"She is one of your own people," urged Louison. "We came to tell you."
This was not what Wilfred had said, and it was not all he wanted, but he
was forced to trust it to Louison, although he was uneasy.
He could see plainly enough an Indian would be far more likely to find
her than himself, but would they? Would any of them go?
Louison offered a taste of his tobacco to the old chief and the young,
by way of good-fellowship.
"They will never do it for that," thought Wilfred growing desperate
again. He had but one thing about him he could offer as an inducement,
and that was his knife. He hesitated a moment. He thought of
Pe-na-Koam dying in the snow, and held it out to the young chieftain.
The dusky fingers gripped the handle.
"Will you take care of her and bring her here, or give her food and
build up her hut?" asked Wilfred, making his meaning as plain as he
could, by the help of nods and looks and signs.
The young chief was outside the man-hole in another moment. He slung
his quiver to his belt and took down his bow, flung a stout blanket over
his shoulder, and shouted to his squaw to catch a bronco, the usual name
for the Canadian horse. The kettle was in his hand.
"Can we trust him?" asked Wilfred, as he left the camp by Louison's
side.
"Trust him! yes," answered his companion. "Young Sapoo is one of those
Indians who never break faith. His word once given, he will keep it to
the death."
"Then I have only to pray that he may be in time," said Wilfred gravely,
as he stood still to watch the wild red man galloping back to the
beavers' lakelet.
"Oh, he will be in time," returned Louison cheerily. "All their wigwam
poles would be left standing, and plenty of pine brush and firewood
strewing about. She is sure to have found some shelter before the
heaviest fall of snow; that did not come until it was nearly morning."
Gaspe had climbed the lookout to watch for their return.
"Wilfred, _mon cher_," he exclaimed, "you must have a perfect penchant
for running away. How could you give us the slip in such a shabby
fashion? I could not believe Chirag. If the bears were not all dropping
off into their winter sleep, I should have thought some hungry bruin had
breakfasted upon you."
Gaspe's grandfather had turned carpenter, and was already at work
mending his broken doors. Not being a very experienced workman, his
planking and his panelling did not square. Wood was plentiful, and more
than one piece was thrown aside as a misfit. Both the boys were eager
to assist in the work of restoration. A broken shelf was mended between
them--in first-rate workmanly style, as Wilfred really thought. "We
have done that well," they agreed; and when Mr. De Brunier--who was
still chipping at his refractory panel--added a note of commendation to
their labours, Gaspe's spirits ran up to the very top of the mental
thermometer.
To recover his balance--for Wilfred unceremoniously declared he was off
his head--Gaspe fell into a musing fit. He wakened up, exclaiming,--
"I'm flying high!"
"Then mind you don't fall," retorted Mr. De Brunier, who himself was
cogitating somewhat darkly over Louison's intelligence. "There will be
no peace for me," he said, "no security, whilst these Blackfeet are in
the neighbourhood. 'Wait for another sun-rising'--that means another
forty-eight hours of incessant vigilance for me. It was want of
confidence did it all. I should teach them to trust me in time, but it
cannot be done in a day."
As he moved on, lamenting over the scene of destruction, Gaspe laid a
hand on Wilfred's arm. "How are you going to keep pace with the hunters
with that lame foot?" he demanded.
"As the tortoise did with the hare," laughed Wilfred. "Get myself left
behind often enough, I don't doubt that."
"But I doubt if you will ever get to your home _a la tortoise_,"
rejoined Gaspe. "No, walking will never do for you. I am thinking of
making you a sled."
"A sledge!" repeated Wilfred in surprise.
"Oh, we drop the 'ge' you add to it in your English dictionaries,"
retorted Gaspe. "We only say sled out here. There will be plenty of
board when grandfather has done his mending. We may have what we want,
I'm sure. Your dog is a trained hauler, and why shouldn't we teach my
biggest pup to draw with him? They would drag you after the hunters in
fine style. We can do it all, even to their jingling bells."
Wilfred, who had been accustomed to the light and graceful carioles and
sledges used in the Canadian towns, thought it was flying a bit too
high. But Gaspe, up in all the rough-and-ready contrivances of the
backwoods, knew what he was about. Louison and Chirag had to be
consulted.
When all the defences were put in order--bolts, bars, and padlocks
doubled and trebled, and a rough but very ponderous double door added to
the storeroom--Mr. De Brunier began to speak of rest.
"The night cometh in which no man can work," he quoted, as if in
justification of the necessary stoppage.
The hammer was laid down, and he sank back in his hard chair, as if he
were almost ashamed to indulge in his one solace, the well-filled pipe
Gaspe was placing so coaxingly in his fingers. A few sedative whiffs
were enjoyed in silence; but before the boys were sent off to bed, Gaspe
had secured the reversion of all the wooden remains of the carpentering
bout, and as many nails as might be reasonably required.
"Now," said Gaspe, as he tucked himself up by Wilfred's side, and pulled
the coverings well over head and ears, "I'll show you what I can do."
Three days passed quickly by. On the morning of the fourth Louison
walked in with a long face. The new horse, the gift of the Blackfoot
chief, had vanished in the night. The camp had moved on, nothing but
the long poles of the wigwams were left standing.
The loss of a horse is such an everyday occurrence in Canada, where
horses are so often left to take care of themselves, it was by no means
clear that Oma-ka-pee-mulkee-yeu had resumed his gift, but it was highly
probable.
Notwithstanding, the Company had not been losers by the riotous
marketing, for the furs the Blackfeet had brought in were splendid.
"Yes, we were all on our guard--thanks to you, my little man--or it
might have ended in the demolition of the fort," remarked Mr. De
Brunier. "Now, if there is anything you want for your journey, tell me,
and you shall have it."
"Yes, grandfather," interposed Gaspe. "He must have a blanket to sleep
in, and there is the harness for the dogs, and a lot of things."
Wilfred grew hot. "Please, sir, thanks; but I don't think I want much.
Most of all, perhaps, something to eat."
Mr. De Brunier recommended a good hunch of pemmican, to cut and come
again. The hunters would let him mess with them if he brought his own
pemmican and a handful of tea to throw into their boiling kettle. The
hunters' camp was about sixty miles from Hungry Hall. They would be two
or three days on the road.
More than one party of hunters had called at the fort already, wanting
powder and ball, matches, and a knife; and when the lynx and marten and
wolf skins which they brought were told up, and the few necessaries they
required were provided, the gay, careless, improvident fellows would
invest in a tasselled cap bright with glittering beads.
The longer Wilfred stayed at the fort, the more Mr. De Brunier hesitated
about letting the boy start for so long a journey with no better
protection. Gaspard never failed to paint the danger and magnify the
difficulties of the undertaking, wishing to keep his new friend a little
longer. But Wilfred was steady to his purpose. He saw no other chance
of getting back to his home. He did not say much when Mr. De Brunier
and Gaspe were weighing chances and probabilities, hoping some
travelling party from the north might stop by the way at Hungry Hall and
take him on with them. Such things did happen occasionally.
But Wilfred had a vivid recollection of his cross-country journey with
Forgill. He could not see that he should be sure of getting home if he
accepted Mr. De Brunier's offer and stayed until the river was frozen
and then went down with him to their mid-winter station, trusting to a
seat in some of the Company's carts or the Company's sledges to their
next destination.
