewd dealer, and the two brothers had little
real estimate of the value of money. They sold their pelts in sets,
regardless of quality. And when the last was traded, and Victor had
parted the value in stores and cash, there came a strong feeling of
relief to the trappers. Now for their brief holiday.
It was the custom on the occasion of these visits to make merry in a
temperate way. Victor was never averse to such doings for there was
French blood in his veins. He could sing a song, and most of his ditties
were either of the old days of the Red River Valley, or dealt with the
early settlers round the Citadel of Quebec. Amongst the accomplishments
which he possessed was that of scraping out woful strains upon an
ancient fiddle. In this land, where life was always serious, he was a
right jovial companion for such men as Nick and Ralph, and the merry
evenings in his company at the store were well thought of.
When night closed down, and supper was finished, and the untidy
living-room which backed the store was cleared by the half-breed, the
business of the evening's entertainment began. The first thing in
Victor's idea of hospitality was a "brew" of hot drink. He would have
called it "punch," but the name was impossible. It was a decoction of
vanilla essence, spiced up, and flavoured in a manner which, he claimed,
only he understood. The result was stimulating, slightly nauseating, but
sufficiently unusual to be enticing to those who lived the sober life of
the mountain wild. He would have bestowed good rum or whiskey upon these
comrades of his, only his store of those seductive beverages had long
since given out, and was not likely to be replenished until the breaking
of spring. The variety of strong drink which falls to the lot of such
men as he is extensive. His days of "painkiller," which he stocked for
trade, had not yet come round. The essences were not yet finished.
Painkiller would come next; after that, if need be, would come libations
of red ink. He had even, in his time, been reduced to boiling down plug
tobacco and distilling the liquor. But these last two were only used
_in extremis_.
The three men sat round and sipped the steaming liquor, the two brothers
vying with each other in their praises of Victor's skill in the "brew."
The first glass was drunk with much appreciation. Over the second came a
dallying. Nick, experiencing the influence of the spirit, asked for a
tune on the fiddle. Victor responded with alacrity and wailed out an old
half-breed melody, a series of repetitions of a morbid refrain. It
produced, nevertheless, an enlivening effect upon Ralph, who asked for
another. Then Victor sang, in a thin tenor voice, the twenty and odd
verses of a song called "The Red River Valley;" the last lines of the
refrain were always the same and wailed out mournfully upon the dense
atmosphere of the room.
"So remember the Red River Valley
And the half-breed that loved you so true."
But, even so, there was something perfectly in keeping between the
recreation of these men and the wild, uncouth life they led. The long,
grey winter and the brief, fleeting summer, the desolate wastes and
dreary isolation.
After awhile the sum of Victor's entertainment was worked out and they
fell back on mere talk. But as the potent spirit worked, the
conversation became louder than usual, and Victor did not monopolize it.
The two brothers did their share, and each, unknown to the other, was
seeking an opportunity of turning Victor's thoughts into the channel
where dwelt his recollections of the wonderful White Squaw.
Nick was the one who broke the ice. The more slow-going Ralph had not
taken so much spirit as his brother. Nick's eyes were bright, almost
burning, as he turned his flushed, rugged face upon the half-breed. He
leant forward in his eagerness and his words came rapidly, almost
fiercely.
"Say, Victor," he jerked out, as though he had screwed himself up for
the necessary courage to speak on the subject. "I was thinkin' o' that
white crittur you got yarnin' about when you come around our shanty.
Jest whar's that Moosefoot Reserve, an'--an' the bit o' forest whar her
lodge is located? Maybe I'd fancy to know. I 'lows I was kind o' struck
on that yarn."
The trader saw the eager face, and the excitement in the eyes which
looked into his, and, in a moment, his merry mood died out. His dark
face became serious, and his keen black eyes looked sharply back into
Nick's expressive countenance. He answered at once in characteristic
fashion.
"The Reserve's nigh on to a hund'ed an' fifty miles from here, I guess.
Lies away ther' to the nor'east, down in the Foothills. The bluff lies
beyond." Then he paused and a flash of thought shot through his active
brain. There was a strange something looking out of Nick's eyes which he
interpreted aright. Inspiration leapt, and he gripped it, and held it.
"Say," he went on, "you ain't thinkin' o' makin' the Reserve, Nick?"
Then he turned swiftly and looked at Ralph. The quieter man was gazing
heavily at his brother. And as Victor turned back again to Nick his
heart beat faster.
Nick lowered his eyes when he found himself the object of the double
scrutiny. He felt as though he would like to have withdrawn his
questions, and he shifted uneasily. But Victor waited for his answer and
he was forced to go on.
"Oh," he said, with a shamefaced laugh, "I was on'y jest thinkin'. I
'lows that yarn was a real good one."
There was a brief silence while swift thought was passing behind
Victor's dark face. Then slowly, and even solemnly, came words which
gripped the hearts of his two guests.
"It wa'n't no yarn. I see that White Squaw wi' my own two eyes."
Nick started to his feet. The "punch" had fired him almost beyond
control. His face worked with nervous twitchings. He raised one hand up
and swung it forcefully down as though delivering a blow.
