of the ridge. Crossing the top, he found himself on the rim of the cliff,
but not in the same spot where his brother had come out. He had missed
Hugh’s trail on the last upward slope, and was now a hundred feet or more
to the left of the projecting block of rock. For a few minutes Blaise
stood looking about him. He glanced out over the water, noting that the
sky was partly cloud covered. He could make out the low point, and he
realized that the rock shore with the fissures must lie almost directly
below him. The twin coves, where he and Hugh had camped, could not be far
to the left. Blaise was not concerned just now with either place, he was
merely obeying the Indian instinct to note his whereabouts and to take
his bearings.
The lad was at a loss how to proceed. That Hugh had reached the rim of
the ridge somewhere along here seemed more than probable. Where had he
gone then? Blaise could scarcely believe that his elder brother had
attempted to climb down that abrupt descent. If he had gone down there
and through the woods and over the rocks to the water, he could have got
no better view of the open lake,—and Hugh had been in haste. No, he had
certainly not gone down there of his own accord. If he had started back
the way he had come, what had happened to him? Blaise shook his head in
perplexity. Of only one thing was he sure. Some disaster had overtaken
Hugh. Had he made a misstep and plunged down the cliff, or had Ohrante
something to do with his disappearance?
The first thing to do, Blaise decided, was to search along the ridge top
for some further sign of Hugh or of what had befallen him. He turned to
the right and made his way along as close to the edge as he could,
stooping down every few paces to seek for some clue. The night was
lighter now, for the moon had come out from behind the clouds. When he
reached the spot just above the projecting rocks, Blaise stopped still.
There was no need to search for signs here, they were quite plain. The
moon shone down on the little open space where Hugh and the strange
Indian had confronted one another. It was clear to the half-breed boy
that there had been a struggle. The gray caribou moss was crushed and
trampled and torn up by the roots. A branch of a little jackpine on the
edge of the opening showed a fresh break and hanging from that branch was
a torn scrap of deerskin. But that was not all. Lying on the moss, in
plain sight in the moonlight, was a small, dark object, a bit of steel
such as was commonly used with a piece of flint for fire making. Blaise
picked up the steel. It was the one Hugh carried, beyond doubt.
What did those marks of struggle mean? They were too far back to indicate
that Hugh had lost his footing and slipped over the edge, seizing the
tree to keep himself from falling. No, that was quite impossible, for the
jackpine grew at least ten feet from the rim of the cliff. Had Hugh
fought with some animal? Blaise knew of no animal likely, at that season
of the year, to make an unprovoked attack upon a man. He felt sure that
Hugh had too much sense to strike first with knife or hatchet at a bear
or moose. Moreover if an animal had slain him it would scarcely have
carried him away. Every indication pointed to an encounter, not with a
beast, but with a man. Hugh must have come across Ohrante or some of his
followers. Had they killed him or taken him prisoner? If they had killed
him they would not have troubled to take away his body. They would have
taken his scalp and gone on their way,—unless of course they had thrown
him over the cliff. Blaise looked down the abrupt descent, now bathed in
moonlight. Should he seek down there for Hugh or in some other direction?
He decided to look around a little more before attempting to climb down.
Almost immediately he found further traces. Beyond the jackpine more
crushed moss and broken bushes and trampled undergrowth showed plainly
that someone, more than one man probably, had gone that way not many
hours before, had gone boldly and confidently, careless of leaving a
trail. Blaise dropped on his knees to make a closer examination. The
moonlight helped him, and he soon came to the conclusion, from the shape
of a footprint impressed clearly in a bit of loose earth, that one man at
least had gone in that direction, whether he had come that way or not.
The print was too large for Hugh’s foot, but, a little farther on, Blaise
found another smaller track that he thought might be Hugh’s. It pointed
the same way as the larger print.
The beginning of the trail was now plain, but could he follow it in the
darkness of the woods? He must try anyway. He would go as far as he
could, taking care not to lose the tracks.