Then there would be waiting and trusting again to be sent on another
stage, and another, and another, until he would at last find himself at
Fort Garry. "Then," he asked, "what was he to do? If his uncle and aunt
knew that he was there, they might send Forgill again to fetch him. But
if letters reached Acland's Hut so uncertainly, how was he to let them
know?"
As Wilfred worked the matter out thus in his own mind, he received every
proposition of Mr. De Brunier's with, "Please, sir, I'd rather go to
Bowkett. He lost me. He will be sure to take me straight home."
"The boy knew his own mind so thoroughly," Mr. De Brunier told Gaspard
at last, "they must let him have his own way."
The sled was finished. It was a simple affair--two thin boards about
four feet long nailed together edgeways, with a tri-cornered piece of
wood fitted in at the end. Two old skates were screwed on the bottom,
and the thing was done. The boys worked together at the harness as they
sat round the stove in the evening. The snow was thicker, the frost was
harder every night. Ice had settled on the quiet pools, and was
spreading over the quick-running streams, but the dash of the falls
still resisted its ever-encroaching influence. By-and-by they too must
yield, and the whole face of nature would be locked in its iron clasp.
November was wearing away. A sunny morning came now and then to cheer
the little party so soon to separate.
Gaspe proposed a run with the dogs, just to try how they would go in
their new harness, and if, after all, the sled would run as a sled
should.
Other things were set aside, and boys and men gathered in the court.
Even Mr. De Brunier stepped out to give his opinion about the puppies.
Gaspe had named them from the many tongues of his native Canada.
In his heart Wilfred entertained a secret belief that not one of them
would ever be equal to his Yula. They were Athabascans. They would
never be as big for one thing, and no dog ever could be half as
intelligent; that was not possible. But he did not give utterance to
these sentiments. It would have looked so ungrateful, when Gaspe was
designing the best and biggest for his parting gift. And they were
beauties, all four of them.
There was Le Chevalier, so named because he never appeared, as Gaspe
declared, without his white shirtfront and white gloves. Then there was
his bluff old English Boxer, the sturdiest of the four. He looked like
a hauler. Kusky-tay-ka-atim-moos, or "the little black dog," according
to the Cree dialect, had struck up a friendship with Yula, only a little
less warm than that which existed between their respective masters.
Then the little schemer with the party-coloured face was Yankee-doodle.
"Try them all in harness, and see which runs the best," suggested
grandfather, quite glad that his Gaspard should have one bright holiday
to checker the leaden dulness of the everyday life at Hungry Hall.
Louison was harnessing the team. He nailed two long strips of leather
to the lowest end of the sled for traces. The dogs' collars were made
of soft leather, and slipped over the head. Each one was ornamented
with a little tinkling bell under the chin and a tuft of bright ribbon
at the back of the ear, and a buckle on either side through which the
traces were passed. A band of leather round the dogs completed the
harness, and to this the traces were also securely buckled. The dogs
stood one before the other, about a foot apart.
Yula was an experienced hand, and took the collar as a matter of course.
Yankee was the first of the puppies to stand in the traces, and his
severe doggie tastes were completely outraged by the amount of finery
Gaspe and Louison seemed to think necessary for their proper appearance.
Wilfred was seated on a folded blanket, with a buffalo-robe tucked over
his feet. Louison flourished a whip in the air to make the dogs start.
Away went Yula with something of the velocity of an arrow from a bow,
knocking down Gaspe, who thought of holding the back of the sled to
guide it.
He scrambled to his feet and ran after it. Yula was careering over the
snow at racehorse speed, ten miles an hour, and poor little Yankee,
almost frightened out of his senses, was bent upon making a dash at the
ribbon waving so enticingly before his eyes. He darted forward. He
hung back. He lurched from side to side. He twisted, he turned. He
upset the equilibrium of the sledge. It banged against a tree on one
side, and all but tilted over on the other. One end went down into a
badger hole, leaving Wilfred and his blanket in a heap on the snow, when
Yankee, lightened of half his load, fairly leaped upon Yula's back and
hopelessly entangled the traces. The boys concealed an uneasy sense of
ignominious failure under an assertion calculated to put as good a face
as they could on the matter: "We have not got it quite right yet, but we
shall."
*CHAPTER XI.*
_*THE HUNTERS' CAMP.*_
A burst of merry laughter made the two boys look round, half afraid that
it might be at their own expense.
Wilfred felt a bit annoyed when he perceived a little party of horsemen
spurring towards the fort. But Gaspe ran after them, waving his arms
with a bonjour as he recognized his own Louison's cousin, Batiste, among
the foremost.
Dog training and dog driving are the never-failing topics of interest
among the hunters and trappers. Batiste had reined in his horse to watch
the ineffectual efforts of the boys to disentangle the two dogs, who
were fighting and snarling with each other over the upturned sled.
Batiste and his comrades soon advanced from watching to helping. The
sled was lifted up, the traces disentangled, and Wilfred and Gaspe were
told and made to feel that they knew nothing at all about dog driving,
and might find themselves in a heap all pell-mell at the bottom of the
river bank some day if they set about it in such a reckless fashion.
They were letting the dogs run just where they liked. Dogs wanted
something to follow. Batiste jumped from his horse at last, quite unable
to resist the pleasure of breaking in a young dog.
"It takes two to manage a dog team," he asserted. "It wants a man in
snow-shoes to walk on in front and mark a track, and another behind to
keep them steady to their work."
Dogs, horses, men, and boys all turned back together to discuss Yankee's
undeveloped powers. But no, Batiste himself could do nothing with him.
Yankee refused to haul.
"I'll make him," said Batiste.
But Gaspe preferred to take his dog out of the traces rather than
surrender him to the tender mercies of a hunter. "I know they are very
cruel," he whispered to Wilfred. So Yula was left to draw the empty
sled back to the fort, and he did it in first-rate style.
"He is just cut out for hauling, as the hound is for hunting," explained
Batiste. "It is not any dog can do it."
They entered the gate of the fort. The men stood patting and praising
Yula, while Batiste exchanged greetings with his cousin.
Before he unlocked the door of his shop, Mr. De Brunier called Wilfred
to him.
"Now is your chance, my boy," he said kindly. "Batiste tells me he
passed this Bowkett on his way to the camp, so you are sure to find him
there. Shall I arrange with Batiste to take you with him?"
The opportunity had come so suddenly at last. If Wilfred had any
misgiving, he did not show it.
"What do you think I had better do, sir?" he asked.
"There is so much good common sense in your own plan," answered his
friend, "I think you had better follow it. When we shut up, you cannot
remain here; and unless we take you with us, this is the best thing to
do."
Wilfred put both his hands in Mr. De Brunier's.
"I can't thank you," he said; "I can't thank you half enough."
"Never mind the thanks, my boy. Now I want you to promise me, when you
get back to your home, you will make yourself missed, then you will soon
find yourself wanted." Mr. De Brunier turned the key in the lock as he
spoke, and went in.
Wilfred crossed the court to Gaspe. He looked up brightly, exclaiming,
"Kusky is the boy for you; they all say Kusky will draw."
"I am going," whispered Wilfred.
"Going! how and why?" echoed Gaspe in consternation.
"With these men," answered Wilfred.
"Then I shall hate Batiste if he takes you from me!" exclaimed Gaspe
impetuously.
They stepped back into the shed the puppies had occupied, behind some
packing-cases, where nobody could see them, for the parting words.
"We shall never forget each other, never. Shall we ever meet again?"
asked Wilfred despairingly. "We may when we are men."
