“No, Captain; leave me here and push on to Manitou Mountain. You ought
to make it in two days. I’m just as safe here as on the sleds, and less
trouble. A blind man’s no good. I’ll have a good rest while you’re gone,
and then perhaps my eyes will come out right. My foot’s nearly well
now.”
Jeff Hyde was snow-blind. The giant of the party had suffered most.
But Hume said in reply: “I won’t leave you alone. The dogs can carry you
as they’ve done for the last ten days.”
But Jeff replied: “I’m as safe here as marching, and safer. When the
dogs are not carrying me, nor any one leading me, you can get on faster;
and that means everything to us, now don’t it?”
Hume met the eyes of Gaspe Toujours. He read them. Then he said to Jeff:
“It shall be as you wish. Late Carscallen, Cloud-in-the-Sky, and myself
will push on to Manitou Mountain. You and Gaspe Toujours will remain
here.”
Jeff Hyde’s blind eyes turned towards Gaspe Toujours, who said: “Yes. We
have plenty tabac.”
A tent was set up, provisions were put in it, a spirit-lamp and matches
were added, and the simple menage was complete. Not quite. Jaspar Hume
looked round. There was not a tree in sight. He stooped and cut away a
pole that was used for strengthening the runners of the sleds, fastened
it firmly in the ground, and tied to it a red woollen scarf, used for
tightening his white blankets round him. Then he said: “Be sure and keep
that flying.”
Jeff’s face was turned towards the north. The blindman’s instinct
was coming to him. Far off white eddying drifts were rising over long
hillocks of snow. When he turned round again his face was troubled. It
grew more troubled, then it brightened up again, and he said to Hume:
“Captain, would you leave that book with me till you come back--that
about infirmities, dangers, and necessities? I knew a river-boss who
used to carry an old spelling-book round with him for luck. It seems to
me as if that book of yours, Captain, would bring luck to this part of
the White Guard, that bein’ out at heels like has to stay behind.”
Hume had borne the sufferings of his life with courage; he had led this
terrible tramp with no tremor at his heart for himself; he was seeking
to perform a perilous act without any inward shrinking; but Jeff’s
request was the greatest trial of this critical period in his life.
Jeff felt, if he could not see, the hesitation of his chief. His rough
but kind instincts told him something was wrong, and he hastened to add:
“Beg your pardon, Mr. Hume, it ain’t no matter. I oughtn’t have asked
you for it. But it’s just like me. I’ve been a chain on the leg of the
White Guard this whole tramp.”
The moment of hesitation had passed before Jeff had said half-a-dozen
words, and Hume put the book in his hands with the words: “No, Jeff,
take it. It will bring luck to the White Guard. Keep it safe until I
come back.”
Jeff took the book, but hearing a guttural “Ugh” behind him, he turned
round defiantly. Cloud-in-the-Sky touched his arm and said: “Good!
Strong-back book--good!” Jeff was satisfied.
At this point they parted, Jeff and Gaspe Toujours remaining, and Hume
and his two followers going on towards Manitou Mountain. There seemed
little probability that Clive Lepage would be found. In their progress
eastward and northward they had covered wide areas of country, dividing
and meeting again after stated hours of travel, but not a sign had been
seen; neither cairn nor staff nor any mark of human presence.
Hume had noticed Jeff Hyde’s face when it was turned to the eddying
drifts of the north, and he understood what was in the experienced
huntsman’s mind. He knew that severe weather was before them, and that
the greatest danger of the journey was to be encountered.
That night they saw Manitou Mountain, cold, colossal, harshly calm; and
jointly with that sight there arose a shrieking, biting, fearful
north wind. It blew upon them in cruel menace of conquest, in piercing
inclemency. It struck a freezing terror to their hearts, and grew in
violent attack until, as if repenting that it had foregone its power to
save, the sun suddenly grew red and angry, and spread out a shield of
blood along the bastions of the west. The wind shrank back and grew less
murderous, and ere the last red arrow shot up behind the lonely western
wall of white, the three knew that the worst of the storm had passed and
that death had drawn back for a time. What Hume thought may be gathered
from his diary; for ere he crawled in among the dogs and stretched
himself out beside Bouche, he wrote these words with aching fingers:
January 10th: Camp 39.--A bitter day. We are facing three fears
now: the fate of those we left behind; Lepage’s fate; and the going
back. We are twenty miles from Manitou Mountain. If he is found,
I should not fear the return journey; success gives hope. But we
trust in God.
Another day passed and at night, after a hard march, they camped five
miles from Manitou Mountain. And not a sign! But Hume felt there was a
faint chance of Lepage being found at this mountain. His iron frame had
borne the hardships of this journey well; his strong heart better. But
this night an unaccountable weakness possessed him. Mind and body were
on the verge of helplessness. Bouche seemed to understand this, and when
he was unhitched from the team of dogs, now dwindled to seven, he leaped
upon his master’s breast. It was as if some instinct of sympathy, of
prescience, was passing between the man and the dog. Hume bent his head
down to Bouche for an instant and rubbed his side kindly; then he said,
with a tired accent: “It’s all right, old dog, it’s all right.”