Blaise did not succeed in following far. No longer was he aided by any
knowledge of the general direction those he was pursuing would be likely
to take. Under the trees the moonlight was of little assistance. He soon
lost the tracks and was compelled to go back to the starting point. He
tried again and lost the trail a second time. A white boy, in his anxiety
and impatience, would probably have persisted in the hopeless attempt,
and would have lost the trail and himself. But Blaise was part Indian.
Anxious though he was over Hugh’s fate, he knew when to wait as well as
when to go forward. By daylight he could doubtless find the trail easily,
and could cover in a few minutes ground that in darkness might take him
hours, if he could find his way over it at all. He seated himself on a
cushion of dry caribou moss near the rim of the ridge to wait,
sleeplessly and watchfully.
Dawn came at last. When the light was strong enough to make it possible
to find his way through the woods, Blaise again took up the trail. The
tracks he had started to follow and had lost in the first bit of dense
growth, led him, not through, but around the thick place, into a sort of
open rock lane bordered with trees and running along the ridge top. To
his great surprise, when he reached the end of the open stretch, he came
upon a clearly defined trail. It was not merely a track made by one or
two men coming and going once. It gave evidence of having been travelled
a number of times. The soft moccasins of the Indian do not wear a path as
quickly as the boots of the white man, but this trail was well enough
trodden to be followed easily. No blazes marked the trees and no clearing
had been done other than the breaking or hacking off of an occasional
troublesome branch. The men who made that trail had gone around the
obstacles, instead of cutting through or removing them, but any white man
who knew anything of woods’ running could have followed it.
The half-breed boy hastened along without hesitation, scarcely thinking
of the trail itself, but with eyes and ears open for signs of other human
beings. That travelled way must lead, he felt sure, to some more or less
permanent camp. Had Hugh fallen into Ohrante’s hands or into those of
some tribe of permanent inhabitants of Minong? Blaise hoped heartily that
it might be the latter. Even if they were inclined to be hostile, he
feared such an unknown people less than he did the too well known
Iroquois.
Going noiselessly, with every sense alert, the boy caught sight of
something moving among the trees ahead. Instantly he dropped to the
ground and slipped like a snake among trees and bushes and through
undergrowth to the left of the trail. Behind a dense clump of balsams
that had sprung up about a parent tree, he lay motionless. When he
thought he had waited long enough, he crept cautiously back towards the
trail. Moving bushes a little distance away in the direction from which
he had come, a glimpse of a black head told the boy he had just missed an
encounter.
A short distance farther on, the trail turned to the right and plunged
down an abrupt descent. Then the way wound up and down over low ridges,
the outer slopes of which were steep to abruptness, and through boggy
ravines with thick growth and treacherous moss and mud. Following a
general downward trend, the trail led at last to almost level ground. Now
Blaise went forward with the utmost caution, for he felt that the end
must be near at hand. On this lower ground, near the water, the village
or camp must be situated. Presently the lad stopped, stood still and
sniffed the air. He smelled smoke.
XXIII
A CAPTIVE
Hugh’s fall stunned him for a moment, and that moment was his undoing.
When he came to himself, he was propped against the tree, his knife and
hatchet gone. Two Indians were binding his wrists with a rawhide rope.
Dizzy, his head spinning, he fought to free himself, but to no avail. The
knots were tied, and he struggled to his feet to confront the malicious
grin of the young Indian whom he had first encountered, and the ugly,
lowering face of another, older savage of short, squat figure. It must
have been this fellow’s long, strong arms that had seized and thrown the
boy. Recovering himself a little, Hugh looked desperately about for a way
of escape. His captors understood that glance. The squat man seized his
arm in a grip that almost made the boy cry out, while the young fellow,
who had picked up his long gun, raised it threateningly.
In spite of his aching head, the sickness at his stomach and a general
feeling of misery and despair, physical and mental, the boy made an
heroic effort to stand erect and, with calm and impassive face, look his
enemies in the eye. He knew that to show weakness or fear would only make
matters worse. He must assume an indifference and unconcern he was far
from feeling, at the same time keeping alert for any chance of gaining an
advantage.