"We may before," whispered Gaspe, trying to comfort him. "Grandfather's
time is up this Christmas. Then he will take his pension and retire. He
talks of buying a farm. Why shouldn't it be near your uncle's?"
"Come, Gaspard, what are you about?" shouted Mr. De Brunier from the
shop door. "Take Wilfred in, and see that he has a good dinner."
Words failed over the knife and fork. Yula and Kusky had to be fed.
"Will the sled be of any use?" asked Gaspe.
Even Wilfred did not feel sure. They had fallen very low--had no heart
for anything.
Louison was packing the sled--pemmican and tea for three days.
"Put plenty," said Gaspe, as he ran out to see all was right.
Louison and Batiste were talking.
"We'll teach that young dog to haul," Batiste was saying; "and if the
boy gets tired of them, we'll take them off his hands altogether."
"With pleasure," added Louison, and they both laughed.
The last moment had come.
"Good-bye, good-bye!" said Wilfred, determined not to break down before
the men, who were already mounting their horses.
"God bless you!" murmured Gaspe.
Batiste put Wilfred on his horse, and undertook the management of the
sled. The unexpected pleasure of a ride helped to soften the pain of
parting.
"I ought to be thankful," thought Wilfred--"I ought to rejoice that the
chance I have longed for has come. I ought to be grateful that I have a
home, and such a good home." But it was all too new. No one had
learned to love him there. Whose hand would clasp his when he reached
Acland's Hut as Gaspe had done?
On, on, over the wide, wild waste of sparkling snow, with his jovial
companions laughing and talking around him. It was so similar to his
ride with Bowkett and Diome, save for the increase in the cold. He did
not mind that.
But there was one thing Wilfred did mind, and that was the hard blows
Batiste was raining down on Kusky and Yula. He sprang down to
remonstrate. He wanted to drive them himself. He was laughed at for a
self-conceited jackass, and pushed aside.
Dog driving was the hunter's hobby. The whole party were engrossed in
watching Yula's progress, and quiet, affectionate little Kusky's
infantine endeavours to keep up with him.
Batiste regarded himself as a crack trainer, and when poor Kusky brought
the whole cavalcade to a standstill by sitting down in the midst of his
traces, he announced his intention of curing him of such a trick with
his first taste.
"Send him to Rome," shouted one of the foremost of the hunters. "He'll
not forget that in a hurry."
"He is worth training well," observed another. "See what a chest he has.
He will make as good a hauler as the old one by-and-by. Pay him well
first start."
What "sending to Rome" might mean Wilfred did not stay to see. Enough
to know it was the uttermost depth of dog disgrace. He saw Batiste
double up his fist and raise his arm. The sprain in his ankle was
forgotten. He flew to the ground, and dashed between Batiste and his
dogs, exclaiming, "They are mine, my own, and they shan't be hurt by
anybody!"
He caught the first blow, that was all. He staggered backwards on the
slippery ground.
Another of the hunters had alighted. He caught Wilfred by the arm, and
pulled him up, observing dryly, "Well done, young 'un. Got a settler
unawares. That just comes of interfering.--Here, Mathurin, take him up
behind ye."
The hunter appealed to wheeled round with a good-natured laugh.
But Wilfred could not stand; the horses, dogs, and snow seemed dancing
round him.
"Yula! Kusky!" he called, like one speaking in a dream.
But Yula, dragging the sled behind him, and rolling Kusky over and over
in the tangling harness, had sprung at Batiste's arm; but he was too
hampered to seize him. Wilfred was only aware of a confused _melee_ as
he was hoisted into Mathurin's strong arms and trotted away from the
scene of action.
"Come, you are the sauciest young dog of the three," said Mathurin
rather admiringly. "There, lay your head on me. You'll have to sleep
this off a bit," he continued, gently walking his horse, and gradually
dropping behind the rest of the party.
Poor Wilfred roused up every now and then with a rather wild and
incoherent inquiry for his dogs, to which Mathurin replied with a
drawling, sleepy-sounding "All right."
Wilfred's eyes were so swollen over that he hardly knew it was starshine
when Mathurin laid him down by a new-lit camping-fire.
"There," said the hunter, in the self-congratulatory tone of a man who
knows he has got over an awkward piece of business; "let him have his
dogs, and give him a cup of tea, and he'll be himself again by the
morning."
"Ready for the same game?" asked Batiste, who was presiding over the
tea-kettle.
The cup which Mathurin recommended was poured out; the sugar was not
spared. Wilfred drank it gladly without speaking. When words were
useless silence seemed golden. Yula was on guard beside him, and poor
little Kusky, cowed and cringing, was shivering at his feet. They
covered him up, and all he had seen and heard seemed as unreal as his
dreams.
The now familiar cry of "_Leve! leve!_" made Yula sit upright. The
hunters were astir before the dawn, but Wilfred was left undisturbed for
another hour at least, until the rubeiboo was ready--that is, pemmican
boiled in water until it makes a sort of soup. Pemmican, as Mr. De
Brunier had said, was the hunters' favourite food.
"Now for the best of the breakfast for the lame and tame," laughed
Batiste, pulling up Wilfred, and looking at his disfiguring bruises with
a whistle.
Wilfred shrank from the prospect before him. Another day of bitter
biting cold, and merciless cruelty to his poor dogs. "Oh, if Gaspe
knew!--if Kusky could but have run back home!"
Wilfred could not eat much. He gave his breakfast to his dogs, and
fondled them in silence. It was enough to make a fellow's blood boil to
be called Mathurin's babby, _l'enfant endormi_ (sleepy child), and
Pierre the pretty face.
"Can we be such stoics, Yula," he whispered, "as to stand all this
another twenty-four hours, and see our poor little Kusky beaten right
and left? Can we bear it till to-morrow morning?"
Yula washed the nervous fingers stroking his hair out of his eyes, and
looked the picture of patient endurance. There was no escape, but it
could not last long. Wilfred set his teeth, and asserted no one but
himself should put the harness on his dogs.
"Gently, my little turkey-cock," put in Mathurin. "The puppy may be your
own, but the stray belongs to a friend of mine, who will be glad enough
to see him back again."
Wilfred was fairly frightened now. "Oh, if he had to give his Yula
chummie back to some horrid stranger!" He thought it would be the last
straw which brings the breakdown to boy as well as camel. But he
consoled himself at their journey's end. Bowkett would interfere on his
behalf. Mathurin's assertion was not true, by the twinkle in his eye
and the laugh to his companions. Louison must have told his cousin that
Yula was a stray, or they would never have guessed it. True or false,
the danger of losing his dog was a real one. They meant to take it from
him. One thing Wilfred had the sense to see, getting in a passion was
of no good anyway. "Frederick the Great lost his battle when he lost
his temper," he thought. "Keep mine for Yula's sake I will."
But the work was harder than he expected, although the time was shorter.
The hardy broncos of the hunters were as untiring as their masters.
Ten, twenty, thirty miles were got over without a sign of weariness from
any one but Wilfred and Kusky. If they were dead beat, what did it
matter? The dog was lashed along, and Wilfred was teased, to keep him
from falling asleep.
"One more push," said the hunters, "and instead of sleeping with our
feet to a camp-fire, and our beards freezing to the blankets, we shall
be footing it to Bowkett's fiddle."
The moon had risen clear and bright above the sleeping clouds still
darkening the horizon. A silent planet burned lamp-like in the western
sky. Forest and prairie, ridges and lowland, were sparkling in the
sheen of the moonlight and the snow.
