_THE MAN OF THE SHADOWS._
Roy Thursby stood watching a small black speck which was moving slowly
over the white surface of the river and coming in the direction of the
Fort. Overhead was a magnificent Aurora Borealis extending high in bands
of flickering color; a luminous phenomenon of all the colors of the
rainbow, oscillating in electric waves. The gentle sighing of the wind,
and an occasional dull, muffled sound from among the ice hummocks broke
the silence. Near the trader were the dark figures of Kasba and David,
in fact it was they who had given the alarm, and presently there was a
slight crunching sound and Broom came striding up.
Dogs appeared as if by magic, and stood erect with ears pricked up
expectantly, or darted forward with noses sniffing the air.
The black speck grew rapidly larger and larger, until presently it
suddenly resolved itself into two portions, one of which, the smaller of
the two, quickly mended its pace and was soon distinguishable as a man.
The other travelled much slower, in a serpentine movement, swaying from
side to side as it dodged the huge masses of shattered ice. This was a
dog-train and driver returning from a trip to an Eskimo encampment.
Before long the man in front was clambering over a prodigious snowdrift
which obstructed the approach to the trading-post. He was one Minnihak,
an Eskimo whom Thursby employed to run before the dogs when he sent out
a trading venture.
The native lumbered forward with a broad grin. He was a droll figure
from the hood of his _tko-li-tok_ (coat) down to his _ka-miks_ (shoes)
covered with hoar-frost, and his “hairy” clothing gave him a shaggy
appearance greatly resembling a white bear walking on its hind legs.
Thursby went forward to meet him.
“_Timo_,” grunted the Eskimo; breathless from his late exertions.
“_Timo_,” responded the other. He was too interested in the dog-train to
take further notice of the native just then.
Minnihak took his welcome for granted. He turned to look for his
partner, who was now close at hand.
The advancing train of dogs barked with sheer delight at being so near
home. Nothing could stop them now; even the biggest laggard of a dog was
in a perfect frenzy to proceed. The dogs at hand heard the song of those
approaching and joined in the melody.
Ignoring the track left by the guide and despising every obstacle the
arriving train came helter-skelter over the bristling hummocks. The
heavily laden _com-it-uk_ (sled), swaying dangerously, crashed through
the ice at an alarming speed. Up one side of the snowdrift and down the
other it flew, threatening destruction to anything in its path, but a
pull here and a push there guided it safely past every obstruction.
Then the home dogs vied with the newcomers in making so great an uproar
that no human voice could possibly have made itself heard above the
pandemonium. A free fight ensued, but a few sharp, stinging cuts from
the well-directed lash of a whip drew the dogs’ attention to other
things. Then the pain of their wounds broke in upon them and they slunk
off with whines and yells.
By the aid of Minnihak and Sahanderry the dogs were unharnessed and the
heavily loaded sled taken away. Roy then turned to speak to Broom, but
that individual had suddenly disappeared; and Kasba, possessing herself
of her father’s bag containing a deerskin robe and a change of footwear,
also went silently away, while some distance ahead of her was David,
staggering under a load of venison that Delgezie had given him to carry
home.
As the girl moved away from the fort a dim figure appeared in the deep
shadow at a corner of one of the buildings and stood looking after her.
When she had disappeared among the rocks the watcher chuckled and
followed after.
The slight crunch, crunch, of some one walking stealthily over the crisp
snow soon attracted Kasba’s attention. Twice she stopped to listen,
throwing a scared glance behind. The third time a voice close at hand
startled her, and she stopped dead and turned right round. A dozen feet
away, in the shadow of a large boulder she discovered an indistinct
figure standing. The girl stood inert, staring as if fascinated.
“Kasba, wait a minute, I want you,” said the voice in carefully
modulated tones.
“What—do—you—want—with—me?” faltered the maiden, now thoroughly
frightened.
“I want to speak to you,” said the voice. Kasba shivered. She swayed and
almost fell, for it was the voice of the man she so greatly feared.
“What do you want—I don’t understand,” she faltered, trying to move
away, but now her legs refused her bidding.
