THE PASSING OF WANANEBISH
Stepping across to a duffle bag, Brent produced a shirt and an
undershirt which he tossed to the girl who, in the weakness of sudden
reaction had thrown herself sobbing upon the bunk.
"There, there, darling," he soothed, as with his back toward her, his
eyes roved about the room seeking to picture, in the wild disorder, the
terrific struggle that had taken place. "Put on those things, and then
you can tell me all about it. You're all right now, dear. I will never
leave you again."
"But--oh, if you had not come!" sobbed the girl.
"But, I did come, sweetheart--and everything is all right. Forget the
whole horrid business. Come, we will go straight to Wananebish. Not
another hour, nor a minute will we wait. And we will make her tell the
truth. I have never believed you were her daughter--and now I know!"
"But," faltered the girl, as she slipped into the warm garments, "If I
am not her daughter, who am I? Oh, it is horrible--not to know who you
are! If this is true--she must tell--she has got to tell me! I have the
right to know! And, my mother and my father--where are they? Who are
they?"
"We will know soon, darling," assured Brent, drawing her to him and
looking down into her up-lifted eyes, "But, first let me tell you
this--I don't care who you are. You are mine, now, dearest--the one
woman for me in all the world. And no matter who, or what your parents
were, you are mine, mine, mine!" His lips met hers, her arms stole about
his neck, and as she clung to him she whispered:
"Oh, everything seems all strange, and unreal, and up-side-down, and
horrible, and in all the world, darling, you are the one being who is
good, and sane and strong--oh, I love you so--don't ever leave me
again----"
"Never again," assured Brent, smiling down into the dark eyes raised so
pleadingly to his. "And, now, do you feel able to strike out for the
camp?"
"I feel able to go to the end of the earth, with you," she answered
quickly, and he noticed that her voice had assumed its natural buoyancy,
and that her movements were lithe and sure as she stooped to lace her
snowshoes, and he marveled at the perfect resiliency of nerves that
could so quickly regain their poise after the terrible ordeal to which
they had been subjected.
"Where is Claw?" he asked, abruptly, as he stooped and recovered his
gold sack from the floor where the Captain had dropped it.
"Come we must hurry!" cried the girl, who in the excitement had
forgotten his very existence, "He started for the camp, to trade hooch
to the Indians--and--oh, hurry!" she cried, as she plunged out into the
night. "He hates Wananebish, and he threatened to get even with her! If
he should kill her now--before--before she could tell us--" She was
already descending the bank to the river when Brent recovering his
rifle, hastened after her, and although he exerted himself to the
utmost, the flying figure gradually drew away from him. When it had all
but disappeared in the darkness, he called, and the girl waited,
whereupon Brent despite her protest, took the lead, and with his rifle
ready for instant use, hastened on up the river.
A half mile from the encampment, Brent struck into the scattered timber,
"He may watch the back-trail," he flung back over his shoulder, "and we
don't want to walk into a trap."
Rapidly they made their way through the scrub, and upon the edge of the
clearing, they paused. In the wide space before one of the cabins, brush
fires were blazing. And by the light of the leaping flames the Indians
could be seen crowding and fighting to get to the door of the cabin.
Brent drew Snowdrift into the shelter of a bush, from which point of
vantage they watched Claw, who stood in the doorway, glass in one hand,
six-gun in the other, dispensing hooch. Standing by his side, Yondo
received the skins from the crowding Indians, and tossed them into the
cabin. The process was beautifully simple--a drink for a skin. As Yondo
took a skin Claw passed out a drink to its erstwhile owner.
"Damn him!" muttered Brent, raising his rifle. But Snowdrift pushed it
aside.
"It is too dark," she whispered, "You can't see the sights, and you
might hit one of the Indians." Breaking off sharply, she pointed toward
her own cabin. The door had been thrown open and, rifle in hand old
Wananebish stepped out on the snow. She raised the rifle, and with loud
cries the Indians surged back from about the hooch runner. Before the
rifle could speak Claw fired, and dropping her gun, old Wananebish
staggered a few steps forward and pitched headlong into the snow.
With a yell of rage, Brent broke cover and dashed straight across the
clearing. As the cry reached him, Claw looked up, fired one hasty shot
at the approaching figure, and leaping straight through the throng of
Indians, disappeared in the scrub beyond the cabin, with Yondo close at
his heels.
Brent was aware that Snowdrift was at his side. "Go to her," panted the
girl, "I will try to handle the Indians." For an instant he hesitated,
then, realizing that the girl could deal with her own band better
without his presence, he hastened to the squaw who had raised herself to
an elbow and was vainly trying to rise. Picking her up bodily, Brent
carried her into the cabin and placed her upon the bunk.