Wilfred roused himself. The tinkle of the dog-bells was growing fainter
and fainter, as Mathurin galloped into the midst of a score or so of
huts promiscuously crowded together, while many a high-piled meat-stage
gave promise of a winter's plenty. Huge bones and horns, the remnants
of yesterday's feast, were everywhere strewing the ground, and changing
its snowy carpet to a dingy drab. There were wolf-skins spread over
framework. There were buffalo-skins to be smoked, and buffalo-robes--as
they are called when the hair is left on--stretched out to dry. Men and
horses, dogs and boys, women drawing water or carrying wood, jostled
each other. There was a glow of firelight from many a parchment window,
and here and there the sound of a fiddle, scraped by some rough hunter's
hand, and the quick thud of the jovial hunter's heel upon the earthen
floor.
It resembled nothing in the old world so much as an Irish fair, with its
shouts of laughter and snatches of song, and that sense of inextricable
confusion, heightened by the all too frequent fight in a most
inconvenient corner. The rule of contrary found a notable example in
the name bestowed upon this charming locality. A French missionary had
once resided on the spot, so it was still called La Mission.
Mathurin drew up before one of the biggest of the huts, where the sounds
of mirth were loudest, and the light streamed brightest on the bank of
snow beside the door.
"Here we are!" he exclaimed, swinging Wilfred from the saddle to the
threshold.
*CHAPTER XII.*
_*MAXICA'S WARNING.*_
Mathurin knocked at the door. It was on the latch. He pushed Wilfred
inside; but the boy was stubborn.
"No, no, I won't go in; I'll stand outside and wait for the others," he
said. "I want my dogs."
"But the little 'un's dead beat. You would not have him hurried. I am
going back to meet them," laughed Mathurin, proud of the neat way in
which he had slipped out of all explanation of the blow Wilfred had
received, which Bowkett might make awkward.
He was in the saddle and off again in a moment, leaving Wilfred standing
at the half-open door.
"This is nothing but a dodge to get my dogs away from me," thought the
boy, unwilling to go inside the hut without them.
"I am landed at last," he sighed, with a grateful sense of relief, as he
heard Bowkett's voice in the pause of the dance. His words were
received with bursts of laughter. But what was he saying?
"It all came about through the loss of the boy. There was lamentation
and mourning and woe when I went back without him. The auntie would
have given her eyes to find him. See my gain by the endeavour. As hope
grew beautifully less, it dwindled down to 'Bring me some certain
tidings of his fate, and there is nothing I can refuse you.' As luck
would have it, I came across a Blackfoot wearing the very knife we stuck
in the poor boy's belt before we started. I was not slow in bartering
for an exchange; and when I ride next to Acland's Hut, it is but to
change horses and prepare for a longer drive to the nearest church. So,
friends, I invite you all to dance at my wedding feast. Less than three
days of it won't content a hunter."
A cheer went up from the noisy dancers, already calling for the fiddles.
Bowkett paused with the bow upraised. There stood Wilfred, like the
skeleton at the feast, in the open doorway before him.
"If you have not found me, I have found you, Mr. Bowkett," he was
saying. "I am the lost boy. I am Wilfred Acland."
The dark brow of the handsome young hunter contracted with angry dismay.
"Begone!" he exclaimed, with a toss of his head. "You! I know nothing
of you! What business have you here?"
Hugh Bowkett turned his back upon Wilfred, and fiddled away more noisily
than before. Two or three of his friends who stood nearest to him--men
whom it would not have been pleasant to meet alone in the darkness of
the night--closed round him as the dance began.
"A coyote in your lamb's-skin," laughed one, "on the lookout for a
supper."
A coyote is a little wolfish creature, a most impudent thief, for ever
prowling round the winter camps, nibbling at the skins and watching the
meat-stage, fought off by the dogs and trapped like a rat by the
hunters.
Wilfred looked round for Diome. He might have recognized him; but no
Diome was there.
Was there not one among the merry fellows tripping before him, not one
that had ever seen him before? He knew he was sadly changed. His face
was still swollen from the disfiguring blow. Could he wonder if Bowkett
did not know him? Should he run back and call the men who had brought
him to his assistance? He hated them, every one. He was writhing still
under every lash which had fallen on poor Kusky's sides. Turn to them?
no, never! His dogs would be taken as payment for any help that they
might give. He would reason it out. He would convince Bowkett he was
the same boy.
Three or four Indians entered behind him, and seated themselves on the
floor, waiting for something to eat. He knew their silent way of
begging for food when they thought that food was plentiful in the camp:
the high-piled meat-stage had drawn them. It was such an ordinary thing
Wilfred paid no heed to them. He was bent on making Bowkett listen; and
yet he was afraid to leave the door, for fear of missing his dogs.
"A word in your ear," said the most ill-looking of the hunters standing
by Bowkett's fiddle, trusting to the noise of the music to drown his
words from every one but him for whom they were intended. "You and I
have been over the border together, sharpened up a bit among the Yankee
bowie-knives. You are counting Caleb Acland as a dead man. You are
expecting, as his sister's husband, to step into his shoes. Back comes
this boy and sweeps the stakes out of your very hand. He'll stand
first."
"I know it," retorted Bowkett with a scowl. "But," he added hurriedly,
"it is not he."
"Oh, it isn't the boy you lost? Of course not. But take my advice, turn
this impudent young coyote out into the snow. One midnight's frost will
save you from any more bother. There are plenty of badger holes where
he can rest safe and snug till doomsday."
Bowkett would not venture a reply. The low aside was unnoticed by the
dancers; not the faintest breath could reach Wilfred, vainly
endeavouring to pass between the whirling groups to Bowkett's side; but
every syllable was caught by the quick ear of one of the Indians on the
floor.
He picked up a tiny splinter of wood from the hearth, near which he was
sitting; another was secreted. There were three in the hollow of his
hand. Noiselessly and unobtrusively he stole behind the dancers. A
gentle pull at Wilfred's coat made him look up into the half-blind eyes
of Maxica the Cree.
Not a word was said. Maxica turned from him and seated himself once
more on the ground, in which he deliberately stuck his three pegs.
Wilfred could not make out what he was going to do, but his heart felt
lighter at the sight of him; "for," he thought, "he will confirm my
story. He will tell Bowkett how he found me by the banks of the
dried-up river." He dropped on the floor beside the wandering Cree.
But the Indian laid a finger on his lips, and one of his pegs was
pressed on Wilfred's palm; another was pointed towards Bowkett. The
third, which was a little charred, and therefore blackened, was turned
to the door, which Wilfred had left open, to the darkness without, from
whence, according to Indian belief, the evil spirits come.
Then Maxica took the three pegs and moved them rapidly about the floor.
The black peg and Bowkett's peg were always close together, rubbing
against each other until both were as black as a piece of charcoal. It
was clear they were pursuing the other peg--which Wilfred took for
himself--from corner to corner. At last it was knocked down under them,
driven right into the earthen floor, and the two blackened pegs were
left sticking upright over it.
Wilfred laid his hand softly on Maxica's knee, to show his warning was
understood.
But what then?
Maxica got up and glided out of the hut as noiselessly as he had entered
it. The black-browed hunter whispering at Bowkett's elbow made his way
through the dancers towards Wilfred with a menacing air.
"What are you doing here?" he demanded.
"Waiting to speak to Mr. Bowkett," replied Wilfred stoutly.
"Then you may wait for him on the snow-bank," retorted the hunter,
seizing Wilfred by the collar and flinging him out of the door.
