SHOWING HIS COLORS.
Next morning Ben was on his feet early, and mounting the white horse,
he went away alone, leaving Millicent in the care of the Dutchman and
Jules. He whispered in the ear of the young girl that he would either
bring her lover back to her, or leave his bones upon the prairie. She
had the utmost confidence in him, and felt a certain elation at heart
as she saw that the brave old man was determined on the enterprise.
Jan, who was fast learning to trust in him, wished to go too, but the
old trapper would not allow it, and resolutely ordered the Dutchman
to return, which he did, with several Dutch expletives, not proper to
enter in this book.
Left with these rough men in camp, Millicent had not the slightest
fear. She knew that the Dutchman, in his rude way, was her knight,
ready to defend her from insult of any kind.
“I am afraid that father Ben will get into danger on my account,” she
said.
“Oh, Penn ish not afrait,” said Jan, looking at her with a broad
smile, as she sat down upon a stump near him. “Penn so prave ash
nefer vas.”
At this moment Jules, who had been leaning against the doorpost of
the cabin, apparently in deep thought, came up and whispered in her
ear.
“What do you want?” she said, without turning her head.
“I wish to speak to you for a moment,” he replied, in the same tone.
She rose and followed him to the river side, where she sat down on
a fallen log and he took a position a few feet away, regarding her
earnestly.
“You wonder what I can have to say to you,” he said. “In the first
place, give me your promise not to reveal it to a living soul. It
applies to this Bentley Morris.”
Without thought, never dreaming that the purport of what he had to
say could in any way apply to her, she gave the required promise.
“You must know that I am a man whom the bad fortune of life has
pressed to the earth. Time was when my family stood high in rank and
wealth. That time has gone by, and step by step I have been forced
down, until I own not a foot of land in all the world. What of that?
I am Jules Damand yet, and will carve out a way to fortune with my
own right arm.”
“I am sorry for you,” she said. “Is this what you have to say? I hope
you may succeed.”
“It is the prelude only,” he answered. “I wish to make you understand
that, though you find me a poor voyageur and trapper, I am still
equal in rank to yourself.”
She was silent now. A woman of quick wit, she saw at once toward what
he tended, and knew no way to stop him. She was not astonished when
he went on:
“I love you, and wish to make you my wife.”
She was on her guard immediately.
“You do me too much honor, Mr. Damand. It seems to me that the few
days we have been acquainted are hardly sufficient to warrant you in
taking this step. You will excuse me.”
“Not without an answer.”
“It seems to me there is but one answer. I must decline your
proposal,” she answered, firmly.
“I supposed as much. That is nothing. I am prepared for any thing.
What if I tell you I have a way of compelling you to accede to my
demand?”
“If you were to tell me so, I think I should say you told a
falsehood.”
“Then I should feel called upon to prove my words true. In the first
place, then, you have a sort of feeling for the young person known as
Bentley Morris. What if I were to tell you that his fate depends in a
great measure upon you?”
“How can that be? He is in the hands of the Blackfeet.”
“I am aware of it. Yet I am ready to attest upon oath that I have
the power of freeing him from captivity, or at least of saving him
from death. I am rather inclined to the opinion that they will roast
him. I should be sorry to have that done, really, as I have nothing
against the young gentleman, except the penchant you have for him,
which is not _his_ fault, poor fellow. Be merciful. Save him from
this dreadful fate.”
“You are a wretch. I suspected you all along, and now I am sure of
it. You are in league with the Indians.”
“Ah; you have great penetration.”
“When father Ben returns I will inform him of this.”
“You forget. You are pledged not to say a word. Remember that.”
“You entrapped me into a promise which I ought to break,” she
answered.
“Yet you dare not. I tell you that the fate of your lover hangs upon
my life. I am not likely to give you up readily. I repeat that I love
you. A Frenchman loves in a moment, and forever. Beware what you do,
and above all, keep silent.”
She knew that she was in his power. He laughed lightly, and laid his
hand upon her shoulder. All the passion in her nature was aroused,
and she struck him in the face with the flat of her hand. He stepped
back a pace and put his hand to a knife instinctively. A flush of
blood rushed into his face. Jan, from where he was sitting, saw the
action, and rushing forward, thrust his heavy body between them to
shake his ponderous fist under the nose of Jules, who recoiled at the
sight.
“She struck me,” he cried, angrily. “I will make you repent that blow
so bitterly that you will wish you had never been born, rather than
have raised your hand against me.”
“You drove me to do it,” she answered.
“Vat you say mit her, Shules Tamant?” demanded Jan, his fist
vibrating to and fro in front of the Roman nose of Damand. “Yoost you
shpeaks now, vile I dalks mit you. I vants to know yoost all apout
it. Off you say a vord mit her vat ish not goot, I vill preak you in
so many ash vorty t’ousand bieces.”