He was not left long in doubt of his captors’ immediate intentions. With
a guttural grunt, the man who held his arm turned him about and led him
around the jackpine, the other following, musket ready. They went through
the woods, and came out into an open rock lane bordered with trees and
bushes. There they turned to the right. It was of no use to struggle.
Hugh had no chance to get away. Even if he had been able to break loose
from the iron grip of the squat man, or, by thrusting out a foot, trip
him and twist himself from the Indian’s grasp, he could not hope to
escape the fellow with the gun. The latter would most certainly have shot
him or clubbed him into unconsciousness.
Hugh went in silence, until they entered a trail leading from the open
lane. Then he attempted a question. “Where do you take me, to whom?” he
asked.
Receiving no answer but the young fellow’s singsong “Ne compr’ney” and a
sullen grunt from the older savage, the boy made another attempt. Loudly
and vigorously, to make his anger clear by his voice and manner, he
uttered an indignant protest. What did they mean by such treatment of a
white man of peaceable and friendly intentions, who had never done wrong
to them or to any other Ojibwa? He voiced his indignation in both English
and French, apparently without effect, except to cause the squat Indian
to tighten his grip and the grinning one to prod the captive in the back
with his musket.
Curiously enough, that prod, instead of frightening the lad, made him
blaze with anger. The blood surged to his face. With difficulty he
restrained himself from turning to give battle. But one cool spot in his
brain told him that such an act would be suicide. He must keep his wrath
under control and use guile instead of force, if he was ever to see
Blaise again and escape with their joint inheritance. So he controlled
himself and went quietly where his captors led him. Questions and
protests were worse than useless.
It was not a path they were following, merely a trail trodden down more
or less by use. As Indians and woodsmen always go single file, the way
was narrow. The squat Indian went ahead, the end of the rawhide that
bound Hugh’s wrists wrapped about his hand. He went rapidly, and Hugh,
his arms extended in front of him, had to step quickly to keep from being
dragged. Behind him the other man gave him an occasional reminder by
touching him between the shoulders with the gun barrel. Every time he
felt that touch, wrath surged up in Hugh. The boy would have been less
than human if he had not been afraid of the fate in store for him, but he
was proving himself the true son of his father. Every threat or insult
produced in him a hot anger that, for the moment, completely blotted out
fear. Yet he strove to hold himself in check, to keep calm and silent and
to appear unconscious of the fellow behind him.
Had Hugh not been active and light-footed, he could not have kept pace
with his guards on the rough and winding trail. The squat Indian showed
not the slightest consideration for his captive. Hugh knew that if he
lagged, tripped or fell, he would be dragged along regardless of his
comfort. In addition he would probably be kicked or prodded by the man
behind. So he exerted himself to keep up the swift pace with truly Indian
agility.
The trail turned to the right and led to the edge of an abrupt decline.
The older Indian let go his hold of the boy, to climb down, but the other
man kept the muzzle of his gun between Hugh’s shoulders. The lad wondered
if the two expected him to go down that almost vertical descent with
bound arms. He was still wondering when the Indian in front reached the
bottom. The man in the rear, without warning, suddenly seized the boy
about the waist, swung him off his feet, and literally dropped him over
the edge.
Hugh went sliding down, trying to save himself from too rapid a descent
by gripping the rock with his moccasined feet. In a flash he saw that he
would land right in the arms of the man at the bottom. If he could only
strike the Indian in the stomach with enough force to knock him down, and
then dodge aside swiftly before the other fellow could pick up his gun
again—— Far more quickly than it can be told the plan was born in the
boy’s mind. The squat Indian’s long arms were stretched out and up. His
powerful hands gripped Hugh. The lad tried to throw himself forward, but
the sturdy figure stood firm. The Indian swung Hugh around, and in an
instant had him flat on his back in a tangle of prickly juniper. The
captive’s one attempt to escape had failed.