"What is that for?" asked several of the dancers.
"I'll vow it is the same young imp who passed us with a party of miners
coming from a summer's work in the Rocky Mountains, who stole my dinner
from the spit," he went on, working himself into the semblance of a
passion. "I marked him with a rare black eye before we parted then, and
I'll give him another if he shows his face again where I am."
"It is false!" cried Wilfred, rising up in the heat of his indignation.
His tormentor came a step or two from the door, and gathering up a great
lump of snow, hurled it at him.
Wilfred escaped from the avalanche, and the mocking laughter which
accompanied it, to the sheltering darkness. He paused among the sombre
shadows thrown by the wall of the opposite hut. Maxica was waiting for
him under its pine-bark eaves, surveying the cloudless heavens.
"He speaks with a forked tongue," said the Cree, pointing to the man in
the doorway, and dividing his fingers, to show that thoughts went one
way and words another.
The scorn of the savage beside him was balm to Wilfred. The touch of
sympathy which makes the whole world kin drew them together. But
between him and the hunter swaggering on the snow-bank there was a moral
gulf nothing could bridge over. There was a sense--a strange sense--of
deliverance. What would it have been to live on with such men, touching
their pitch, and feeling himself becoming blackened? That was the
uttermost depth from which this fellow's mistake had saved him.
It was no mistake, as Maxica was quick to show him, but deliberate
purpose. Then Wilfred gave up every hope of getting back to his home.
All was lost to him--even his dogs were gone.
He tried to persuade Maxica to walk round the huts with him, to find out
where they were. But the Cree was resolute to get him away as fast as
he could beyond the reach of Bowkett and his companions. He expected
that great lump of snow would be followed by a stone; that their steps
would be dogged until they reached the open, when--he did not
particularize the precise form that when was likeliest to assume. The
experiences of his wild, wandering life suggested dangers that could not
occur to Wilfred. There must be no boyish footprint in the snow to tell
which way they were going. Maxica wrapped his blanket round Wilfred,
and threw him over his shoulder as if he had been a heavy pack of skins,
and took his way through the noisiest part of the camp, choosing the
route a frightened boy would be the last to take. He crossed in front
of an outlying hut. Yula was tied by a strip of leather to one of the
posts supporting its meat-stage, and Kusky to another. Maxica recognized
Yula's bark before Wilfred did. He muffled the boy's head in the
blanket, and drew it under his arm in such a position that Wilfred could
scarcely either speak or hear. Then Maxica turned his course, and left
the dogs behind him. But Yula could not be deceived. He bounded
forward to the uttermost length of his tether. One sniff at the toe of
Wilfred's boot, scarcely visible beneath the blanket, made him
desperate. He hung at his collar; he tore up the earth; he dragged at
the post, as if, like another Samson, he would use his unusual strength
to pull down this prison-house.
Maxica, with his long, ungainly Indian stride, was quickly out of sight.
Then Yula forbore his wailing howl, and set himself to the tough task of
biting through the leathern thong which secured him. Fortunately for
him, a dog-chain was unattainable in the hunters' camp. Time and
persistency were safe to set him free before the daylight.
"I thought you were going to stifle me outright," said Wilfred, when
Maxica released him.
"I kept you still," returned the Cree. "There were ears behind every
log."
"Where are we going?" asked Wilfred.
But Maxica had no answer to that question. He was stealing over the
snow with no more definite purpose before him than to take the boy away
somewhere beyond the hunters' reach. A long night walk was nothing to
him. He could find his way as well in the dark as in the light.
They were miles from the hunters' camp before he set Wilfred on his feet
or paused to rest.
"You have saved me, Maxica," said Wilfred, in a low, deep voice. "You
have saved my life from a greater danger than the snowdrift. I can only
pray the Good Spirit to reward you."
"I was hunger-bitten, and you gave me beaver-skin," returned Maxica.
"Now think; whilst this bad hunter keeps the gate of your house there is
no going back for you, and you have neither trap nor bow. I'll guide
you where the hunter will never follow--across the river to the pathless
forest; and then--" he looked inquiringly, turning his dim eyes towards
the boy.
"Oh, if I were but back in Hungry Hall!" Wilfred broke forth.
Maxica was leading on to where a poplar thicket concealed the entrance
to a sheltered hollow scooped on the margin of a frozen stream. The
snow had fallen from its shelving sides, and lay in white masses,
blocking the entrance from the river. Giving Wilfred his hand, Maxica
began to descend the slippery steep. It was one of nature's
hiding-places, which Maxica had frequently visited. He scooped out his
circle in the frozen snow at the bottom, fetched down the dead wood from
the overhanging trees, and built his fire, as on the first night of
their acquaintance. But now the icy walls around them reflected the
dancing flames in a thousand varied hues. Between the black rocks, from
which the raging winds had swept the recent snow, a cascade turned to
ice hung like a drapery of crystal lace suspended in mid-air.
It was the second night they had passed together, with no curtain but
the star-lit sky. Now Maxica threw the corner of his blanket over
Wilfred's shoulders, and drew him as closely to his side as if he were
his son. The Cree lit his pipe, and abandoned himself to an hour or two
of pure Indian enjoyment.
Wilfred nestled by his side, thinking of Jacob on his stony pillow. The
rainbow flashes from the frozen fall gleamed before him like stairs of
light, by which God's messengers could come and go. It is at such
moments, when we lie powerless in the grasp of a crushing danger, and
sudden help appears in undreamed-of ways, that we know a mightier power
than man's is caring for us.
He thought of his father and mother--the love he had missed and mourned;
and love was springing up for him again in stranger hearts, born of the
pity for his great trouble.
There was a patter on the snow. It was not the step of a man. With a
soft and stealthy movement Maxica grasped his bow, and was drawing the
arrow from his quiver, when Yula bounded into Wilfred's arms. There was
a piteous whine from the midst of the poplars, where Kusky stood
shivering, afraid to follow. To scramble up by the light of the fire
and bring him down was the work of a moment.
Yula's collar was still round his neck, with the torn thong dangling
from it; but Kusky had slipped his head out of his, only leaving a
little of his abundant hair behind him.
Three hours' rest sufficed for Maxica. He rose and shook himself.
"That other place," he said, "where's that?"
Now his dogs were with him, Wilfred was loath to leave their icy retreat
and face the cruel world.
The fireshine and the ice, with all their mysterious beauty, held him
spell-bound.
"Maxica," he whispered, not understanding the Cree's last question,
"they call this the new world; but don't you think it really is the very
old, old world, just as God made it? No one has touched it in all these
ages."
Yes, it was a favourite nook of Maxica's, beautiful, he thought, as the
happy hunting-grounds beyond the sunset--the Indian's heaven. Could he
exchange the free range of his native wilds, with all their majestic
beauty, for a settler's hut? the trap and the bow for the plough and the
spade, and tie himself down to one small corner? The earth was free to
all. Wilfred had but to take his share, and roam its plains and forests,
as the red man roamed.
But Wilfred knew better than to think he could really live their savage
life, with its dark alternations of hunger and cold.
"Could I get back to Hungry Hall in time to travel with Mr. De Brunier?"
he asked his swarthy friend.
"Yes; that other place," repeated Maxica, "where is that?"
Wilfred could hardly tell him, he remembered so little of the road.
"Which way did the wind blow and the snow drift past as you stood at the
friendly gates?" asked Maxica. "On which cheek did the wind cut keenest
when you rode into the hunters' camp at nightfall?"
