WITHIN THE DEEP SHADOW
Madeline said not a word as she hastened to Norman's side, and looked
down anxiously into his face. She had hoped to behold some sign of
returning consciousness, to see him look up and recognise her. But she
saw no change, nothing but that deep, terrible stupor which seemed so
much like death.
Dan had carefully washed the wound and applied bandages which the Indian
woman had procured from a small closet where the missionary kept his
medical supplies. It was a rough, clumsy bandage, but Madeline felt
grateful to the trapper for the trouble he had taken. She little knew
how anxiously he had examined the wound, washed it, and applied some
soothing oil he found among the neatly arranged bottles on the shelf.
His hands had trembled as he wound the bandages around Grey's head, and
he wondered why his fingers were so awkward as he tied the ends
together. He thought little of the scratch; it was the blow which
worried him.
"It's a wonder, miss," he remarked, "that he escaped at all. It sartinly
'ud be a pity to see sich a fine feller knocked out. I haven't seen his
like in many a day. He's got real spunk, an' is all man."
"Do you think he will recover?" Madeline asked as she turned toward the
trapper. "Isn't there anything that we can do?"
"Wall, I'm hopin' he'll come outer this stupor. But if he doesn't we
must try to git 'im back to Big Glen, whar he will have treatment from
the doctors. I understan' they have purty skilful ones thar."
"But when can we start? How can we take him all the way over that hard
trail?"
"We can't leave jist yet, miss; thar's important work on hand. We must
lay that poor old man to rest, an'--"
"Oh! is he dead? Do you mean to tell me that he was shot?"
"Yes, miss; it's only too true. A bullet passed through his body, an' he
went down like a log. I'm mighty sorry."
Madeline pressed her left hand to her heart. It did not seem possible
that the venerable man who had talked so kindly to her but a short time
before should now be lying cold in death. What would happen next!
"Where is he?" she faintly asked. "Why did they not bring him in here?"
"They've taken 'im inter the church, miss. The Injuns thought it would
be the best place. I guess I'll have to read the Burial Service
to-morrer. My! it was a sight to see 'im stand thar in the midst of that
rain of lead, an' try to git them Injuns to stop their fightin'! I've
seen some brave deeds in me life, miss, an' things that 'ud make yer
blood turn to icicles. But that scene beat 'em all."
"And were you hemmed in by the Indians the whole day?" Madeline
questioned.
"Only fer part of the night and mornin'."
"How did you manage to find Donnie and get back to the cave?"
"It was this way, miss," and in a few words Dan related the experience
through which they had passed the night before. It was a simple tale,
told in his own quaint style, with all embellishment left out. It
thrilled Madeline's heart, and she looked fondly into the honest, rugged
face. She had known him only as Buckskin Dan, the trapper. Formerly he
had figured little in her thoughts. But she saw beneath his rough
exterior now and knew him as never before.
"And you did all that for the little child!" she mused when he had
finished. "You risked your own life to find him and to bring him back to
his mother! You are a noble man."
"Tut, tut, miss; that was nothin'. Anyone 'ud have done that much, an'
more. But come, we've been talkin' too long, seems to me. This poor chap
needs grub. He hasn't tasted a bite fer some time."
"Nor you, either," interposed Madeline.
"Oh, I kin stand it, miss, although I do feel somewhat holler. Mebbe
that Injun woman out thar in the yard will be able to throw some stuff
together."
"No, I intend to do it myself," Madeline calmly replied. "You call for
Nancy. She can show me where the provisions are kept, and will be able
to give me a hand. I shall feel better when doing something. It will
keep me from worrying too much."
With the Indian woman's aid Madeline was soon busy at the sheet-iron
stove. From the larder, which led off from the kitchen, were brought
several pieces of moose meat, and these were soon sizzling in the frying
pan. Cold beans were warmed up, and some desiccated potatoes prepared,
with a little water and salt added. Tea, too, was found, and a loaf of
sour-dough bread. For Norman a piece of meat was placed in a kettle upon
the stove, for the preparation of soup.
