Spring came, and word reached Fort Hearne that the factor was to meet
a fleet of scows at Fort Batise. That was a post he had never visited,
so he summoned Pierre to make ready for the trip as his guide. They
laid in an ample stock of provisions, for it was a long journey and
there might be a protracted wait for the boats at their destination:
Hudson’s Bay Company transports do not run on schedule time. One
fine morning the two men set out in a canoe, struggling up-stream
against the powerful current. Now and then they landed to shoot some
partridges, and one day MacDonald killed a moose. Otherwise there was
little to relieve the monotony of the journey. From morning till night,
not a soul crossed their path. With MacDonald lapsing into his wonted
silence, hours would pass without a sound but the splashing of the
paddles and the quaint, plaintive notes of Pierre’s Red River melodies.
Once in a while an abandoned site, with tent poles standing, suggested
former human occupation. Every night the two men camped near the water
edge, played a game or two of cribbage, and then stretched out to rest
till four or five o’clock the next morning. And in the night Pierre
would hear strange sounds, and as they grew nearer they turned into
words: “In the spring! In the spring!”
When they reached Fort Batise, the post was all but deserted. The
Company’s trader had gone on a hunting trip and the dozen Indians in
his charge were scattered though the woods. A single half-witted breed
was holding down the Fort, and pointed out the uninhabited island,
already known to Pierre, where the scows from time immemorial had been
unloading the cargoes destined for Northern posts. The factor and
Pierre paddled across and threw their bedding into a long, tumble-down
shack reserved for the Company’s servants. It was still somewhat too
early for retiring, so MacDonald suggested a walk, and they set out for
a stroll through the dense wood.
Pierre had been unusually silent that evening, as though by contagion
with the factor’s taciturnity. Now, of a sudden, his tongue was
loosened. Did MacDonald know why the post had never been transferred
to the island for all its fine landing place? The Indians would not
live there, they never came there alone, for the spot was haunted, they
said. It was called Simon’s island. There was a long story about it, a
foolish tale, but one the Indians told about their camp fires as though
it were true. Of course Simon had really lived; Pierre remembered him
well from the days of his boyhood—a ne’er-do-well, not a bad sort, but
one always in bad luck. First, none of the girls would have him, then
he got married and his wife died in childbirth. He would get a job
towing a boat, stumble over a windfall on his first trip, and break his
leg. It was always that way with poor Simon. When he gave up tracking,
he became a pelt hunter. For years he roamed over the country and eked
out a miserable livelihood. At last he had a stroke of luck and caught
a silver fox. Now he thought he should live in plenty. But while on
his way to the nearest trader’s, he fell in with another trapper. They
slept side by side, and in the morning the stranger and the silver fox
were both gone. High and low, Simon looked for them, but in vain. Then
he turned crazy in his grief and became a Windigo. Whomever he chanced
upon, men or women, he killed and ate. The Indians made up parties to
hunt him like a wild beast. He laughed at them; he was Windigo. They
could never catch him. Then some time after, those who had hunted him
were found murdered in their tents, and people ceased pursuing him.
Now they tried to buy him off. As soon as he had been sighted near
a camp, heaps of meat were piled up outside the settlement, and the
handsomest clothing was laid beside the food. Then he would leave the
camp alone—till some fine day the fancy seized him once more, and he
stole into a camp to gratify his craving. That was long ago, and Simon
had died on this very island, where he lay buried. Yet the natives
believed that his ghost still walked as a Windigo from time to time,
though the Company said it was all nonsense and put up its shack there,
in defiance of Indian tales. Of course the Company knew best.
MacDonald had been listening with growing attention, and throughout the
tale Pierre’s gaze had been riveted on his features. Had not a faint
tremor passed down his spine when he first heard the word “Windigo”?
Had he not caught his breath when he learned of the ghost’s reported
wanderings? And why this sudden turning on his heels at the close of
the story? Pierre was whistling a tune on the return walk, and the
factor roared at him to keep still. He was plainly nervous; the tale
had done its work.
Arrived at the cabin, MacDonald picked up his bedding and muttered,
“Perhaps we had better go across to the post, we won’t be able to
sleep here for mosquitoes.” He did not expect Pierre to have faith in
his pretext; neither did he expect to be openly flouted by his meek
companion. But Pierre, looking him up and down, asked drily, “Afraid of
Simon’s ghost?” “Afraid of nothing!” thundered MacDonald, hurling his
blankets on the floor and glowering at his mate. He began to pace the
room with giant strides. There was no doubt of it, he was troubled. He
would not play cribbage. He was too tired, he said. MacDonald, who had
never been tired before! So, soon both men sprawled out on the floor
covered with their four-point blankets. But neither fell asleep.
