THE WHITE SQUAW
Down the sharp incline Nick ran beside his dogs; Ralph was close behind.
They were home once more in their own silent valley, and were pushing on
to avoid the coming snow-storm which the leaden hue of the sky
portended. So the dogs were rushed along at a great pace, for the dugout
was beyond, a full hour distant.
It had been a weary journey, that return from the quest of the White
Squaw. But the weariness had been mental. The excitement of their going
had eaten up their spirit, and left them with a feeling of distressing
lassitude. They were sobered; and, as men recovering from drunkenness,
they felt ashamed, and their tempers were uncertain.
But as the string of huskies raced down into the valley they knew so
well, yelping a joyful greeting to the familiar objects about them, the
men began to feel better, and less like those who are detected in
unworthy actions.
The dogs emerged upon their original outward-bound trail and pursued it
along the edge of the forest. They needed no urging, and even set a pace
which taxed all their masters' speed. The sight of the familiar scenes
had banished the "Dread of the Wild" from the minds of the two men, and
their spirits rose as they approached the frost-bound river below their
home. There were no stealing glances into the gloomy shelter of the
woods, no nervous backward turns of the head. They looked steadily ahead
for the glad sight of their home; and the snap of the crisp snow under
the heavy-footed dogs, and the eager, steady pull on the traces brought
a cheerful light to their eyes such as had not been there for days.
But although they had failed to discover the White Squaw, she was by no
means forgotten. A certain sense of relief had followed their first
moments of keen disappointment, but it was only a revulsion of their
strained nerves; thoughts of her which were, perhaps, less fiery and
reckless, but consequently more enduring, still possessed them.
Ralph was especially calm. He had thought the whole thing over in his
deliberate fashion, and, finally, admitted to himself that what had
happened was for the best. Nick was less easy. His disappointment had
slightly soured an already hasty, but otherwise kindly, disposition. He
needed something of his brother's calm to balance him. But, however, in
both cases, somewhere deep down in their hearts the fateful flame so
strangely kindled was still burning; a deep, strong, unquenchable fire.
They were almost home. Before them lay the frozen waterway. Beyond that,
and above, rose the hill, on the face of which stood their shack; and
about them was the brooding silence, still and portentous, but familiar.
The lead-dog plunged down the bank and the rest followed, whilst Ralph
and Nick steadied the laden sled. The brief passage was made, and Nick's
whip drove the fierce, willing beasts at the ascent beyond. Then, ere
the sled had left the river, and while the dogs still struggled in their
harness to lift its nose over what was almost a cut-bank, and when
Nick's attention was most needed, the whip suddenly became idle, and his
stock of driving-curses changed to a shout of alarmed surprise.
Down he dropped upon his knees; and, with head bent low, examined the
disturbed surface of the snow. In an instant Ralph was at his side. The
dogs had ceased to pull and crouched down in their traces. A strange and
wonderful thing had happened. In their absence their valley had been
invaded, and the indications were those of human agency.
Nick pointed, and his outstretched forefinger moved slowly over a
footprint indicating the sharp, clean outline which the surface of the
snow still retained. A moccasin-covered foot had trodden there; and the
mark left was small, smaller than that of an ordinary man. And the two
heads, almost touching, bent over it in silent scrutiny.
Presently Ralph raised his eyes and looked ahead. Step by step he traced
the marks on up the hill in the direction of the dugout, and, at last,
silent speculation gave place to tense, low-spoken words.
"Injun moccasins," he said.
"Guess so, by the seamin'."
"'Tain't a buck neche, neither."
"No."
There was an impressive pause, and the silent land seemed weighted down
as with an atmosphere of gloomy presage. Nick broke it, and his voice
had in it a harsh ring. The fire of passion was once more alight in his
eyes.
"It's a squaw's," he added.
"Yes, sure; a squaw's," and Ralph swallowed a deep breath as though his
surroundings stifled him.
A thrill of emotion moved both men. There had leapt within them, in one
great, overwhelming tide, all the old reckless craze for the shadowy
creature of Victor's story. At the mere suggestion of a squaw's presence
in that valley their blood-tide surged through their veins like a
torrent of fire, and their pulses were set beating like sledge-hammers.
A squaw! A squaw! That was their cry. Why not the White Squaw?
Whilst Ralph gazed on ahead Nick still bent over the footprint. The
delicate shape, the deep hollow of the ball of the foot, the round cup
which marked the heel, and, between them, the narrow, shallow
indentation which formed the high-arched instep. In fancy he built over
the marks the tall, lithe, straight-limbed creature Victor had told them
of. He saw the long flowing hair which fell in a shower upon her
shoulders; and the beautiful eyes blue as the summer sky. In a moment
his tanned face was transformed and became radiant.