“Oh, you needn’t be afraid,” said the man, stepping out of the shadow.
“You’re not so scared of Bekothrie, I notice,” he added with meaning.
“He is the master!” faltered the girl, her face flushing painfully,
wondering whether the fellow had guessed her secret.
“Oh, of course,” laughed Broom unpleasantly, and slyly edging nearer.
“The master, and therefore a little tin god. But say,” he added, taking
a step or two boldly, “does he not kiss those pretty lips occasionally,
and embrace that tight little waist, eh?”
“Why should he?” asked the girl stupidly, scarcely knowing what to say.
“Why should he?” repeated Broom, chuckling. “Why indeed! Why, because he
is human, my dear, and can no more resist the fascination of your pretty
face and figure than I can.” Kasba remembered how easily Roy had
resisted her that very day and, despite the terror she was feeling,
smiled bitterly. While the fellow had been speaking he had craftily
reduced the space between them, and now, encouraged by the girl’s
silence, he tried to clasp her about the waist. But the action worked
upon the girl like magic. There was too much of the fighting blood of
her warrior ancestors in her to allow her to be terrified for long, and
though her expression of strong aversion never changed, she stopped
trembling and with perfect calmness skilfully eluded his grasp. His arm
encircled the empty air and he swore under his breath. “Oh, you needn’t
try to be so confoundedly coy,” he cried, baffled for the moment. “Come,
sweetheart,” he added, waxing passionate and insinuating and again
edging toward her, “I’m in love with you and shall sleep all the better
for a kiss from those red lips.”
“Back, Ball-eye,” cried the girl, her eyes flashing and her lips curled
in scorn. “I do not like you. Why do you persist in troubling me when I
dislike you and try to keep aloof?”
Somewhat staggered, the fellow gnawed savagely at his moustache. “Bah!”
he exclaimed at last.
“I do not like you,” continued the girl staunchly. “There is something
here,” she added, touching her breast, “that tells me that you are a
very wicked man and will bring trouble upon us all.”
“And I, my pretty divinator, have something here,” retorted the man,
tapping his breast in imitation of her, “that tells me that you are a
canting little hypocrite, and, by God, I will have that kiss!” With that
he took a step toward her, then stopped and stared hard at the girl, who
stood silent and immobile as a statue, facing her tormentor with no
apparent fear. She did not even start on hearing the threat, but on the
contrary faced him boldly, her foot planted firmly, looking him steadily
in the eye. Then deliberately she drew a long knife from her bosom and,
grasping it tightly, held it ready for use. She eyed him grimly, and
softly chuckled. Her terror was gone.
The fellow fell back, sullen, foiled. Kasba’s fearless attitude utterly
disconcerted him, and he blasphemed till the girl shuddered and turned
her back and moved away. But her face was no sooner turned than a very
strange expression came on Broom’s, and rushing after her, he cried in a
loud, angry voice: “Not so fast, you little wildcat. You shall pay me
for those false smiles.”
Suddenly a boy’s clear voice rang out on the still night air.
“_Kas-ba-a, yu-cuz-zie, yu-cuz-zie Kas-ba-a!_”
With a smothered imprecation the man stopped dead in his tracks. Then at
the sound of someone approaching he dropped hurriedly back into the
shadow. Suddenly an idea crossed his mind. He stood a moment chewing his
moustache thoughtfully, and nodding his head once or twice. “I’ll do
it,” he muttered.
When Roy entered the house, after giving Delgezie a few supplies from
the store, he was astonished to find Broom had not come in; apparently
he must be outside talking to Sahanderry or Minnihak. Dismissing the
matter from his mind, he turned to Delgezie, who had followed to make
his report.
Throwing back his hood, Delgezie displayed a pleasant, wrinkled face.
But there was the sad, wistful expression in his eyes of one who has
experienced some overwhelming sorrow, and yet was conscientiously
striving to live out his life bravely despite it. He seated himself at a
nod from his master, who plied him with questions relative to the trip.
It had been a very successful one. They had brought back a good haul of
furs.
“And Acpa?” questioned Roy presently, referring to one of his Eskimo
traders.