"Where--is--she?" the woman gasped, as he tore open her shirt and
endeavored to staunch the flow of blood from a wound low down upon the
sunken chest.
"She's all right," assured the man, "Claw has gone, and she is trying to
quiet the Indians."
The old crone shook her head: "No use," she whispered the words with
difficulty, "Take her away--while--there--is--time.
They--are--crazy--for--hooch--and--they--will--sell--her--to--him." She
sank back gasping, and Brent held a cup of water to her lips as he
motioned her to be quiet.
"I am going to take her," he answered, "But, tell me--who is Snowdrift?"
The beady eyes fixed his with a long, searching stare. She was about to
speak when the door opened and Snowdrift herself burst into the room and
sank down beside the bunk.
With a laboring effort the old woman laid a clawlike hand upon the
girl's arm: "Forgive me," she whispered, and summoning all her fast
ebbing strength she gasped: "It is all a lie. You are not my child. You
are white. I loved you, and I was afraid you would go to your people." A
paroxysm of coughing seized her, and a gush of red blood welled from her
lips. "Look--in--the--moss--bag," she croaked, the words gurgling
through her blood-flooded throat. She fell heavily back upon the
blanket and the red torrent gushed afresh from between the stilled lips.
With a dry sob, Snowdrift turned to Brent: "We must go!" she faltered,
hurriedly, "I can do nothing with the Indians. I tried to reach the
hooch to destroy it, but they crowded me away. He has lied to them--won
them completely over by the promise of more hooch. He told them he has
plenty of hooch _cached_ in the scrub. Already they have sent runners to
bring him back, and when he comes," the girl paused and shuddered "They
will do anything he tells them to--for hooch, and you know what that
will be--come, we must go while we have time!"
"Can't we stay and fight him?" cried Brent, "Surely some of the Indians
will be with us."
"No--only a few of the squaws--and they would be no good. No, we must go
before they bring him back! My sled is beside the door. Hurry and load
it with supplies while I harness the dogs." As she talked, the girl's
hands searched beneath the blankets upon which lay the body of the squaw
and with a low cry she drew forth the moss-bag which she handed to
Brent. "Take it," she said, "and do not trust it to the sled. We have no
time to look into it now--but that little bag contains the secret of my
life----"
"And I will guard it with my own!" cried Brent, as he took the bag from
her hand. "Hurry, now and harness the dogs. I'll throw in some grub and
blankets and we will finish the outfit at my cabin where we'll pick up
Joe Pete."
While Brent worked at the lashings of the sled pack, Snowdrift slipped
silently into the cabin and, crossing to the bunk, bent low over the
still form of the squaw: "Good-by, Wananebish," she sobbed, as she
pressed her lips to the wrinkled forehead, "I don't know what you have
done--nor why you did it--but, I forgive you." She turned to see Brent
examining the two heavy crotches that were fixed, one on either side of
the doorway on the inside. "That is our lock," explained the girl. "See,
there is the bar that goes across the door, like the bar at the post at
Fort Norman. Wananebish made it. And every night when we were inside she
placed the bar in the crotches and no one could have got in without
smashing the door to pieces. Ever since I returned from the mission,
Wananebish has feared someone, and now I know it was Claw."
"If we could only drop the bar from the outside," mused Brent, "Maybe we
could gain a lot of time. I know Claw, and when he finds that he has all
the Indians with him, and that we are only two, he is not going to give
you up without a struggle. By George!" he exclaimed, suddenly, "I
believe I can do it!" He motioned the girl outside, and slipped the bar
into the crotch at the hinge side of the door, then driving a knife upon
the inside, he rested the bar upon it, and stepping outside, banged the
door shut. The knife held, and opening the door, he loosened the blade
a little and tried again. This time the banging of the door jarred the
knife loose. It fell to the floor, and the heavy bar dropped into place
and the man smiled with satisfaction as he threw his weight against the
door. "That will keep them busy for a while," he said, "They'll think
we're in there and they know we're armed, so they won't be any too
anxious to mix things up at close quarters."
Swiftly the dogs flew up the well packed trail toward Brent's cabin. The
night was dark, and the Indians were fighting over the rum cask that
Claw had abandoned. As they hurried down the river, the two cast more
than one glance over their shoulders toward the cabin where the Indians
milled about in the firelight.
At the first bend of the river, they paused and looked back. Shots were
being fired in scattering volleys, and suddenly Snowdrift grasped
Brent's arm: "Look!" she cried, "At our cabin!"
At first Brent could see nothing but the distant glow of the brush
fires, then from the direction of the cabin they had just left a tongue
of flame shot upward through the darkness. There were more shots, and
the flames widened and leaped higher.