Hume did not sleep well at first, but at length oblivion came. He waked
to feel Bouche tugging at his blankets. It was noon. Late Carscallen and
Cloud-in-the-Sky were still sleeping--inanimate bundles among the dogs.
In an hour they were on their way again, and towards sunset they had
reached the foot of Manitou Mountain. Abruptly from the plain rose this
mighty mound, blue and white upon a black base. A few straggling pines
grew near its foot, defying latitude, as the mountain itself defied
the calculations of geographers and geologists. A halt was called.
Late Carscallen and Cloud-in-the-Sky looked at the chief. His eyes were
scanning the mountain closely. Suddenly he motioned. A hundred feet up
there was a great round hole in the solid rock, and from this hole there
came a feeble cloud of smoke! The other two saw also. Cloud-in-the-Sky
gave a wild whoop, and from the mountain there came, a moment after, a
faint replica of the sound. It was not an echo, for there appeared at
the mouth of the cave an Indian, who made feeble signs for them to
come. In a little while they were at the cave. As Jaspar Hume entered,
Cloud-in-the-Sky and the stalwart but emaciated Indian who had beckoned
to them spoke to each other in the Chinook language, the jargon common
to all Indians of the West.
Jaspar Hume saw a form reclining on a great bundle of pine branches,
and he knew what Rose Lepage had prayed for was come to pass. By the
flickering light of a handful of fire he saw Lepage--rather what was
left of him--a shadow of energy, a heap of nerveless bones. His eyes
were shut, but as Hume, with a quiver of memory and sympathy at his
heart, stood for an instant, and looked at the man whom he had cherished
as a friend and found an enemy, Lepage’s lips moved and a weak voice
said: “Who is there?”
“A friend.”
“Come-near-me,--friend.”
Hume made a motion to Late Carscallen, who was heating some liquor at
the fire, and then he stooped and lifted up the sick man’s head, and
took his hand. “You have come--to save me!” whispered the weak voice
again.
“Yes; I’ve come to save you.” This voice was strong and clear and true.
“I seem--to have--heard--your voice before--somewhere before--I seem
to--have--”
But he had fainted.
Hume poured a little liquor down the sick man’s throat, and Late
Carscallen chafed the delicate hand--delicate in health, it was like
that of a little child now. When breath came again Hume whispered to his
helper “Take Cloud-in-the-Sky and get wood; bring fresh branches. Then
clear one of the sleds, and we will start back with him in the early
morning.”
Late Carscallen, looking at the skeleton-like figure, said: “He will
never get there.”
“Yes, he will get there,” was Hume’s reply.
“But he is dying.”
“He goes with me to Fort Providence.”
“Ay, to Providence he goes, but not with you,” said Late Carscallen,
doggedly.
Anger flashed in Hume’s eye, but he said quietly “Get the wood,
Carscallen.”
Hume was left alone with the starving Indian, who sat beside the
fire eating voraciously, and with the sufferer, who now was taking
mechanically a little biscuit sopped in brandy. For a few moments thus,
then his sunken eyes opened, and he looked dazedly at the man
bending above him. Suddenly there came into them a look of terror.
“You--you--are Jaspar Hume,” his voice said in an awed whisper.
“Yes.” The hands of the sub-factor chafed those of the other.
“But you said you were a friend, and come to save me.”
“I have come to save you.”
There was a shiver of the sufferer’s body. This discovery would either
make him stronger or kill him. Hume knew this, and said: “Lepage, the
past is past and dead to me; let it be so to you.”
There was a pause.
“How--did you know--about me?”
“I was at Fort Providence. There came letters from the Hudson’s Bay
Company, and from your wife, saying that you were making this journey,
and were six months behind--”
“My wife--Rose!”
“I have a letter for you from her. She is on her way to Canada. We are
to take you to her.”
“To take me--to her.” Lepage shook his head sadly, but he pressed to his
lips the letter that Hume had given him.
“To take you to her, Lepage.”
“No, I shall never see her again.”
“I tell you, you shall. You can live if you will. You owe that to
her--to me--to God.”
“To her--to you--to God. I have been true to none. I have been punished.
I shall die here.”
“You shall go to Fort Providence. Do that in payment of your debt to me,
Lepage. I demand that.” In this transgressor there was a latent spark
of honour, a sense of justice that might have been developed to great
causes, if some strong nature, seeing his weaknesses, had not condoned
them, but had appealed to the natural chivalry of an impressionable,
vain, and weak character. He struggled to meet Hume’s eyes, and doing
so, he gained confidence and said: “I will try to live. I will do you
justice--yet.”