Ralph, the quiet and thoughtful, was no less moved. But he turned from
his brother, hugging his own anticipations to himself, and concealing
them behind a grim mask of impassivity. His eyes were bright with the
same insistent idea, but he told himself that the thing was impossible.
He told himself that She lived in the north, and not even the chase of
the far-travelling moose could have brought her hither from her forest
home. These things he said in his caution, but he did not listen to the
voice of his doubt, and his heart beat in great bounding pulsations.
Suddenly Nick sprang from the ground, and short and sharp came his
words.
"Let's git on."
"Ay," replied Ralph, and he turned back to the sled.
And again the dogs laid foot to the ground; and again the voice of Nick
roused the hollow echoes of the shimmering peaks; again the song of the
sled-runners rose and fell in cadence brisk and sharp on the still, cold
air. But all the world was changed to the men. The stillness was only
the stillness which appeals to the physical senses. There was a
sensation of life in the air; a feeling of living surroundings; a
certain knowledge that they were no longer alone in their valley. A
woman was present; _the_ woman.
The widening break of the forest gave place to a broad sloping expanse
of snow-land. It was the hill down which they had travelled many
thousands of times. Above, more snow-laden forest, and above that the
steel of the glacier which rose till its awful limits plunged into the
grey world of cloud. The dugout was not yet in view; there was a scored
and riven crag, black and barren, impervious to the soft caresses of
velvety snow, to be passed ere the home which was theirs would be
sighted. Besides, as yet neither of the men had turned their eyes from
the trailing footprints to look ahead. Thus they came to the higher
ground.
Now the barren crag seemed to thrust itself out, an impassable barrier;
a mute protest at further progress; a grim, silent warning that the home
beyond was no longer for them, no longer the home they had always known.
And the hard-breathing dogs toiled on, straining at their
breast-harness, with bodies heaving forward, heads bent low, and
quarters drooped to give them surer purchase. They, too, as though by
instinct, followed the footprints. As the marks swung out to pass the
jutting cliff the lead-dog followed their course; Nick, on the right of
them, moved wide, and craned to obtain a first view of the hut. Suddenly
he gave a great shout. The dogs dropped in their harness and crouched,
snarling and snapping, their jaws clipping together with the sound of
castanets, whilst their wiry manes rose upon their shoulders bristling
with ferocity which had in it something of fear. Ralph reached his
brother's side and peered beyond the cliff.
And as he looked his breath suddenly ceased, and one hand clutched his
brother's arm with a force that bruised the softer flesh, and in silence
the two men gaped at the vision which they beheld. There was what seemed
an endless pause while the men and dogs alike focused their gaze upon
the strange apparition.
A figure, calm, serene, stood before the door of the dugout, from which
the logs had been removed. Like a sentry "at ease" the figure stood
resting gracefully, leaning upon the muzzle of a long rifle. Fur crowned
the head which was nobly poised, and a framing of flowing dark hair
showed off to perfection the marble-like whiteness of the calm,
beautiful face. The robes were characteristic of the Northern Indians;
beads, buckskin and fur. A tunic reached to the knees, and below that
appeared "chaps," which ended where woollen stockings surmounted
moosehide moccasins.
A wild, picturesque figure was this creature of the mountain solitude;
and, to the wondering eyes of the two men, something which filled them
with superstitious awe and a primitive gladness that was almost
overpowering. The dogs alone seemed to resent the intrusion. There was
no joy in their attitude which was one of angry protest.
Nick broke the silence.
"White--white," he murmured, without knowledge that he spoke aloud.
Ralph's face was working. His excitement, slow to rise, now overwhelmed
him, and he answered in a similar tone.
"That hair," he muttered. "Dark, dark; an' them chaps wi' beads of Injun
patte'n. An' the muzzle-loadin' weapin."
Nick took up the argument as his brother broke off.
"It's a squaw, too."
"Her eyes, he says, was blue," Ralph murmured, breathing hard.
"An' she was leanin' on a gun," Nick added softly.
"It's--"
"By Gar! It is!"
Nick turned to the dogs with the wild impetuosity of a man who knows not
the meaning of patience. His fiery orders fairly hurled the brutes at
their task, and the sled leapt forward. On, on, they sped, till they
halted within a few yards of the silent figure.
The woman showed no signs of fear, a matter which both men set down to
the fact that she was a queen among her own people. She still stood in
the position in which she had watched their approach. There was not a
quiver of the delicate eyelids, not a tremor of the perfect mouth.