“His boy’s sick,” said Delgezie.
“What’s the matter with him?”
“Oh, he met with an accident. His father shot him in the leg; the gun
went off accidentally.”
“Hurt him much?”
“Yes, completely shattered the bone below the knee.”
“What are they doing to it?”
“They’ve tied a piece of shaganappi tightly around the leg, above the
wound.”
“What in the world for?” asked Thursby, in blank surprise.
“Oh, the line will cut through the flesh,” said Delgezie, unmoved, “and
the lower part will rot off, clean off.”
“Good heavens!” exclaimed the other. “Is that possible?”
“Yes. The greater part of the flesh below the shaganappi is off
already.”
“How ghastly!” said the trader, with a slight shudder. “But the boy?”
“Oh, he’s lively enough.”
“Well, well! we live and learn,” said Thursby. “What would a doctor say
of such primitive surgery?” he wondered. “But there, I won’t keep you
any longer,” he added.
The old man got to his feet instantly. With a cheerful “Good-night,
sir,” he left the room. Outside he was joined by Minnihak, and the two
proceeded to Delgezie’s hut together. On the way they met an Eskimo
woman, whom they passed with a slight greeting.
With characteristic curiosity she turned and watched them. She was a
“runner.” A band of Eskimo had found it impossible to reach the post
that day and had sent her on in advance to get the usual gratuity of
_tee-pli-tow_ (tobacco) and carry it back to them.
The old Chipewyan’s face brightened when he approached his humble home,
where a pale light welcomed him from the window. He lifted the catch
softly, while a look of pleased anticipation stole over his face, for
was he not to see his only child whom he loved better than anything on
all God’s earth? He had been away from her many days—long, weary days,
haunted by the fearful dread that he might return to find her gone, as
her mother had gone years before. For there was a tragedy in the old
man’s life. Leaving his wife in the best of health, he had gone on a
trip to an Indian encampment, and had returned to find her dead and
buried. She had died of some contagious disease. This was a terrible
blow to him, for he loved her fondly. He had shortly before embraced the
Christian faith, and this great affliction—this taking away of all he
loved best on earth—tried the simple-hearted man sorely. It seemed
monstrously unjust. He probably could not have put his feelings into
words, but that was what he felt. It was hard for him to believe in a
God who could do this thing—a God whom the missionary invariably
presented as a “God of love.” What had he done to deserve such misery?
All that was just and righteous in the gentle-minded man rose up in
revolt. And was this to be wondered at? How many of us so-called
highly-civilized people have not at some time or other questioned the
wisdom of God with infinitely less cause? Well, then, may we sympathize
with this poor, uneducated, half-pagan Indian. The bereaved man’s grief
was terrible to witness. For days he sat disconsolate and desolate,
moaning to himself, and neither eating nor sleeping. When the missionary
called to comfort him, he rose slowly to his feet and in a voice that
cut the preacher to the heart cried: “My wife, where is she?” Then with
a sweep of the arm to take in the whole of his tribe, he asked: “Was
there no other woman your God could take?” The missionary, greatly
distressed, felt that the kindest thing he could do was to go away. Time
passed on and the poor fellow again took up his accustomed duties. But
he was never afterwards the same man. He never forgot his dead wife and
secretly and sincerely mourned her all the rest of his days. He never
took another, but showered all the love of his bruised heart upon his
orphaned child, and never left the Fort without an overwhelming fear
that something might happen to his treasure while he was away. But he
was home again now and all was well. The _com-it-uk_ had claimed most of
his attention when he had driven up to the Fort, but his eyes
nevertheless sought eagerly for Kasba, whom he discovered standing
meekly in the background after her wont, ready to carry his “bag” to the
house. They had not yet spoken, for Kasba never intruded herself when
Bekothrie was nigh. She knew her father’s work came first. But she was
inside the house, he well knew, to welcome him; and never did a lover’s
heart flutter and throb as did the heart of this poor old home-coming
Indian father.