Bruised and battered by his slide down the rocks, Hugh was jerked to his
feet. The younger savage was beside him now, ready to take up his
position in the rear. The two wasted no time. The older man gripped the
rawhide again and the march was resumed. Speed was not slackened even in
the steep places, and Hugh was put to it to keep up and not lose his
footing. The general course was downward, until they reached almost level
ground, thickly wooded with evergreens, where the trail led over many
fallen tree trunks, decayed and moss covered. Then they went up a few
feet of rise, like a low and ruinous rock wall. To his left among the
trees, Hugh could see the gleam of water.
The squat Indian sprang down from the natural wall, and Hugh leaped with
him, to avoid being dragged down. He found himself almost on a level with
the water, among scattering broad-leaved trees and bushes. A few steps
farther and, rounding a clump of mountain ash, he came in sight of a
small birch bark lodge, of the conical wigwam form sometimes used by the
Ojibwas for temporary dwellings to be occupied a few days or a week or
two. The more permanent lodges were commonly of a different shape with
rounded roofs. In a moment another, slightly larger wigwam came in view.
A thin curl of smoke rose from the remains of a fire, and a canoe lay on
the sand beach. No human beings were to be seen.
The two Indians marched their captive to the cleared spot where the fire
smouldered. Then, before the boy realized his intention, the squat man
turned quickly, put his arm about Hugh’s waist, tripping him cleverly at
the same time, threw him backwards to the ground and sat upon him.
Without a word spoken, the grinning savage dropped his musket, seized a
strip of rawhide and set to work to tie the prisoner’s ankles together.
Hugh attempted to kick, but the squat man prodded him unmercifully in the
stomach. The boy realized that he could not help matters by struggling.
The younger Indian completed his work, rose to his feet and grinned down
at him derisively. The older man tested the cord on Hugh’s wrists, pulled
it a little tighter and got to his feet, to the great relief of the sore
and suffering captive. The squat Indian was heavily built, and Hugh felt
that a few moments more of that weight on his middle would crush him
flat. He strove to control his features, however, and not to let his
misery, indignation and despair show in his face.
Evidently the pair considered their work completed, or perhaps they had
tired of tormenting the prisoner. At any rate they left him to himself.
For a time Hugh lay perfectly still, too miserable for effort of body or
mind. His head still pained him from the fall against the tree, he had
several sore bruises on his body, his arms and shoulders ached from being
held so long in one position, the thongs cut into his wrists and ankles,
and he was sick at the stomach from the treatment he had just received.
As he lay on his back, his captors were no longer within his range of
vision, but he did not flatter himself that he was unwatched. That the
two were not far away he knew from the sound of their voices that came to
him at intervals from somewhere down by the water. There was no need for
them to watch him closely, he thought bitterly. Bound as he was and
unable to even raise himself to his feet, he had not the slightest chance
of escape.
After a while he began to feel better, and his hopes rose a little.
Turning his head from side to side, he looked about for some way to help
himself. He could no longer hear the voices of the Indians nor could he
catch any glimpse of them. Everything about him was quiet, except for the
ripple of the water on the sand and gravel of the beach, and the
occasional cries of a small flock of gulls.
There was something familiar about this spot, this stretch of sandy
ground, with its sparse growth of trees and bushes, and its curving
beach. Beyond and above, the tree-covered ridges towered. Hugh managed to
roll over on his side, and looked across a narrow blue channel to another
thickly wooded shore, where the trees ran down to the water. He knew the
place now. On that stretch of sand and pebbles, Captain Bennett had
beached the _Otter_. Hugh himself had helped to clear the very spot where
the wigwams now stood. The place looked somewhat different, to be sure,
with all the ice and snow gone and the trees and bushes in full summer
green.
Hugh’s thoughts turned from the memory of that other camp to the present
situation. He pulled at the thongs that bound him and tried to loosen
them by wriggling his hands and feet, but it was of no use. The cords,
instead of loosening, only cut into his wrists and ankles more painfully.
He was just about to attempt to sit up, when the gruff voice of the older
of his captors sounded close by, just beyond his head. Hugh composed
himself to lie still. The Indian came near and looked down frowningly on
the lad, then seated himself at a little distance and went to work on a
piece of deerskin he was fashioning into moccasins. Hugh was familiar
enough with Indian ways to grasp the significance of the fact that the
man was making his own moccasins. That was women’s work, if there were
women about. It was evident that in this camp there were no squaws, or
the braves would not be doing squaws’ work.
