The first thing that the new sentinel did was carefully to examine the
cords that bound the captive to the tree, and tie one or two additional
knots to make him more secure. Then he turned to the other Indian, and
asked sharply:--
"Has he been quiet?"
"Quiet as the tree to which he is bound."
"Has he uttered speech?"
"No."
"Good. You may go. I will watch him till morning: after that he will
need no more watching."
Alizay looked sharply at the Eskimo while he uttered these words,
perhaps to ascertain whether he understood their drift, but Cheenbuk's
visage was immovable, and his eyes were fixed, as if in meditation, on
the moon, which just then was beginning to rise over the cliffs and shed
a softened light over the Indian village.
The new sentinel shouldered his gun and began his vigil, while the other
left them.
But other ears had listened to the concluding words of Alizay.
The tree to which the Eskimo was bound stood close to the edge of the
bush, or underwood. In front of it was an open space, up and down which
the sentinel marched. Had the Indian dreamed of a traitor in the camp
he would not have deemed the captive's position as secure as it should
be, but the idea of any one in the village favouring a contemptible
eater-of-raw-flesh never once entered his imagination.
Nevertheless, Adolay was in the bush behind the tree, and not only heard
his words, but saw his movements. Watching her opportunity when the
sentinel had just turned and was marching away from the tree, she cut,
with a scalping-knife, the cord that bound Cheenbuk's right arm and
placed the knife in his hand. Almost at the same moment she slipped
back into the bush.
Cheenbuk made no attempt, however, to free himself. The sentinel's beat
was too short to permit of his doing so without being observed. He
therefore remained perfectly motionless in his former attitude.
It was a trying moment when the Indian approached to within a couple of
feet and looked him straight in the face, as was his wont at each turn.
But Cheenbuk was gifted with nerves of steel. His contemplation of the
moon was so absorbing, that a civilised observer might have mistaken him
for an astronomer or a lunatic. Alizay suspected nothing. He turned
round, and the Eskimo allowed him to take about five paces before he
moved. Then, with the speed of lightning, he ran the sharp blade down
his side, severing all his bonds at one sweep.
Next moment he was free, but he instantly resumed his former position
and attitude until his guard was within a yard of him. Then he sprang
upon him, dropped the knife and seized him by the throat with both
hands, so tightly that he was quite incapable of uttering a cry.
Alizay made a vigorous struggle for life, but he had no chance with the
burly Eskimo, who quickly decided the fight by giving his adversary a
blow with his fist that laid him insensible on the ground.
Springing over his prostrate form he ran straight for the cliff that
Adolay had pointed out to him, leaping over fallen trees, and across
what looked like young chasms, in a state of reckless uncertainty as to
whether he would plunge into ponds or land at the bottom of precipices.
With a feeling of absolute confidence that the girl with the lustrous
eyes would not have told him to run where the feat was impossible, he
held on until he reached the bottom of the cliff and stood beside the
dead tree unhurt, though considerably winded.
There he resolved to wait according to orders. To most ordinary men,
waiting, when they are filled with anxiety, is much more trying than
energetic action. But Cheenbuk was not an ordinary man, therefore he
waited like a hero.
Meanwhile Adolay, having seen the Eskimo fairly in grips with the
sentinel, ran swiftly back towards the village, intending, before going
to Cheenbuk at the cliff, to let her mother know what she had done, and
what she still purposed to do--namely to embark with the Eskimo in a
birch-bark canoe, guide him across the small lake that lay near the
village, and show him the rivulet that would lead him into the Greygoose
River. But she had not gone far, when, on turning a bush, she almost
ran into the arms of a young Indian girl named Idazoo, an event which
upset all her plans and perplexed her not a little--all the more that
this girl was jealous of her, believing that she was trying to steal
from her the affections of Alizay, whom she regarded as her own young
man!
"Why run you so fast?" asked the girl, as Adolay stood panting before
her. "Have you seen a bad spirit?"
"Yes, I have seen a bad spirit," answered Adolay, (thinking of Alizay),
"I have seen two bad spirits," she added, (thinking of Idazoo). "But I
cannot stop to tell you. I have to--to--go to see--something very
strange to-night."
Now it must be told that Idazoo was gifted with a very large bump of
curiosity, and a still larger one, perhaps, of suspicion. The brave
Alizay, she knew, was to mount guard over the Eskimo captive that night,
and she had a suspicion that Adolay had taken advantage of that fact to
pay the captive--not the Indian, oh dear no!--a visit. Unable to rest
quietly in her tent under the powerful influence of this idea, she
resolved to take a walk herself--a sort of moonlight ramble as it were--
in that direction. As we have seen, she met her friend, not
unexpectedly, on the way.