"They're piling brush against the cabin," cried Brent. "They think
they'll burn us out. Come on, we haven't a minute to lose, for when Claw
learns that we are not in the cabin, he'll be on our trail."
At his own shack Brent tore the lashings from the sled, and began to
rearrange the pack, adding supplies from his stores. Joe Pete stared in
astonishment. "Come on here!" cried Brent, "Get to work! We're off for
Dawson! And we've got to take grub enough to last till we hit Fort
Norman."
"All day long you have been on the trail," cried the girl, "You are
tired! Can't we stand them off here until you are rested?"
Brent shook his head: "You saw what happened at the other cabin," he
answered. "And here it would be even worse. With the window and the door
on the same side, they could burn us out in no time."
"But they will trail us--and we must travel heavy," she pointed to the
loaded sled.
"We will take our chances in the open," said Brent grimly. "And if luck
favors us we will get a long lead. The Indians may get too drunk to
follow, or they may stop to loot my cabin, and even if they should
overtake us, we can give a good account of ourselves. We have three
rifles, and the Indians can't shoot, and Claw will not risk his own
hide. Strike out straight for Fort Norman, Joe Pete. We will take turns
breaking trail."
At daylight they camped upon the apex of a high ridge that commanded a
six or seven mile sweep of the back-trail, and all three noted with
relief that the stiff wind had filled their trail with the shifting
snow. All through the night they had avoided the timbered swamps and
the patches of scrub both for the purpose of allowing the wind full
sweep at their trail, and also to force their pursuers to expose
themselves to the open. It was decided that until danger of pursuit was
past they would travel only at night and thus eliminate in so far as
possible, the danger of a surprise attack.
Because the men had been on the trail almost constantly for twenty-four
hours, Snowdrift insisted upon standing first watch, and as Brent
unrolled his blankets, he removed the moss-bag from his shoulders and
handed it to the girl. Both he and Joe Pete were asleep the instant they
hit the blankets, and for a long time Snowdrift sat with the moss-bag
hugged close, and her eyes fixed upon the long sweep of back-trail. At
length she thrust her hand into the bag and withdrew the packet, secure
in its waterproof wrapping. Over and over she turned it in her hand as
she speculated, woman like, upon its contents. Time and again she
essayed to untie the thong that bound it but each time her fingers were
stilled before the knot was undone.
"Oh, I am afraid--afraid," she murmured, when her burning curiosity
urged her fingers to do their task. "Suppose he--my father was a man
like--like those two--suppose he was Claw, himself!" She shuddered at
the thought. "No, no!" she whispered, "Wananebish said that he was good.
My mother, then, who was she? Is some terrible stigma attached to her
name? Better never to know who I am, than to know _that_!" For a moment
she held the packet above the little flames of her fire as though she
would drop it in, but even as she held it she knew she would not destroy
it, for she decided that even to know the worst would be better than the
gnawing of life-long uncertainty. "He, too, has the right to know," she
murmured, "And we will open it together." And with a sigh, she replaced
the packet in the bag, and returned to her scrutiny of the back-trail.
Despite the agreement to divide equally the time of watching, the girl
resolved to let the men sleep until mid-day before calling Brent who was
to take the second watch.
At noon, Brent awoke of his own accord, and the girl was startled by the
sound of his voice in her ear: "Anything doing?"
"No," she answered, "Not even a wolf, or a caribou has crossed the
open."
"Have you explored that?" He indicated the moss-bag with a nod, and the
girl was quick to note the carefully suppressed eagerness of the words.
"No. I--waited. I wanted you--and--Oh, I was afraid!"
"Nonsense, darling!" laughed the man, "I am not afraid! Give me the bag.
Again I swear to you, I do not care who you are. You are mine--and
nothing else matters!" Snowdrift slipped her hand into the bag and
withdrew the packet, and she handed it to Brent, he placed his arm about
her shoulders and drew her close against his side, and with her head
resting upon his shoulders, her eyes followed his every movement as his
fingers fumbled at the knot.
Carefully he unwrapped the waterproof covering and disclosed a small
leather note book, and a thick packet wound round with parchment deer
skin. On the fly leaf of the note book, in a round, clear hand was
written the name MURDO MACFARLANE, and below, Lashing Water.
"Murdo MacFarlane," cried Brent, "Why, that's the name in the book that
told of Hearne's lost mines--the book that brought me over here!"
"And the name on the knife--see, I have it here!" exclaimed the girl.
"But, go on! Who was MacFarlane, and what has he to do with me?"