With admiring eyes Dan sat back and watched Madeline moving about the
room. He noted her lithesome figure, the erect poise of her head, and
the flush which now animated her face, caused partly by the heat, and
partly by the exercise. He saw, too, how occasionally she glanced toward
the unconscious form lying upon the cot, and the look of deep concern
expressed in her eyes.
"She's a good woman," he said to himself; "thar's nothin' wrong about
her. She's been badly treated in some way. That's clear as light. Eyes
an' face sich as hers speak fer themselves."
It suited Madeline to be busy. She could not bear to remain quiet and
watch Norman lying there so very still with that blank look upon his
face. And yet her heart was somewhat fearful. Suppose he should open his
eyes, see her, and turn away his head in disgust! When the food was
prepared she placed it upon the table, and sat near watching the hungry
trapper as he ate.
"My, this is fine!" he ejaculated. "I haven't enjoyed sich grub in a
long time. It was sartinly good of ye, miss, to think of an old man like
me. I don't desarve it."
"You deserve more than I can ever do for you," Madeline replied. "Just
think what you have done for me and that poor child. The Lord will
reward you, I am sure of that. I cannot imagine why you have done so
much for us. We were such strangers to you."
"Don't say that, miss; please don't. Why shouldn't I do it fer you an'
the kid? Didn't I once have a lassie of me own, long years ago it was,
an' ye remind me much of her. But she was taken away from me, an' I was
left all alone. I did it at fust, miss, fer her sake, an' also to help
me pardner out. But now I'd do anything fer yer own sake, 'cause I know
yer worthy of it."
"And you thought I was not a true woman?" questioned Madeline. "You
imagined I was one of those poor fallen creatures who so often come
North?"
"I had me doubts, miss. Sometimes I thought ye was, an' ag'in I thought
ye wasn't. But I couldn't tell fer sartin. Appearances was ag'in ye."
"I know it! I know it!" Madeline cried almost fiercely. "Everything has
been against me for the last six years. Oh, my life has been terrible!"
"I believe ye, miss. I believe ye. But thar's an end to that now. I'll
take ye outer this, an' back to yer own people."
"But what will he think?" and Madeline glanced toward the cot. "Oh, if
you only knew! If you only understood!"
"I do understand somethin', miss. I know a thing or two."
"And did be really tell you? Did he explain?"
"He told me a little, an' I guessed the rest."
"And did he think I had fallen; that I was a disgrace to womankind?"
"He didn't know what to believe, miss. Poor feller, I was sorry fer 'im.
He took it mighty hard."
Madeline was leaning anxiously forward now, with her eyes fixed full
upon Dan's face.
"Did he say that he loathed me, that he had cast me off forever?"
It cost her an effort to ask this question, which for days had been
beating through her brain.
"No, miss, he said nuthin' of the kind. His heart was almost broke when
he found that ye was livin' with Old Meg. But he thought mebbe ye was
thar cause ye wanted to be. He wasn't sartin, however, an' said he was
agoin' to find out. If he larned that ye was thar of yer own free will
he would jist leave ye alone. But if he discovered that ye was thar
ag'inst yer will he said nuthin' on arth 'ud stop 'im from savin' ye."
"Oh!"
Madeline drew a deep breath of relief as she listened to these words.
So he did care. He wanted to know the truth.
"Yes, miss," Dan continued, "never ye doubt that young man alyin' thar,
an' if ye'll excuse a rough old trapper I'll jist tell ye that his love
fer ye is like a blazin' fire. Haven't I watched 'im fer days now, an'
heerd him murmur yer name in his sleep? I tell ye he was most wild when
he found that the Injuns had stole ye away."
Madeline asked no further questions just then. She wished to think over
what Dan had told her. A new hope and joy came into her heart. So Norman
really cared for her after all. She repeated the words to herself time
and time again.
Dan finished his meal, and pushed back the stool upon which he was
sitting.
"I'm agoin' to leave ye fer a while, miss," he said, slowly drawing his
pipe from his pocket. "I've been a wonderin' what them Injuns are up to
over thar, an' so I'll jist stroll cautiously around an' size things up
a bit."
"Do you think the Indians will continue their fighting?" Madeline
anxiously asked.