“Your first duty is to eat and drink. We start for Fort Providence
to-morrow.”
The sick man stretched out his hand. “Food! Food!” he said.
In tiny portions food and drink were given to him, and his strength
sensibly increased. The cave was soon aglow with the fire kindled by
Late Carscallen and Cloud-in-the-Sky. There was little speaking, for
the sick man soon fell asleep. Lepage’s Indian told Cloud-in-the-Sky
the tale of their march--how the other Indian and the dogs died; how
his master became ill as they were starting towards Fort Providence from
Manitou Mountain in the summer weather; how they turned back and took
refuge in this cave; how month by month they had lived on what would
hardly keep a rabbit alive; and how, at last, his master urged him to
press on with his papers; but he would not, and stayed until this day,
when the last bit of food had been eaten, and they were found.
V
The next morning Lepage was placed upon a sled, and they started back,
Bouche barking joyfully as he led off, with Cloud-in-the-Sky beside him.
There was light in the faces of all, though the light could not be seen
by reason of their being muffled so. All day they travelled, scarcely
halting, Lepage’s Indian marching well. Often the corpse-like bundle on
the sled was disturbed, and biscuits wet in brandy and bits of preserved
venison were given.
That night Hume said to Late Carscallen: “I am going to start at the
first light of the morning to get to Gaspe Toujours and Jeff Hyde as
soon as possible. Follow as fast as you can. He will be safe, if you
give him food and drink often. I shall get to the place where we left
them about noon; you should reach there at night or early the next
morning.”
“Hadn’t you better take Bouche with you?” said Late Carscallen.
The sub-factor thought a moment, and then said: “No, he is needed most
where he is.”
At noon the next day Jaspar Hume looked round upon a billowy plain of
sun and ice, but saw no staff, no signal, no tent, no sign of human
life: of Gaspe Toujours or of Jeff Hyde. His strong heart quailed. Had
he lost his way? He looked at the sun. He was not sure. He consulted his
compass, but it quivered hesitatingly. For awhile that wild bewilderment
which seizes upon the minds of the strongest, when lost, mastered
him, in spite of his struggles against it. He moved in a maze of
half-blindness, half-delirium. He was lost in it, swayed by it. He began
to wander about; and there grew upon his senses strange delights and
reeling agonies. He heard church bells, he caught at butterflies, he
tumbled in new-mown hay, he wandered in a tropic garden. But in the hay
a wasp stung him, and the butterfly changed to a curling black snake
that struck at him and glided to a dark-flowing river full of floating
ice, and up from the river a white hand was thrust, and it beckoned
him--beckoned him. He shut his eyes and moved towards it, but a voice
stopped him, and it said, “Come away, come away,” and two arms folded
him round, and as he went back from the shore he stumbled and fell,
and... What is this? A yielding mass at his feet--a mass that stirs! He
clutches at it, he tears away the snow, he calls aloud--and his voice
has a faraway unnatural sound--“Gaspe Toujours! Gaspe Toujours!” Then
the figure of a man shakes itself in the snow, and a voice says: “Ay,
ay, sir!” Yes, it is Gaspe Toujours! And beside him lies Jeff Hyde, and
alive. “Ay, ay, sir, alive!”
Jaspar Hume’s mind was itself again. It had but suffered for a moment
the agony of delirium.
Gaspe Toujours and Jeff Hyde had lain down in the tent the night of
the great wind, and had gone to sleep at once. The staff had been blown
down, the tent had fallen over them, the drift had covered them, and for
three days they had slept beneath the snow, never waking.
Jeff Hyde’s sight was come again to him. “You’ve come back for the
book,” he said. “You couldn’t go on without it. You ought to have taken
it yesterday.”
He drew it from his pocket. He was dazed.
“No, Jeff, I’ve not come back for that, and I did not leave you
yesterday: it is three days and more since we parted. The book has
brought us luck, and the best. We have found our man; and they’ll be
here to-night with him. I came on ahead to see how you fared.”
In that frost-bitten world Jeff Hyde uncovered his head for a moment.
“Gaspe Toujours is a papist,” he said, “but he read me some of that book
the day you left, and one thing we went to sleep on: it was that about
‘Lightenin’ the darkness, and defendin’ us from all the perils and
dangers of this night.’” Here Gaspe Toujours made the sign of the cross.
Jeff Hyde continued half apologetically for his comrade: “That comes
natural to Gaspe Toujours--I guess it always does to papists. But I
never had any trainin’ that way, and I had to turn the thing over and
over, and I fell asleep on it. And when I wake up three days after,
here’s my eyes as fresh as daisies, and you back, sir, and the thing
done that we come to do.”
He put the Book into Hume’s hands and at that moment Gaspe Toujours
said: “See!” Far off, against the eastern horizon, appeared a group of
moving figures.
That night the broken segments of the White Guard were reunited, and
Clive Lepage slept by the side of Jaspar Hume.