Eagerly Brent read aloud the closely written pages, that told of the
life of Murdo MacFarlane; of his boyhood in Scotland, of his journey to
Canada, his service with the Hudson's Bay Company, his courtship of
Margot Molaire, and their marriage to the accompaniment of the booming
of the bells of Ste. Anne's, of the birth of their baby--the little
Margot, of his restless longing for gold, that his wife and baby need
not live out their lives in the outlands, of the visit of Wananebish and
her little band of Dog Ribs, of his venture into the barrens,
accompanied by his wife and little baby, of the cabin beside the
nameless lake and the year of fruitless search for gold in the barrens.
"Oh, that is it! That is it! The memory!" cried the girl.
"What do you mean? What memory?"
"Always I have had it--the memory. Time and time again it comes back to
me--but I can never seem to grasp it. A cabin, a beautiful woman who
leaned over me, and talked to me, and a big man who took me up in his
arms, a lake beside the cabin, and--that is all. Dim and elusive,
always, I have tried for hours at a time to bring it sharply into mind,
but it was no use--the memory would fade, and in its place would be the
tepee, or my little room at the mission. But, go on! What became of
Murdo MacFarlane, and Margot--of my father and my mother. And why have I
always lived with Wananebish?"
Brent read the closing lines with many a pause, and with many a catch in
his voice--the lines which told of the death of Margot, and of his
determination to take the baby and leave her with Wananebish until he
should return to her, of his leaving with the squaw all of his
money--five hundred pounds in good bank notes, with instructions to use
it for her keep and education in case he did not return. And so he came
to the concluding paragraph which read:
"In the morning I shall carry my wee Margot to the Indian woman. It is
the only thing I can do. And then I shall strike North for gold. But
first I must return to this cabin and bury my dead. God! Why did she
have to die? She should be buried beside her mother in the little
graveyard at Ste. Anne's. But it cannot be. Upon a high point that juts
out onto the lake, I will dig her grave--upon a point where we used
often to go and watch the sunset, she and I and the little one. And
there she will lie, while far below her the booming and the thunder of
the wind-lashed waters of the lake will rise about her like the sound of
bells--her requiem--like the tolling of the bells of Ste. Anne's."
"Oh, where is he now--my father?" sobbed the girl, as he concluded.
Brent's arm tightened about her shoulders, "He is dead," he whispered,
"He has been dead these many years, or he would have found you." He
swept his arm toward the barrens, "Somewhere in this great white land
your father met his death--and it was a man's death--the kind of death
he would have welcomed--for he was a man! The whole North is his grave.
And out of it, his spirit kept calling--calling. And the call was
heard--by a drunkard in a little cabin on the Yukon. I am that drunkard,
and into my keeping the spirit of Murdo MacFarlane has entrusted the
life of his baby--his wee Margot." Brent paused, and his voice suddenly
cut hard as steel, "And may God Almighty strike me dead if I ever
violate that trust!"
Slender brown fingers were upon his lips. "Don't talk like that, dear,
it scares me. See, I am not afraid. And you are _not_ a drunkard."
"I got drunk on the _Belva Lou_."
"Didn't I say we couldn't expect to win all the battles?"
"And, I carry my bottle with me." He reached into his blankets and drew
out the bottle of rum.
"And the cork has not been pulled," flashed the girl, "And you have
carried it ever since you left the whaler."
"Yes, darling," answered the man softly, "And I always shall keep it,
and I never will pull the cork. I can give you that promise, now. I can
promise you--on the word of a Brent that----"
"Not yet, sweetheart--please!" interrupted the girl, "Let us hold back
the promise, till we need it. That promise is our heavy artillery. This
is only the beginning of the war. And no good general would show the
enemy all he has got right in the beginning."
"You wonder woman!" laughed Brent, as he smothered the upraised eyes
with kisses, "But see, we have not opened the packet." Carefully he
unwound the parchment wrapping, and disclosed a closely packed pile of
bank notes. So long had they remained undisturbed that their edges had
stuck together so that it was with difficulty he succeeded in counting
them. "One hundred," he announced, at length, "One hundred five-pound
notes of the Bank of England."
"Why, Wananebish never used any of the money!" cried the girl.
Brent shook his head: "Not a penny has been touched. I doubt that she
ever even opened the packet."
"Poor old Wananebish," murmured the girl, "And she needed it so. But she
saved it all for me."
When darkness gathered, they again hit the trail. A last look from the
ridge disclosed no sign of pursuit, and that night they made twenty-five
miles. For three more nights they traveled, and then upon the shore of
Great Bear Lake, they gave up the night travel and continued their
journey by daylight.
Upon the evening of the eighteenth day they pulled in to Fort Norman,
where they outfitted for the long trail to the Yukon. Before she left,
Snowdrift paid the debt of a thousand skins that McTavish had extended
to the Indians, and the following morning the outfit pulled out and
headed for the mountains which were just visible far to the westward.