Wilfred tried to recollect.
"A two days' journey," reflected Maxica, "with the storm-wind in our
faces."
He felt the edge of his hatchet, climbed the steep ascent, and struck a
gash in the stem of the nearest poplar. His quick sense of touch told
him at which edge of the cut the bark grew thickest. That was the
north. He found it with the unerring precision of the mariner's
compass. Although he had no names for the cardinal points, he knew them
all.
There was an hour or two yet before daylight. Wilfred found himself a
stick, as they passed between the poplars, to help himself along, and
caught up Kusky under his other arm; for the poor little fellow was
stiff in every limb, and his feet were pricked and bleeding, from the
icicles which he had suffered to gather between his toes, not yet
knowing any better. But he was too big a dog for Wilfred to carry long.
Wilfred carefully broke out the crimsoned spikes as soon as there was
light enough to show him what was the matter, and Yula came and washed
Kusky's feet more than once; so they helped him on.
Before the gray of the winter's dawn La Mission was miles behind them,
and breakfast a growing necessity.
Maxica had struck out a new route for himself. He would not follow the
track Batiste and his companions had taken. The black pegs might yet
pursue the white and trample it down in the snow if they were not wary.
Sooner or later an Indian accomplishes his purpose. He attributed the
same fierce determination to Bowkett. Wilfred lagged more and more.
Food must be had. Maxica left him to contrive a trap in the run of the
game through the bushes to their right. So Wilfred took the dogs slowly
on. Sitting down in the snow, without first clearing a hole or lighting
a fire, was dangerous.
Yula, sharing in the general desire for breakfast, started off on a
little hunting expedition of his own. Kusky was limping painfully after
him, as he darted between the tall, dark pines which began to chequer
the landscape and warn the travellers they were nearing the river.
Wilfred went after his dog to recall him. The sun was glinting through
the trees, and the all-pervading stillness was broken by the sound of a
hatchet. Had Maxica crossed over unawares? Had Wilfred turned back
without knowing it? He drew to the spot. There was Diome chopping
firewood, which Pe-na-Koam was dragging across the snow towards a
roughly-built log-hut.
She dropped the boughs on the snow, and drawing her blanket round her,
came to meet him.
Diome, not perceiving Wilfred's approach, had retreated further among
the trees, intent upon his occupation.
Wilfred's first sensation of joy at the sight of Pe-na-Koam turned to
something like fear as he saw her companion, for he had known him only
as Bowkett's man. But retreat was impossible. The old squaw had
shuffled up to him and grasped his arm. The sight of Yula bounding over
the snow had made her the first to perceive him. She was pouring forth
her delight in her Indian tongue, and explaining her appearance in such
altered surroundings. Wilfred could not understand a word, but Maxica
was not far behind. Kusky and Yula were already in the hut, barking for
the wa-wa (the goose) that was roasting before the fire.
When Maxica came up, walking beside Diome, Wilfred knew escape was out
of the question. He must try to make a friend--at least he must meet
him as a friend, even if he proved himself to be an enemy. But the work
was done already.
"Ah, it is you!" cried Diome. "I was sure it was. You had dropped a
button in the tumble-down hut, and the print of your boot, an English
boot, was all over the snow when I got there. You look dazed, my little
man; don't you understand what I'm talking about? That old squaw is my
grandmother. You don't know, of course, who it was sent the Blackfoot
Sapoo to dig her out of the snow; but I happen to know. The old man is
going from Hungry Hall, and Louison is to be promoted. I'm on the
look-out to take his place with the new-comer; so when I met with him, a
snow-bird whispered in my ear a thing or two. But where are your
guides?"
Wilfred turned for a word with Maxica before he dared reply.
Both felt the only thing before them was to win Diome to Wilfred's side.
"Have you parted company with Bowkett?" asked Maxica cautiously.
"Bowkett," answered Diome, "is going to marry and turn farmer, and I to
try my luck as voyageur to the Company. This is the hunters' idle
month, and I am waiting here until my services are wanted at the
fort.--What cheer?" he shouted to his bright-eyed little wife, driving
the dogs from the door of the hut.
The wa-wa shortly disappeared before Maxica's knife, for an Indian likes
about ten pounds of meat for a single meal. Wilfred was asleep beside
the fire long before it was over; when they tried to rouse him his
senses were roaming. The excitement and exertion, following the blow on
his head, had taken effect at last.
Pe-na-Koam, with all an Indian woman's skill in the use of medicinal
herbs, and the experience of a long life spent among her warrior tribe,
knew well how to take care of him.
"Leave him to me," she said to Maxica, "and go your ways."
Diome too was anxious for the Cree to depart. He was looking forward to
taking Wilfred back to Acland's Hut himself. Caleb Acland's gratitude
would express itself in a tangible form, and he did not intend to divide
it with Maxica. His evident desire to get rid of the Cree put the red
man on his guard. Long did he sit beside the hunter's fire in brooding
silence, trusting that Wilfred might rise up from his lengthened sleep
ready to travel, as an Indian might have done. But his hope was
abortive. He drew out of Pe-na-Koam all he wanted to know. Diome had
been long in Bowkett's employ. When the Cree heard this he shut his
lips.
"Watch over the boy," he said to Pe-na-Koam, "for danger threatens him."
Then Maxica went out and set his traps in the fir-brake and the marsh,
keeping stealthy watch round the hut for fear Bowkett should appear, and
often looking in to note Wilfred's progress.
One day the casual mention of Bowkett's name threw the poor boy into
such a state of agitation, Diome suspected there had been some passage
between the two he was ignorant of. A question now and then, before
Wilfred was himself again, convinced him the boy had been to La Mission,
and that Bowkett had refused to recognize him. When he spoke of it to
Pe-na-Koam, she thought of the danger at which Maxica had hinted. She
watched for the Cree. Diome began to fear Wilfred's reappearance might
involve him in a quarrel with Bowkett.
As Wilfred got better, and found Hungry Hall was shut up, he resolved to
go back to Acland's Hut, if possible, whilst his Aunt Miriam and Bowkett
were safe out of the way on their road to the church where they were to
be married. Diome said they would be gone two days. He proposed to
take Wilfred with him, when he went to the wedding, on the return of the
bride and bridegroom.
"Lend me your snow-shoes," entreated Wilfred, "and with Maxica for a
guide, I can manage the journey alone. Don't go with me, Diome, for
Bowkett will never forgive the man who takes me back. You have been
good and kind to me, why should I bring you into trouble?"
*CHAPTER XIII.*
_*JUST IN TIME.*_
The walk from Diome's log hut to Uncle Caleb's farm was a long one, but
the clear, bright sunshine of December had succeeded the pitiless sleet
and blinding snow. Lake and river had hardened in the icy breath of the
north wind. An iron frost held universal sway, as Wilfred and Maxica
drew near to Acland's Hut.
[Illustration: The walk to Uncle Caleb's farm was a long one.]
The tinkle of a distant sledge-bell arrested Maxica. Had some miscount
in the day brought them face to face with the bridal party?
They turned away from the well-known gate, crept behind the farm
buildings, and crossed the reedy pool to Forgill's hut.
With the frozen snow full three feet deep beneath their feet there was
roadway everywhere. Railings scarcely showed above it, and walls could
be easily cleared with one long step. The door of the hut was fastened,
but Wilfred waited behind it while Maxica stole round to reconnoitre.