"I will go with you," she said, "to see this strange thing, whatever it
be. There may be danger; two are better than one, and, you know, I am
not easily frightened."
Poor Adolay was dismayed by this proposition, and hurried forward, but
Idazoo kept pace with her. Suddenly she made up her mind, and, changing
her direction, made for the cliff at a rapid run, closely followed by
her jealous friend, who was resolved to see the mystery out.
She purposely led her companion round in such a way that they came
suddenly upon the waiting Eskimo, whose speaking visage betrayed his
surprise at seeing two girls instead of one.
On beholding Cheenbuk standing there unbound, Idazoo stopped short, drew
back, and gazed at him in alarm as well as surprise.
"You have now seen the strange sight I spoke of, but you must not tell
it in the lodges," said Adolay.
Without answering her, Idazoo turned to fly, but Adolay grasped her by
the wrist and held her tight--at the same time motioning with her hand
to Cheenbuk.
The Eskimo was prompt as well as intelligent. He did not wait for
explanations or allow surprise to delay him. With a bound he was beside
the girls, had grasped Idazoo, and looked to Adolay for further
instructions.
"Hold her till I tie up her hands," she said, drawing a stout line of
deerskin from a pocket in the breast of her dress.
With this she proceeded to bind her inquisitive friend's wrists.
Perceiving that she was to be made a captive, the girl opened her mouth
and began a shriek, which, had it been allowed full play, would no doubt
have reached her friends in the village, but Cheenbuk had observed the
intention, and before the first note had struggled into being, he
clapped his hand on her mouth and quenched it. Idazoo wore round her
neck a brightly coloured cotton kerchief, such as the fur-traders of
those days furnished for barter with the Indians. Cheenbuk quietly
plucked this off her neck and tied it firmly round her face and mouth so
as to effectually gag her. This done they fastened her to the stem of
the dead tree.
The whole operation was performed without unnecessary rudeness, and with
great celerity.
"Now, Idazoo," said Adolay, when they had finished, "you have done me
great injury this night. I am sorry to treat you in this way, but I
cannot help it. You _would_ come with me, you know. If I could trust
you even now, I would take the cloth off your mouth, but I dare not, you
might yell, and everybody knows you were never good at keeping your
promises. But it does not matter much. The handkerchief is not too
tight to prevent the air getting up your nose--and it will give your
tongue a rest, which it needs. Besides, the night is not cold, and as
our braves pass here every morning when starting off to hunt, you will
soon be set free."
The Eskimo showed all his brilliant teeth from ear to ear while this
little speech was being made. Then he accompanied Adolay through the
bush until they reached the shores of a small lake, beside which a
birch-bark canoe was lying, partly in the water. At an earlier part of
that evening the girl had placed the canoe there, and put into it
weapons and provisions suitable for a considerable voyage.
"You have got this ready for me?" said Cheenbuk.
"Yes. You saved my mother's life once, and I will save yours," replied
the girl, pointing to the bow of the canoe as if ordering him to embark.
"Are you going with me?" asked the youth, with a look of hopeful
surprise and a very slight flutter of the heart.
"You do not know the lake. I will guide you to the place where the
little river runs out of it, and then, by following that, you will get
into Greygoose River, which I think you know."
The Eskimo's heart ceased to flutter, and the hope died out of his
expressive eyes as he said, still hesitating, "But--but--I am very heavy
and you are very light. A canoe does not go well with its head deep in
the water. Don't you think that I should sit behind and steer?"
"And where would you steer to?" asked Adolay, with a somewhat pert
smile. "Besides, look there," she added, pointing to the stern of the
little craft, "do Eskimos not use their eyes?"
Cheenbuk used his eyes as directed, and saw that a heavy stone had been
placed in the stern so as to counteract the difference of weight. With
an air of humility, therefore, he stepped into his allotted place, took
up a paddle and sat down. Adolay pushed the craft into deeper water,
stepped lightly in, and, giving a vigorous shove, sent it skimming out
on the lake. Then the two dipped their paddles with a will, and shot
over the water like an arrow.
Profound silence was maintained until the other end of the lake was
reached, when the moon came out from a bank of clouds and enabled the
girl to find the reedy source of the little river without difficulty.
"We will land here and lift the canoe past the reeds," she said,
steering the little craft to the side of a grassy bank.
Walking along this bank, and guiding the canoe with their hands, they
soon came to an open space in the forest, whence they could see the
rivulet winding like a thread of silver through the land in front of
them.