"Can't tell what them varmints 'ill do, miss. They're very unsartin
critters. But if they do git at it ag'in an' the Big Lakes win out I'm
afeered it'll go purty hard with us. We got outer their clutches by a
close shave, an' I'm thinkin' they're rather sore over it. It seems to
me it's that Injun woman, Nadu, wot's doin' much of the mischief. She's
a vixin, that I kin tell it by her eye."
"Oh, don't speak of her!" and a shudder shook Madeline's body, while her
face turned pale. "She is terrible! It was she who sent me adrift in the
canoe. She hates me, and I do not know why."
"An' did she do that deed?" Dan cried. "Did she send ye through the
rapids?"
"Yes; it's only too true. But please don't speak about it again. I want
to forget it."
Madeline rose and examined the meat cooking upon the stove.
"I think we might give our patient a little of this soup now," she said;
"it's not very strong, but he should have something nourishing as soon
as possible."
"Right ye are, miss," Dan replied, as he sprang to his feet. "I'll jist
hold his head up a little while ye feed 'im. Thar, that's good!" he
exclaimed, when the task had been accomplished. "That's the fust taste
of food he's had since I don't know when. I'll jist hike off now, an'
leave ye a while on watch."
When the door had closed, and Dan's footsteps had died away in the
distance, Madeline drew a stool up close to the cot. Nancy du Nord had
left some time before, so she was alone with Norman. Quietly she sat by
his side, and looked down earnestly into his face. How often she had
seen it in her day and night dreams through those long, terrible years.
It had been an inspiration to her when hope had almost fled. Oh, if he
would only open his lips and eyes, speak to her, and look upon her! She
longed to tell him everything, to clear the cloud of doubt from his
mind. But no sign did he give. He lay there helpless and unconscious.
His right hand was lying by his side. Reaching over she held it in her
own. A thrill shot through her heart as she did so, and a flush suffused
her cheeks. It was the same hand that had pressed hers so fondly one
night at the little garden gate so long ago, and it was the same strong,
firm hand that had reached out, gripped her, and drew her from the icy
waters of death. Suddenly she bent her head, lifted the hand to her
lips, and kissed it fervently. Then she quickly dropped it, and looked
around, fearful lest someone had seen her.
Thus she sat keeping faithful watch as the hours wore slowly away.
Occasionally she arose and gave Norman some of the soup, which by this
time was much stronger and contained more nourishment. When at length
Dan returned she was still at her post and smiled upon the trapper as he
entered the room.
"You've been away a long time," she said. "You must have found much to
occupy your attention."
"Indeed I have, miss," Dan replied, glancing toward the constable. "The
Injuns are havin' a big pow-wow. They can't decide whether to have
peace, or fight it out. Guess they'll keep it up all night by the look
of things. I watched 'em fer some time, an' made out the drift of their
harangues, which are sartinly mighty long. Hishu Sam had the floor, or I
should say, the ground, when I left. He's got a purty level head. Anyway
I do hope it will be peace, fer I'm gittin' mighty anxious to be away
an' take this poor chap back to Big Glen. I see thar's no change in 'im
yit."
"None," Madeline replied. "He's just the same as when you left."
"An' ye've been watchin' 'im ever since? Ye look tired, miss. Don't ye
think ye should have a bite to eat, an' take a little rest? But whar's
the kid? He must be hungry."
At these words Madeline sprang to her feet in alarm. So intent had she
been with thinking of other things that she had forgotten all about the
child. It was not natural for him to be so quiet. She had left him
playing in the next room, and he had always come to her when he needed
anything. Hurrying to the door she looked at the place on the floor
where she had left him. He was not there. She glanced about the room
until her eyes rested upon the bed, and there among the tossed blankets
nestled the little lad fast asleep. Madeline gave a sigh of relief as
she stood and watched him.
"Poor, wee chap," she remarked, turning to the trapper. "He was
certainly worn out, and crawled into bed himself, and fell asleep."
"Ay, ay, indeed he needs rest," Dan responded. "An' so do you, miss.
Jist swaller some of yon grub, an' take yerself off, or else I'll have
two patients on me hands. Ye'll need all yer strength fer what lies
ahead."
"I know it, I know it. You are kind to think of me," and Madeline gave
the old man a bright smile of gratitude as he turned and left the room.