He returned quickly. It was not the bridal party, for there was not a
single squaw among them. They were travellers in a horse-sledge,
stopping at the farm to rest. He urged Wilfred to seize the chance and
enter with them. The presence of the strangers would be a protection.
They took their way through the orchard trees, and came out boldly on
the well-worn tracks before the gate. It excited no surprise in the
occupants of the sledge to see two dusky figures in their long, pointed
snow-shoes gliding swiftly after them; travellers like themselves, no
doubt, hoping to find hospitality at the farm.
Yula and Kusky went bounding over the intervening space.
There were two travellers and a sledge-driver. The dogs considered them,
and did not bark. Then Kusky, in frantic delight, endeavoured to leap
into the sledge. It drew up. The driver thundered on the gate.
"What cheer?" shouted a voice from the sledge.
It was the usual traveller's inquiry, but it thrilled through Wilfred's
ears, for it was--it could not be--yet it was the voice of Mr. De
Brunier.
Kusky was already on Gaspe's knee devouring him with his doggie
caresses.
"Is it a dream, or is it real?" asked Wilfred, as with one long slide he
overtook the sledge, and grasped a hand of each.
"I didn't know you, coming after us in your seven-league boots," laughed
Gaspe, pointing to the long, oval frame of Wilfred's snow-shoes,
reaching a foot or more before and behind his boot.
But Wilfred did not answer, he was whispering rapidly to Mr. De Brunier.
"Wilfred, _mon ami_," (my friend), pursued Gaspe, bent upon interrupting
the low-voiced confidence, "it was for your sake grandfather decided to
make his first inquiries for a farm in this neighbourhood. Batiste was
so ambiguous and so loath to speak of your journey when he came after
Louison's post, we grew uneasy about you. All the more glad to find you
safe at home."
"At home, but not in home," answered Wilfred, significantly laying his
finger on his lips, to prevent any exclamation from his bewildered
friend.
"All right," said Mr. De Brunier. "We will enter together."
Pete, who was already opening the gate, bade them heartily welcome.
Hospitality in the lone North-West becomes a duty.
Wilfred dropped behind the sledge, slouched his fur cap well over his
eyes, and let Maxica fold his blanket round him, Indian fashion.
Pete led the way into the kitchen, Wilfred followed behind the
sledge-driver, and the Cree was the last to enter. A long row of joints
were roasting before the ample fire, giving undoubted indications of an
approaching feast.
"Just in time," observed Mr. De Brunier with a smile, which gained a
peculiar significance as it rested on Wilfred.
"Ay, and that you are," returned old Pete; "for the missis is gone to be
married, and I was on the look-out for her return when I heard the
jingling of your sledge-bells. The house will be full enough by
nightfall, I reckon."
Wilfred undid the strap of his snow-shoes, gave them to Maxica, and
walked softly to the door of his uncle's room.
He opened it with a noiseless hand, and closed it behind him.
Mr. De Brunier's retort about the welcome which awaited uninvited guests
on a bridal night kept Pete from noticing his movements.
The logs crackled and the sparks flew on the kitchen hearth. The fat
from the savoury roast fell hissing in the pan, and the hungry
travellers around it seemed to have eyes for nothing else.
Wilfred crept to his uncle's bed. He was asleep. The boy glanced round.
He threw off his wraps. His first care was to find his uncle's comb and
brush. It was a luxury unknown since his departure from Hungry Hall. He
was giving a good tug at his tangled locks, hoping to make himself look
a little more like the schoolboy who had once before roused the old man
from his sleep, when a cough and an exclamation sounding like, "Who is
there?" told him his uncle was awake.
"O uncle, you surely have not forgotten me--me, your nephew, Wilfred!
Got home at last. The pony threw me, and I was utterly lost. An Indian
guided me here," he answered, tumbling his words one upon another as
fast as he could, for his heart was beating wildly.
Caleb Acland raised himself on one elbow and grasped Wilfred by the
wrist. "It is he! It is flesh and blood!" he ejaculated. "The boy
himself Pete! Pete!" He felt for the stick left leaning against his
bed, and stamped it on the floor.
A great sob burst unawares from the poor boy's lips.
"Don't!" said the old man in alarm. "What are you crying for, lad?
What's happened? I don't understand. Give me your hand! That's cold
enough--death cold. Pete! Pete! what are ye about? Have you grown deaf
that you can't hear me?"
He pulled Wilfred's cold fingers under the blankets and tried to chafe
them between his swollen hands.
"I'm not crying," protested Wilfred, brushing his other hand across his
eyes. "It is the ice melting out of me. I'm thawing all over. It is
because I have got back uncle, and you are glad to have me. I should
have been dead but for the Cree who brought me home. I was almost
starving at times. I have wandered in the snow all night."
"God bless the boy!" ejaculated the old man, thundering on the floor
once more.
"Here, Pete! Pete! Something quick to eat."
Pete's head appeared at the door at last.
"Whatever do you want now, master?" he demanded in an injured tone. "I
thought I had put everything ready for you, as handy as could be; and
you said you wouldn't call me off, with the bride expected every minute,
and the supper to cook, as you know."
"Cook away then," returned his master impatiently. "It is the hour for
the fatted calf. Oh, you've no eyes, none! Whom have I got here? Who
is this?"
Pete backed to the door in wide-eyed wonder. "I'm struck of a heap!" he
gasped, staring at Wilfred as if he thought he would melt away into
vacancy.
"Where were you that you did not see him come in?" asked his master
sharply.
"Where?" repeated Pete indignantly. "At your own gate, answering a
party of travellers--men who've come down to buy land; and," he added,
changing his tone, "there is a gentleman among them says he must speak
to you, master, your own self particular, this very night."
"It is Mr. De Brunier, uncle. He took me in, and sent me to the
hunters' camp, where Mr. Bowkett was to be found," interposed Wilfred.
This name was spoken with an effort. Like many a noble-minded boy,
Wilfred hated to tell of another. He hesitated, then went on abruptly:
"I thought he would be sure to bring me home. Well, I got there. He did
not seem to know me. He was all for fiddling and dancing. They were a
rough set, uncle, a very rough set. Father would not have liked to have
seen me with such men. I got away again as quickly as I could. The
Cree who had saved me before guided me home at last."
"What is that? Did you say Bowkett, Hugh Bowkett?" repeated the old
man. "Why, your aunt was married to him this morning."
When Pete disappeared into his master's room, Maxica, who had seated
himself on the kitchen floor, rose suddenly, and leaning over Mr. De
Brunier, asked, "Who in this place is friend to the boy without a
father?"
"I can answer your question for myself, but no further, for I am a
stranger here," replied Mr. De Brunier.
"We are four," said Maxica, counting on his fingers. "I hear the voice
of the man at the gate--the man who spoke against the white boy with a
forked tongue; the man who drove him out into the frosty night, that it
might kill him. We have brought the marten to the trap. If it closes
on him, Maxica stays to break it."
"Come outside, where we can talk freely," answered Mr. De Brunier,
leading the way.
Gaspe and the sledge-driver were left to the enjoyment of the roaring
fire. They were considering the state of Kusky's feet. Gaspe was
removing the icicles from his toes, and the man of the sledge was warmly
recommending boots, and describing the way to make them, when the shouts
at the gate told them the bridal party had arrived. The stupid Pete, as
they began to think, had vanished, for no one answered the summons.
Gaspe guessed the reason, and sent the man to open the gate. He
silenced the dogs, and drew back into the corner, with instinctive good
breeding, to make himself as little in the way as possible.