"This is the place where we must part," said Adolay with a sudden
determination of manner which surprised and puzzled the Eskimo. "You
have now no further need for me. You have only to go straight on with
the running of the water. There are only two falls on the way, but you
will hear the noise before you come to them, and you have only to lift
the canoe a short way through the bush to the still water below the
falls. Our braves often do that; you will find it quite easy."
"I know something of that," returned Cheenbuk; "we have no falls in our
great salt lake, but we have plenty big lumps of ice, and when these are
like to crush together we have to jump out of our kayaks and lift them
out of the water--ho! and we do it quick too, sometimes, or we get
squeezed flat. But if I go on with the canoe how will you get home?
You cannot swim back."
"I can walk round the lake. Are the Eskimo girls not able to walk, that
you ask such a question?" said the girl, raising her dark eyes with
something of an amused look to the face of her companion, who was
looking anxiously down at her.
"Oh yes, they can walk well. Ay, and run too when needful. But--but--
I'm sorry that we must part. Must!--why must?"
The youth said this in a meditative tone, for it had occurred to him for
a moment that the girl was now in his power; that he could compel her to
get into the bow of the canoe, and might steer her to his home at
Waruskeek if he chose, whether she would or no. But Cheenbuk's soul was
chivalrous. He was far in advance of his kindred and his times. He
scorned himself for having even thought of such a thing for a moment;
and it was with an air of profound humility that he continued--
"Must--of course you must. One of the young braves would have a sore
heart if you did not return."
"No one that I know of," she replied quickly. "I care not for the
braves; but my mother would have a sore heart if I did not return. Yet
I fear to go back, for that Idazoo will tell, and perhaps they will kill
me for helping you to escape."
"Then you must _not_ go back," said the Eskimo stoutly. "Come with me
and I will take good care of you."
"No, I cannot," returned the girl thoughtfully; I cannot forsake my
mother and father in such a way without even a word at parting.
"What is your name?" asked the youth promptly. "Mine is Cheenbuk."
"They call me Adolay; that, in our language, means the summer-time."
"Well, Adolay, I don't know what my name, Cheenbuk, means--perhaps it
means winter-time. Anyhow, listen to me. If there is any chance of you
being killed you must _not_ go back. I will take you to my mother's
igloe and you will live with her."
"Have you, too, got a mother?" asked Adolay with interest.
"Ho! yes; and a father too--and they're both fat and heavy and kind.
When they come to know that you have been so kind to me, they will
receive you with joy."
"No," said Adolay, shaking her small head decidedly, "I _will_ not go.
They may kill me if they like, but I will never forsake my mother."
"Are you determined?"
"Yes--for sure."
"Then so am I," said Cheenbuk, taking hold of the canoe and turning the
bow up-stream. "Get in, Adolay, and we will return to the lodges of
your people and die together."
Cheenbuk had a way of saying and doing things that convinced his hearers
that he was thoroughly in earnest. The Indian girl felt this, and
regretted much that she had said anything at all about her danger. She
now tried to counteract the evil.
"What do you mean?" she said, anxiously.
"I mean that I am not afraid to go back and die with you."
"But it is not certain," she replied, "that they will kill me. If my
father was at home they would not dare to do it, and perhaps they will
be afraid of his revenge when he comes back. But for you there is no
chance at all. They will be sure to kill you with slow tortures."
"I care not. If I go back they will not be so likely to kill you. But
listen to me, Adolay. I have a thought. If you come with me to my home
in Waruskeek I will take you safe to my father's igloe, and you shall
live with my mother and sister. I will not ask you to be my squaw, but
you will stay with them till we collect a strong band of young men, when
we will go to visit your people and take you with us. If they are
friendly--well, and we can traffic together. If they receive us ill
there will be a fight--that is all. I do not like fighting--but
whatever happens I promise that you shall be restored to your father and
mother. Now, will you go?"
Adolay looked up earnestly into the grave countenance of the young man.
There could be no doubt of his thorough sincerity--she felt that--still,
she hesitated. It was a bold step to take--even for an Indian heroine!
At that critical moment there broke upon their ears a distant sound that
caused them both to start and look round anxiously. It was faint, and
so far away that at first they could make nothing of it. A few seconds
later it was repeated louder than before. Then a look of intelligence
broke over Adolay's countenance.
"I know!" she exclaimed, "Idazoo is shrieking! We should have put the
cloth over her nose! She has got her mouth free and--"
Another sharp yell rendered it needless for her to complete the
sentence.
"Come," she said, laying hands on the canoe. "Turn it round. We will
go!"
A few minutes more and the pair were flying down the swift current of
the little river as fast as they could dip their paddles in the stream.