True to his expectations, his daughter was waiting for him within. She
was standing by the stove. Instantly the girl’s face glowed with
pleasure, and with a little cry of delight she flew to him and,
encircling his neck with her arms, drew his face down on a level with
her own, and gazed searchingly into it for a moment, as if to see
whether he had taken any harm during his long absence. The old man gave
a short, contented laugh, then his feelings welled up within him and
tears of joy gleamed in his eyes. Reluctantly putting her from him, he
took off his out-door garments while Kasba greeted the Eskimo and flew
back to the stove, on which a pot was boiling merrily. A savory smell
filled the room but the old man remarked it not. His eyes were following
his daughter’s movements with the wistful gaze of loving solicitude. He
paused in the act of drying his hands on a coarse towel to smile
whenever his eyes caught hers in her flittings. His ablutions completed,
Kasba helped him into his jacket. Then, taking him by the shoulder she
playfully forced him to a seat. The Eskimo seated himself at the table
at a gesture from Kasba, and soon food was set before the men. Hardly a
word was exchanged between them, and in a marvellously short space of
time they had finished supper and were feeling for their pipes. Fumbling
in one pocket after another, Delgezie pulled out pipe, knife and a plug
of nigger-head from profound depths. Then he proceeded to cut up enough
of the tobacco to fill his pipe. Minnihak produced his _pu-lu-yet-ti_
(pipe) from his fire-bag and with scrupulous carefulness filled its
little black bowl with a mixture of tobacco and a particular kind of
weed which grows among the rocks in the vicinity.
This _pu-lu-yet-ti_ had been fashioned from soft stone and ornamented
with little brass bands in a manner and after a pattern peculiar to the
Eskimo. The stem was of wood and frequently renewed. But the old stems
were never thrown away; they were hoarded up against a tobacco famine
when they would be cut up very fine and smoked.
The two men smoked in silence. Minnihak drew lovingly at his pipe long
after the little bowl was empty. Then with a deep sigh of regret he
reluctantly put it away, and drawing his _kaip-puk_ (deerskin robe) over
him, he stretched himself on the floor to sleep.
Her duties completed, Kasba sat down beside her father.
“The boy’s asleep,” said Delgezie, with an indicative thrust of the chin
in the direction of a recumbent figure in a corner of the room.
“Yes,” laughed the girl, with a glance in the same direction. “Poor
David, he tried to keep awake, but he was so very tired. He was away on
the ‘big hill’ hunting, all day. He shot three deer.”
“Oh!” ejaculated the old man with a nod and smile of approbation.
“We’re going for them to-morrow,” she explained, taking her father’s
hand and smoothing it fondly.
Just then the door opened and Broom appeared. He hesitated on the
threshold, glancing from one to the other as if asking permission to
enter. Kasba half started up from her seat at sight of him. She
experienced a feeling of resentful surprise, wondering what his visit
might portend.
The old man bade him enter, though he seemed rather taken aback at the
fellow’s presence. The welcome obviously lacked fervor.
Nothing daunted, Broom came forward with a peculiar smile on his lips.
Kasba rose hastily and placed a seat for him, then turned deliberately
away, withdrawing to another part of the room, and for the time being
appeared totally absorbed in some kind of needlework.
“Well, old man,” said Broom, breaking the strained silence, “what sort
of a trip did you have?”
“Pretty fair, sir,” Delgezie made brief reply. Then he nervously moved
his hands and his eyes went to the girl. Delgezie certainly looked upon
Broom with much disfavor. Suddenly he straightened up a little and
looked the sailor full in the face. “What do you want?” he demanded
bluntly.
Broom appeared a trifle confused by this direct question. He glanced at
the girl before answering, then: “Oh, nothing much?” he said.
Delgezie nodded doubtfully, his eyes fastened on the fellow’s face.
Something in his manner had startled and displeased him.
Conversation lagged.
The intruder fidgeted uneasily under the old man’s solemn scrutiny. He
changed his position several times. Then he suddenly produced a cigar
and offered it to the old man, who refused it point blank.
“No thank you,” said the old fellow, with grim brevity, “I’m used to the
pipe.”
Broom bit off the end of the rejected cigar savagely, and sticking it
into his mouth applied a match. Again he glanced at the girl.