The great farm-house kitchen was entrance-hall as well. Every door
opened into it. On one hand was the dining-room, reserved chiefly for
state occasions; on the other, the storeroom. The family sleeping rooms
were at the back. Like a provident housewife, Aunt Miriam had set the
tables for her marriage feast, and filled the storeroom with good
things, before she went to church. Pete, with a Frenchman's genius for
the spit, could manage the rest.
The arrival of one or two other guests at the same moment detained the
bridal party with their noisy greetings.
When Aunt Miriam entered the kitchen, leaning on her bridegroom's arm,
Gaspe was almost asleep in his dim corner.
Out ran Pete, effervescing with congratulations, and crossing the
heartiness of the bridal welcome with the startling exclamation, "The
boy, Mrs. Bowkett!--the boy's come home!"
The bridegroom looked sharply round. "The boy," he repeated, seeing
Gaspe by the fire. "There he is."
Up sprang Gaspe, bowing to the bride with all the courtly grace of the
chivalrous De Bruniers of Breton days.
Aunt Miriam turned her head away. "O Pete!" she groaned, "I thought--I
thought you meant--"
Bowkett did not let her finish her sentence, he hurried her into the
dining-room. Behind him came his bright-eyed sister, who had played the
part of bridesmaid, and was eager for the dancing and the fun, so soon
to commence. At her side walked Forgill in his Sunday best, all
important with the responsibility of his position, acting as proxy for
his old master. He had given the bride away, and was at that moment
cogitating over some half-dozen sentences destined for the after-dinner
speech which he knew would be required of him. They were restive, and
would not follow each other. "Happy day" and "Best wishes" wanted
setting up on stilts, with a few long words to back them, for such an
occasion. He knew the Indian love of speechifying would be too strong
in their hunter guests to let him off. He had got as far as,
"Uncommonly happy day for us all." But "uncommonly" sounded far too
common in his critical ears. He was searching for a finer-sounding
word, and thought he had got it in "preternaturally," when he heard the
feeble voice of his master calling out, "Miriam! Here, Miriam."
"Are they all deaf?" said Caleb Acland to Wilfred. "Open the door, my
lad, and show yourself to your aunt."
Slowly and reluctantly Wilfred obeyed him. He held it open just a
hand-breadth, and met the scowling brow of the owner of the forked
tongue.
There was mutual recognition in the glance exchanged.
Wilfred shut the door softly, and drew the bolt without attracting his
uncle's attention.
"The place is full of strangers," he said; "I shall see auntie soon.
I'd rather wait here with you. I shall be sure to see her before she
goes to her new home."
"As you like, my boy;--that Pete's a cow. There is no going away to a
new home. It is bringing in a new master here before the old one is
gone, so that your aunt should not be left unprotected a single day."
As Caleb Acland spoke, Wilfred felt himself growing hard and desperate
in the cold clutch of a giant despair. The star of hope dropped from
his sky. He saw himself in the hand of the man who had turned him from
his door into the killing frost.
It was too late to speak out; Bowkett would be sure to deny it, and hate
him the more. No, not a word to Uncle Caleb until he had taken counsel
with Mr. De Brunier. But in his hasty glance into the outer world Mr.
De Brunier was nowhere to be seen.
Wilfred was sure he would not go away without seeing him again. There
was nothing for it but to gain a little time, wait with his uncle until
the wedding guests were shut in the dining-room, and then go out and
find Mr. De Brunier, unless Aunt Miriam had invited him to sit down with
them. Yes, she was sure to do that, and Gaspe would be with his
grandfather. But Maxica was there. He had saved him twice. He knew
what Maxica would say: "To the free wild forest, and learn the use of
the trap and the bow with me."
Wilfred was sorely tempted to run away. The recollection of Mr. De
Brunier's old-world stories restrained him. He thought of the Breton
emigrants. "What did they do in their despair? What all men can do,
their duty." He kept on saying these words over and over, asking
himself, "What is my duty? Have I no duty to the helpless old man who
has welcomed me so kindly? How will Bowkett behave to him?" Wilfred
felt much stronger to battle through with the hunter on his uncle's
behalf, than when he thought only of himself. "The brave and loyal die
at their posts. Gaspe would, rather than run away--rather than do
anything that looked like running away."
"What is the matter with you, Wilfred?" asked his uncle anxiously.
"What makes you stand like that, my boy?"
"I am so tired," answered Wilfred, "I have walked all day to-day, and
all day yesterday. If I take the cushion out of your chair for a
pillow, I might lie down before the stove, uncle."
"That Pete is an ass not to bring something to eat, as if he could not
make those fellows in the dining-room wait half-a-minute. But stop,
there is some broth keeping hot on the stove. Take that, and come and
lie down on the bed by me; then I can see you and feel you, and know I
have got you again," answered Uncle Caleb, as if he had some
presentiment of what was passing in Wilfred's mind.
Glad enough to obey, Wilfred drank the broth eagerly, and came to the
bed. The old man took him by both hands and gazed in his face,
murmuring, "Lord, now lettest thou thy servant depart in peace."
The peace that Uncle Caleb rejoiced in was his own alone; all around him
strife was brewing. But his peace was of that kind which circumstances
cannot give or take away.
"Kneel down beside me just one minute, my boy," he went on. "We must
not be like the nine lepers, who forgot the thanks when the good had
come. They wouldn't even with the tailors, for in the whole nine put
together there was not one bit of a true man, or they could not have
done it."
Wilfred fell on his knees and repeated softly the Christ-taught prayer
of the ages, "Our Father who art in heaven." He remembered how he had
been fed from the wild bird's _cache_, and saved by the wild man's pity,
and his heart was swelling. But when he came to "Forgive us our
trespasses, as we forgive them that trespass against us," he stopped
abruptly.
"Go on," whispered the old man softly.
"I can't," muttered Wilfred. "It isn't in my heart; I daren't go on.
It is speaking with a forked tongue: words one way, thoughts another;
telling lies to God."
Caleb Acland looked at him as if he were slowly grasping the position.
"Is it Bowkett that you can't forgive?" he asked gently. "Did you think
he need not have lost you? Did you think he would not know you, my poor
boy?"
"Have I got to live with him always?" returned Wilfred.
"No, not if you don't like him. I'll send you back to school," answered
his uncle in a tone of decision.
"Do you mean it, uncle? Do you really say that I shall go back to
school?" exclaimed the boy, his heavy heart's lead beginning to melt, as
the way of escape opened so unexpectedly before him.
"It is a promise," repeated the old man soothingly. It was obvious now
there was something wrong, which the boy refused to explain.
"Patience a bit," he thought; "I can't distress him. It will leak out
soon; but it is growing strange that nobody comes near us."
*CHAPTER XIV*
_*WEDDING GUESTS.*_
More guests were arriving--Diome, Batiste, Mathurin, and a dozen others.
Bowkett came out into the porch to receive them, and usher one after the
other into the dining-room. As the last went in before him, his friend
Dick Vanner of the forked tongue tapped him on the shoulder.
"Who is in there?" he whispered. "Did you see?" pointing as he spoke to
the door of Uncle Caleb's room.
Gaspe was on the alert in a moment, longing to break a lance in his
friend's behalf. The men dropped their voices, but the echo of one
sentence reached him. It sounded like, "No, she only saw the other
boy."
"So, Wilfred, _mon cher_, you and I have changed places, and I have
become that 'other boy,'" laughed Gaspe to himself, lying perdu with an
open ear.