“I will make daylight shine through your body in a moment if you do
not take care,” said Damand. “Get out of my way.”
“I von’t! I shtays here yoost so long ash I haf a mind to. Now yoost
you look here. You’s a vool, you is. I nefer sees such a vool in all
mine life. Auver a man knows any t’ing he know petter ash to talk mit
a vooman, unt put a hant to a knife.”
“Stand aside,” roared Jules, whipping out his knife. “It will be
better for you.”
Jan instantly knocked him down in spite of his knife, and tied his
hands and feet. When he recovered from the blow Jan had conveyed him
into the cabin and shut the door. He writhed about in his bonds.
“Jan!” he bawled. No answer. “Jan Schneider!”
A silence like the grave. After he had roared himself hoarse Jan
thrust his head in at the door and said quietly:
“Vas you callin’ _me_?”
“Of course I was.”
“Berhaps you ton’t know I’ve got a hantle to mine name, Mister Shules
Tamant? Beeples call me _Mynheer_ Jan Schneider.”
“Come here. I want you to untie these straps.”
“Hein?” cried Jan, in astonishment.
“I want you to let me go.”
“Geh zum tuyfel! Ven I lets you co, I vas a very pig vool. Yon t’ink
you coom rount here unt haf eferyt’ing your own vay? I dells you goot
ash you can nix do nottings like dat. Ven Penn coomes pack, mebbe ve
t’row you in der vasser.”
“Oh, but this is more than a joke, Jan. Untie me. This has gone far
enough. I did not intend to use the knife.”
“No more den I intent to use mine vist. Unt I did intent to use him
_goot_. How your ear veel pout dis dime of ter day, Shule?”
“Will you, or will you not, release me from these bonds?”
“I vill not, unless you bromise to peg der bardon auver der young
lady.”
“I’ll never do that.”
“All right. Den shtay vere you pe until Penn coomes pack.”
“I’ll beg her pardon.”
“Vell. Den you must yoost peg _my_ bardon,” said Jan.
“Yours. _Sacré!_ I will never do that, at any rate,” roared Jules.
“Goot! Den shtay vere you pe. I don’t vant to let you co.”
“I’ll do any thing you ask.”
Jan went away and was gone for a few moments. Then he came back and
set the Frenchman at liberty. He at once hurried to the place where
he had left his arms. They were nowhere to be found, and Jan, a
perfect arsenal of pistols and knives, was pacing up and down near
by, talking with Millicent.
“Where are my arms?” roared Jules.
“Arms? Vy, dere dey pe, py your sides, hanging vrom your shoulters.
Vere else vould dey pe?”
“Where is my rifle, you scoundrel?”
“Your rifle. Oh, vy didn’t you ask vor it? I pees ’vraid he gets
preak, so I puts him avay.”
“You have my pistols and knife in your belt; give them up directly.”
“Mr. Damand,” said Millicent, advancing, “we have decided to retain
your arms until the return of Ben.”
“In other words, you mean to keep me sort of prisoner in this place?”
“Precisely.”
“I will not endure it.”
“You must; there is no other course open to you. Jan will not
hesitate to shoot you if you attempt to go away. I am satisfied that
you would throw obstacles in the way of Ben’s rescue of Bentley. You
must be quiet.”
“I must, eh? The time will come when you shall repent this. I loved
you dearly; I wanted to make you my wife. You scorned my love; you
shall feel my hate.”
“I fear you not.”
“Look here, Shule: vas you vool enough to dalk love mit der young
lady? I vill preak you all in bieces. You’s der vust vool I efer sees
in all mine life. I dells you as I dinks yoost so. Oh, mein cracious,
vat a vool you must pe!”
The Frenchman looked as if he would like to commit murder if he had
the weapons in his hands. But, fate was against him.
“You have every thing your own way now,” he said; “let it pass; I
will remain a prisoner.”
“We are going this afternoon to the top of the hill to see if father
Ben is in sight.”
“I will remain here.”
“No, you will accompany us; we do not propose that you shall have an
opportunity to look for your arms, and turn the tables on us.”
Jules ground his teeth, but there was nothing for him but obedience.
Shaking his head, he went back into the cabin, while Jan looked after
the traps which were near at hand, and took out the beaver which he
found there. He did not go far away, however. Late in the afternoon
they mounted the hill to look out upon the prairie. Jan forced
his prisoner to go in front, and they reached the summit, whence
Millicent cast a sweeping glance over the broad plain. As she did so,
she saw Bentley, mounted on the white horse of the trapper, pushing
him forward at his best speed toward the little stream which ran
through the prairie. The horse rose to the leap with all his might
and landed safely on the other side. Not far behind him came Ben
Miffin, at full speed, with two Indians close at his heels.