"By Gar!" he cried, "then I go an' find her; I go an' see for myself."
And as he spoke a strange expression looked out of Victor's eyes.
Ralph removed his pipe from his lips.
"Good, Nick," he said emphatically. "The dogs are fresh. Guess a long
trail'll do 'em a deal o' good. When'll we start?"
Nick looked across at his brother. He was doubtful if he had heard
aright. He had expected strong opposition from the quiet, steady-going
Ralph. But, instead, the elder man gave unhesitating approval. Just for
one instant there came a strange feeling in his heart; a slight doubt, a
sensation of disappointment, something foreign to his nature and
unaccountable, something which took all pleasure from the thought of his
brother's company. It was quite a fleeting sensation, however, for the
next moment it was gone; his honest nature rose superior to any such
jealousy and he strode across the room and gripped Ralph's hand.
"Say, we'll start at daylight, brother. Jest you an' me," he blurted
out, in the fulness of his large heart. "We'll hunt that white crittur
out, we'll smell her out like Injun med'cine-men, an' we'll bring her
back wi' us. Say, Ralph, we'll treat her like an angel, this dandy,
queer thing. By Gar! We'll find her, sure. Shake again, brother." They
wrung each other forcefully by the hand. "Shake, Victor." And Nick
turned and caught the trader's slim hand in his overwhelming grasp.
His enthusiasm was at boiling point. The brew of essences had done its
work. Victor's swift-moving eyes saw what was passing in the thoughts of
both his guests. And, like the others, his enthusiasm rose. But there
was none of the simple honesty of these men in Victor. The half-breed
cunning was working within him; and the half-breed cunning is rarely
clean.
And so the night ended to everybody's satisfaction. Ralph was even more
quiet than usual. Victor Gagnon felt that the stars were working in his
best interests; and he blessed the lucky and innocent thought that had
suggested to him the yarn of the White Squaw. As for Nick, his delight
was boisterous and unrestrained. He revelled openly in the prospect of
the morrow's journey.
Nor had broad daylight power to shake the purpose of the night. Too long
had the trappers brooded upon the story of the White Squaw. Victor knew
his men so well too; while they breakfasted he used every effort to
encourage them. He literally herded them on by dint of added detail and
well-timed praise of the woman's beauty.
And after the meal the sled was prepared. Victor was chief adviser. He
made them take a supply of essences and "trade." He told them of the
disposition of Man-of-the-Snow-Hill, the Moosefoot chief, assuring them
he would sell his soul for strong drink. No encouragement was left
ungiven, and, well before noon, the dogs stood ready in the traces.
A hearty farewell; then out upon the white trail Nick strung the willing
beasts, and the flurry of loose surface-snow that flew in their wake hid
the sled as the train glided away to the far northeast.
Victor stood watching the receding figures till the hiss of the runners
died down in the distance, and the driving voice of Nick became lost in
the grey solitude. The northern trail held them and he felt safe. He
moved out upon the trampled snow, and, passing round to the back of the
store, disappeared within the pine wood which backed away up the slope
of the valley.
Later he came to where three huts were hidden away amongst the vast
tree-trunks. They were so placed, and so disguised, as to be almost
hidden until the wanderer chanced right upon them. These habitations
were a part of Victor's secret life. There was a strange mushroom look
about them; low walls of muck-daubed logs supported wide-stretching
roofs of reeds, which, in their turn, supported a thick covering of
soot-begrimed snow. He paused near by and uttered a low call, and
presently a tall girl emerged from one of the doors. She walked slowly
toward him with proud, erect carriage, while at her heels followed two
fierce husky dogs, moving with all the large dignity of honoured guards.
The woman was taller than the trader, and her beauty of figure was in no
wise hidden by the blanket clothing she wore. They talked earnestly
together for some time, and then, in answer to a further summons from
Victor, they were joined by a tall, gaunt man, with the solemn cast of
face of an Indian, and a pair of eyes as darkly brooding as those of a
moose. Although he was very dark-skinned he was plainly of the bastard
race of his companions, and a certain resemblance between himself and
the woman spoke of relationship.
The three talked long and seriously, and finally Victor returned alone
to the store. Again he took up his stand in the doorway and remained
gazing out upon the valley of the Little Choyeuse Creek, and the more
distant crags of the foothills beyond.
His face was serious; serious even for the wild, where all levity seems
out of place, and laughter jars upon the solemnity of the life and death
struggle for existence which is for ever being fought out there. On his
brow was a pucker of deep thought, whilst his eyes shone with a look
which seemed to have gathered from his surroundings much of the cunning
which belongs to the creatures of the forest. His usual expression of
good-fellowship had passed; and in its place appeared a hungry,
avaricious look which, although always there, was generally hidden
behind a superficial geniality. Victor had hitherto lived fairly
honestly because there was little or no temptation to do otherwise where
his trading-post was stationed. But it was not his nature to do so. And
as he stood gazing out upon the rugged picture before him he knew he was
quite unobserved; and so the rough soul within him was laid bare to the
grey light of the world.