Growing tired of watching his guard at his task, Hugh closed his eyes.
The sun was warm and in this sheltered place there was little breeze. He
felt very tired and all things around him conspired to make him drowsy.
In a few minutes the captive had fallen fast asleep.
XXIV
IN THE HANDS OF THE GIANT
The sound of voices waked Hugh. He opened his eyes to find, looking down
on him, the young Indian and a repulsive fellow with a strip of dirty red
cloth bound about his black hair. The latter had evidently just come from
visiting his snares, for he was carrying two rabbits. When he saw that
Hugh was awake, he turned away, the young fellow, after favoring the boy
with another of his malicious grins, following him. From the position of
the sun Hugh knew that he had not slept long, but his head felt better
and the sick feeling had passed.
Long and tedious hours of waiting followed. At least one of the Indians
was in sight and hearing every moment. Hugh was hungry, but he was
offered no food, thirsty, but he disdained to ask for a drink. He strove
to lie quiet and to keep his feelings of discomfort, anxiety and
apprehension from his face. The ground was hard, the sun beat down upon
his head and face, and he could not move to a more comfortable spot. Only
with difficulty could he roll over on his side. His mental suffering,
however, was far worse than his physical discomfort and pain.
Why was he treated in this way? Into whose hands had he fallen? What were
they going to do to him and for what or whom were they waiting? The one
possible explanation of his treatment was that he had fallen into the
hands of Ohrante’s little band of outlaws. Why should even they want to
take him prisoner? Was Ohrante looking for the hidden cache? A cold chill
ran up Hugh’s spine, as he remembered the packet in the breast of his
shirt. If he had only had sense enough to leave that packet with Blaise!
It must surely come to light should his captors strip him to torment or
torture him. Torture! He recalled the fiendish scene in the firelight.
Was that what it meant to fall into the hands of the giant Iroquois? The
boy dared not think of that. He tried to assure himself that the outlaw
had nothing against him. At any rate he must not give way to fear. If he
could keep cool and alert, he might yet find some way out of the perils
that threatened him. He _must_ find a way.
With such thoughts running through his head, the time dragged painfully.
Late in the afternoon, the younger Indian renewed the fire and hung over
it an iron pot of water. Into the pot he put several handfuls of wild
rice and rabbit meat cut into small pieces. The odor was tempting to
Hugh’s nostrils, but he strove to keep his hunger from showing in his
face.
Sunset came. The stew was ready, but the pot was not unslung. The three
Indians sat about the fire, the younger one whiling away the time by
playing on a crude native flute with three holes. The sounds produced
were mournful and monotonous and did not inspire cheerfulness. The other
two savages sat idle, eying the seething mixture in the kettle, but none
made a move to dip into it. They were certainly waiting for the return of
the rest of the band. Unusually well disciplined savages, Hugh thought
them, to postpone their own supper until their chief arrived.
The squat man turned his head, gave a little grunt, rose and walked away
towards the beach. The young fellow ceased his flute playing and
followed, the other remaining to watch the stew. Hugh heard a canoe grate
lightly on the gravel, a few words exchanged. He rolled over on his side,
and saw, striding towards him—Ohrante. There could be no mistaking that
huge form, looking more gigantic than ever as it towered over the
prostrate lad.
For an instant Hugh forgot all else in wonder at the Indian’s size.
Ohrante was not less than seven feet in height, with proportionate
breadth of shoulder and depth of chest. Then, as he gazed into the face
looking down on him, a veritable panic of fear shook the lad. It was not
an ugly face. In its outlines and proportions, its strongly cut, regular
features, it was unusually handsome for an Indian. But there was an
inhuman hardness about it, a fiercely piercing quality in the eyes, cruel
lines about nostrils and lips, a general expression of bitter and
vindictive malevolence that appalled the boy. A shudder passed through
him, yet, fascinated, he could not take his eyes from the dark, piercing
ones.