Proud, haughty, and masked by the impassivity of the Indian races, she
awaited the coming of the strangers.
And as men and dogs halted there was an awkwardness. How should they
address her? They consulted, and their whisperings were loud enough to
reach her ears. They did not attempt to suppress their tones unduly.
This woman, they knew, did not understand the tongue of the whites, and
probably knew only the language of the Moosefoot people. Therefore they
spoke unguardedly. They admitted to each other the woman's identity.
Ralph was for speaking to her in Cree; Nick for the language of signs.
And while they talked the woman looked on. Had they been keenly
observant they would have seen the shadow of an occasional smile curl
the corners of her beautiful lips. As it was they saw only the superb
form, and eyes so wondrously blue, shining like sapphires from an oval
face framed with waves of black hair.
At last Ralph advanced toward her.
"You're welcome to our shack," he said, in Cree.
The woman shook her beautiful head, but smiled upon him; and the simple
soul felt the blood rush from heart to head.
"Try signs," said Nick impatiently. "How's the White Squaw o' the
Moosefoots goin' to savvee a low-down bat like Cree. I sed so 'fore."
The blue eyes were turned on Nick with a deep inscrutable smile. Nick
felt that life at her feet was the only life possible.
And Ralph resorted to signs, while Nick alternated his attention between
his idolatrous, silent worship of the lovely woman and clubbing his dogs
into quiescence. Their angry protests seemed to express something more
abiding than mere displeasure at the intrusion of a stranger. They
seemed to feel a strong instinctive antagonism toward this beautiful
woman.
Ralph persisted with his signs. The woman read them easily and replied
in her own sign-language, which was wonderful to behold. Ralph and Nick
read it as though they were listening to a familiar tongue.
She told them that she was Aim-sa, which is the Moosefoot for
"Blue-Sky"; and that she was the White Squaw, the queen of her people.
She indicated that she was out on a "long trail" hunting, and that she
had found herself in this valley, with a snow-storm coming on. She had
seen the dugout and had sought its shelter, intending to remain there
until the storm had passed. She made it clear to them that a bull moose
and four cows had entered the valley. She had trailed them for many
days. She asked the brothers if, when the storm had passed, they would
join her in the hunt.
And to all she said Ralph replied in his less perfect signs, prompted by
Nick with blundering impetuosity; and, at the end of the parley, a
perfect harmony prevailed. Two great rough men, with hearts as simple
and trusting as those of infants, led this stranger into their home, and
made it clear that the place was hers for so long as she chose to accept
their hospitality.
A fire was kindled. A meal was cooked. The hut grew warm and comforting.
The dogs outside yelped pitifully and often snuffed angrily at the sill
of the door. And the White Squaw calmly accepted the throne of that
silent world, which had so long known only the joint rule of the two
brothers. She looked out upon her subjects with eyes which drove them
wild with adoration, but which said nothing but that which she chose to
convey. Nor did her features betray one single thought that might chance
to be passing in the brain behind. She wore an impenetrable mask of
reserve while she watched the effect of the womanly power she wielded.
And that night saw a change in the ordering of the trappers' household.
The two men talked it over after their meal. Ralph broached the subject.
He waved his arm, the bowl of his pipe gripped in his horny hand, while
its stem indicated the entire hut.
"Hers," he said. And his eyes were dragged from the object of his
solicitude and turned upon Nick.
His brother nodded as he puffed at his pipe.
"The shed," Ralph went on. "The huskies must burrow in the snow."
Again Nick nodded.
"Wants sweepin' some," observed Ralph again.
"Yup. We'll fix it."
"Best git to it."
"Ay."
And so the brothers moved out of their home, and went to live in the
place which had been given over to the dogs. They would have done more,
far more, in their love for the woman who had so strangely come into
their midst. They felt that it was little enough that they must lie
where the dogs were wont to herd. They needed little comfort, and she
must have the best they could give. And so the brothers moved out of
their home.
The snow fell that night; a silent, irresistible mountain snow-storm,
without a breath of wind, in flakes as big as a tennis-ball. Down they
ambled, seeming to loiter in indolent playfulness on the way. And up,
up, mounted the earth's white carpet, thicker and thicker, softer and
softer. And at daylight the men confronted eight feet of snow, through
which they had to dig their way. They cleared the dugout that their
priceless treasure, the wondrous creature who had come to them, might
see the light of day. And as they laboured the snow continued to fall;
and at night. The next day, and the next, they cleared while the forest
below was being slowly buried, and all the world about them seemed to be
choked with the gentle horror.
But Ralph and his brother, Nick, feared nothing. They loved the labour;
for was it not on behalf of the beautiful White Squaw?