This time Delgezie caught the direction of his glance and instinctively
his attention was alert. A shade of uneasiness came into his eyes; his
mind was filled with vague alarms. With puckered brows he sat silently
watchful and suspicious.
To Kasba the constraint became unbearable. She softly opened the door
and went out. The closing of the door was the first warning Broom
received of it.
He turned half round and sat for a few moments in a listening attitude.
Then he turned back, and leaning forward toward Delgezie, “Look here,
old man,” he said, laughing oddly, “what I’ve come to see you about is
this: I want your girl—” He left the sentence unfinished; there was
that in the old man’s face that caused him to stop.
For Delgezie had turned white, his lower jaw dropped, his eyes set in a
fixed, horrified stare; he breathed heavily. So paralyzed was he at the
news that he lost his faculties. Something like a groan escaped his
lips.
“You—want—my—daughter!” he gasped, at length.
“Yes, I do,” replied Broom, mercilessly, with another odd laugh. “I’m in
love with her. Course I can’t marry her properly here, we haven’t a
parson; but I’m going south first open water and will take her along. We
can get hitched up then, at Churchill. In the meantime an Indian
marriage will have to do.”
The look in the old man’s honest eyes caused Broom’s to wander.
“Well,” said the old fellow shakily, “I can’t give you my girl. She’s
all I’ve got.” His voice broke and a tear showed on his cheek.
“Besides,” he added, pulling himself together, “you don’t love her; you
say you do, but by and by—”
“I know what you mean. You mean I would grow tired of her and throw her
off.”
“Yes,” said the brave old Indian, slowly, “that’s what I mean.”
Broom laughed harshly. “You’re candid, at any rate, old man; but you’re
wrong. Besides, how do you know that the girl don’t want me?”
“You can ask her yourself, in front of me,” replied Delgezie with honest
indignation. And rising slowly, he crossed the room and went out. Broom
heard the old man’s voice in conversation outside for a few moments,
then he returned, leaving the door ajar behind him.
Soon after, the girl came in. “Well!” she said quietly, yet with a touch
of defiance in her voice, and facing Broom boldly. Her eyes were wide
and flashing, her lips compressed. She looked at him in a manner which
despite himself caused him to feel somewhat abashed and his face to
crimson.
The fellow seemed too confused to speak for a moment. Then: “I’ve been
asking your father for you, Kasba,” he said, somewhat brusquely, as if
intending to carry off the matter with a high hand.
The girl displayed no surprise. She looked him squarely in the face for
a moment, then: “Do you mean that you wish to _marry_ me?” she asked
with rather marked emphasis.
“Well, I would; but I can’t, very well,” he explained. “I’d do it fast
enough, but there ain’t any parson here. I reckon you’d think a
sky-pilot necessary—” He paused and looked at her searchingly.
But she would not help him. She stood grimly silent, gazing at him with
an inscrutable face.
He shifted uneasily under the intensity of her gaze. Her attitude
stirred his wrath. Who in the world was she that she should put on airs?
She had been spoilt. Just because she was pretty she had been petted and
made much of! But—just wait! D—— her!
“Still we could get married—” he continued, as she did not speak.
The girl’s lip curled, and he left the sentence unfinished.
“According to _native_ custom,” she finished scornfully. “Oh!” There was
great significance in the exclamation. She threw back her head proudly,
and her nostrils widened. She surveyed him from head to foot in one
sweeping glance of contempt.
Broom smiled. It was a disagreeable smile and his brows lowered. There
came an unpleasant glint in his eye.
Going to her father, who had resumed his seat, she knelt down beside
him. The old man took her hand and held it tightly. “Father,” she said
firmly, “I shall never marry in that fashion. You would not wish me to
do so?”
The staunch old fellow shook his head decidedly. “No, my child,” said
the downright old fellow. “We are Indians, it’s true; but we are also
Christians. No, I do not wish it, nor would I allow it.” There was much
righteous indignation in his voice.