After a while MacDonald rose softly, and tiptoed toward the door.
Perhaps he could make his way to the bank unnoticed, and put the
river between Simon’s ghost and himself. But Pierre was wide awake
and staring at him in the gloaming of a Northern night. “I was just
stretching a bit,” the big man offered in explanation, and Pierre did
not even deign to tell him he lied. He sat up against the door now, and
was eyeing the factor steadily, scornfully. The big man was nonplussed.
What was Pierre’s game? How could he be so calm in a haunted spot? A
mad hatred against him suddenly rose in MacDonald’s breast. He would
brain this puny dolt with a blow of his fist, and say he had been
drowned in the rapids. Then he would escape to the post and no soul
would know of his weakness. Still Pierre sat looking at him with his
gun across his knees. MacDonald cared little for the gun. There was at
least a chance for him to take Pierre by surprise, and wrest the weapon
from his grasp, and when had MacDonald been afraid to take chances? But
there was something in Pierre’s gaze that cowed and subdued him. So he
merely sat up facing Pierre and the door, with neither uttering a word.
As the minutes passed, strange noises became audible. The floor
was creaking and the door began to rattle, and over on the other
bank the dogs were barking as dogs never barked before. There was a
something—was it a bat?—that kept flitting against the roof, and on
the door came an unaccountable rhythmic tapping. The factor fidgeted
and peered in this direction and that, while Pierre sat now six feet
away, immobile and pitiless. Then there was a different sound. A slow,
heavy tread was coming up from the water edge. It was approaching the
shack from the rear, passed round and got to the door. MacDonald sprang
to his feet, but the steps went on, and he sank on the floor relieved
though faint. But what was that? The steps were coming closer again:
the wanderer was circling the shack a second time. Yet it seemed he
had no intention of coming in, for, without halting at the door, the
mysterious being started on its third round. But if it cared not to
enter, neither was its purpose to leave the inmates in peace, for a
fourth circuit began.
Now Pierre burst forth: “It is Simon! He is walking round four times,
then he will stop and pay you a visit.” MacDonald leaped up—a beast
at bay, afraid to stay, afraid to go out now, straining to hear the
weird footfalls first passing away then returning, ever more and more
distinct. And now there was a dead halt at the door. Would it fly open
and usher in the hideous shape of Simon’s ghost? The door remained
closed. But now Pierre rose with a grim laugh, dropping his gun. He
walked toward his master and thrust his thumb at his face. “Simon has
come to see us wrestle. I will wrestle you for Louise. Simon has made
me Windigo. I will throw you and kill you and eat you, and he wants to
look on.” Fearlessly and madly he sprang at the giant’s throat. The
factor had not watched him, he had not heard his speech, he was still
looking and looking at the door. Where now were those puissant arms
that had held Pierre like an infant at Fort Hearne? Limp and powerless,
they were hanging from a twitching heap that fell resistless at the
first impact. Pierre beat him and kicked him and choked him. Without
knife or gun, with his bare hands he murdered the great factor. And
then—he was Windigo!
He rose jubilant. The Windigo had spoken truly: his enemy lay
conquered. What next? Return to the post and tell of his deed? Would
they believe him? They would say he was drunk or crazed, _he_ who could
not kill a fly. They would say some enemy of MacDonald’s, a party of
freetraders perchance, had shot him from ambush. And _he_ would be once
more good, meek Pierre Villeneuve. It had all been in vain. To kill
MacDonald was nothing, nothing even to regain Louise. He wanted to be
master like the dead giant, and that he could never be.
He staggered to the door and flung it open. What was that? A pallid
face recoiling in terror, a horror-stricken cry of “Windigo!” and a man
fleeing to the river and paddling across. He had forgotten the breed
he had bribed, on plea of a practical joke, to cross from the post and
prowl round the shack. The man had peeped in and seen everything. Now
Pierre was saved, now he had won. His witness would spread the news
and warn the people against the new Windigo. Pierre was greater now
than MacDonald had ever been. His fame would travel from Hudson’s Bay
to the Rocky Mountains and from the Red River to Fort Macpherson. How
they would pamper him—Crees and half-breeds, Chipewyans and Slaveys—as
he roamed over their country that now was his. He would steal their
furs and eat their game and kidnap their wives, snapping his fingers in
their faces. He was master now, for now he was Windigo.