“Christians!” sneered Broom, in a manner so diabolical that it is quite
beyond power of description. “_Fine_ Christians, I’m sure. But I’m up to
your little game. You think to make a fine lady of the girl, eh? She’s
throwing herself at Thursby’s head, and if—”
“Stop!” commanded Delgezie, sternly. Gently disengaging himself from the
girl, he got to his feet. Raised to his full height, he looked upon the
slanderer with a face which, in truth, was fearful. His eyes brightened
into clear and perfect fire. He stood, a concentration of scorn,
contempt, hatred the most intense; pouring upon the dastardly villain an
unbroken stream of withering fury that was dreadful to look upon. His
daughter, in fact, was obliged to speak twice before she could arrest
his attention.
“Father! father!” she pleaded. She was greatly frightened. She had never
seen this kind-hearted old man in such a fierce passion before.
At the sound of the girl’s voice, Delgezie partly recovered himself. The
anger went slowly out of his face, leaving it grim and stern. “You have
received your answer,” he said with dignity. “You have no right to
insult us. Please go.” With that he resumed his seat.
But Broom was angry, too. For an instant he had a wicked desire to seize
the girl and carry her off, but he could not do this without being
followed and brought back, and his punishment would be severe. Roy had
already declared himself on that score. Besides there would be this
fiery old father to deal with.
“I’ll have her yet,” said Broom, starting to take his leave, “I swear
it!”
At the door he turned and glanced maliciously back at the girl, then
laughing discordantly he strode out, banging the door behind him.
Then a great, horrible fear seizing Delgezie seemed to still the beating
of his heart. For Broom had sworn that he would possess Kasba. Broom was
a white man, and white men always got what they set their hearts upon;
that is, when dealing with Indians. At least, such was Delgezie’s
experience. He must consult Bekothrie. Yet it seemed a silly thing to
make a fuss about. It was no insult to offer a girl marriage, and, if
pressed by Bekothrie, Broom would undoubtedly construe his offer as
such. Besides the fellow had been refused, and that should end the
matter, and probably would, when he had had time to recover from his
ruffled feelings. If he then refused to take the rejection in good part
and continued to annoy the girl with his attentions, it would then be
time to complain to Bekothrie. So argued the old fellow, who was not a
little shrewd in his way.
“Do you like that man, my girl?” he asked with exceeding tenderness.
“I don’t, and never shall,” Kasba replied firmly. “And oh, father, I
never want to leave you. You are the best father any girl ever had.”
Then with a laugh she kissed him.
He put his hand up and stroked her cheek.
“When the time comes, little girl, and the right man asks, your father
won’t refuse him,” Delgezie assured her in his slow, thoughtful way.
“But in God’s name let it be a man of your own kind, an Indian. You were
trained in the white man’s ways, and taught to read and write English,
but you are still an Indian, my dear; nothing could alter that. You are
what the good God intended you should be—a Chipewyan Indian girl; and
to be ashamed of it would be to doubt His wisdom. But there,” he added
hastily, trying to hide his emotion, “you are going to the ‘big hill’
to-morrow, so must be off to bed. Give me the books.” He drew the lamp
toward him as if to obtain more light to read by, but in reality his
poor old eyes were dim with tears.
Kasba sprang to her feet and brought two Chipewyan books, a hymn and a
prayer book. These she handed to her father, who fumbled at the leaves
of the hymn-book for some moments with a thoughtful frown. Then
suddenly, “_A Neolt ye sesal naothat da_” (Abide with me), he sang in a
thin, tremulous voice. Kasba joined in the hymn, but in subdued tones,
fearing to wake David, who moved uneasily.
The pair then fell on their knees and Delgezie read the “general
confession,” concluding with “_Neta Yaka thenda nese_” (Our Father, who
art).
Long after her father’s deep breathing told her that he was asleep,
Kasba lay gazing at a shaft of moonlight that pierced the small window.
Her mind dwelt with bitterness on the harshness of her situation:
Broom’s persistent attentions; Roy’s indifference to her love; and her
promise to Sahanderry necessitated important changes in her life. In
future she must no longer roam the Fort unattended; no longer spend the
quiet hours thinking of Bekothrie. Instead, she must always be
accompanied in her ramblings, must think of Bekothrie no more, and
accept Sahanderry as her lover.