LIEGES OF THE WILD
Lieges of the most gigantic trust the world would ever see, the Hudson's
Bay men filled Dunvegan's trading room when the long northern twilight
fell upon the post. From above the chief trader's desk the Company's
coat-of-arms, roughly carved on an oaken shield, looked down upon its
hardy followers. The bold insignia seemed symbolic of the supremacy, the
power, the privilege invested in that mighty institution.
Well might the Company pride itself on the sovereignty of a vast domain.
Well might the Factors call themselves true lords of the North! The
rights King Charles the Second had granted them extended over a
territory of two and one-quarter million square miles, an empire
one-third the size of Europe. All other subjects of the Crown were
expressly forbidden to visit or trade in this immense tract. Violation
of the edict meant that trespassers ran the risk of sudden decease under
the judgment of the Company's servants. For these were entrusted not
only with the absolute proprietorship, supreme monarchy, and exclusive
traffic of that undefined country known as Rupert's Land, which
comprised all the regions discovered or to be discovered within the
gates of Hudson's Strait, but also with the power of life and death over
every aborigine or Christian who adventured there.
The only exemption along this line had been made a century after the
erection of the corporation in 1670, consisting primarily of gallant
Prince Rupert and his dare-devil associates, when provision of letters
patent was made for those of the kingdom of New France, who had pushed
northward to the shores of Hudson's Bay, whereby any actual possessions
of any Christian prince or state were protected and withheld from the
Company's operation. These claims were confirmed in 1697 by the Treaty
of Ryswick, only to be abandoned by the Treaty of Utrecht in 1713. But
still voyageurs of the adventurous heart wet their paddle blades in the
Saskatchewan's sinuous waters, winding on the far quest of peltries
toward the barrier of the Rockies. Conquest and cession interrupted such
overland enterprises, but shrewd English business heads began later
systematically to direct these undertakings till the pursuit finally led
to the formation in 1783 of the Northwest Fur Company of Montreal.
Secure in its possession, strong in its kingship until now, the Hudson's
Bay institution suddenly saw a dangerous rival invade its hitherto
unmolested precincts, and the whole energy of the vast corporation was
drawn upon to combat the ever encroaching Nor'westers. It was not to be
supposed that the first lords of the North who had thrown their posts
far across the basin of the Coppermine would give ground before the
younger organization. Nor was it credible that the adventurers, who had
ascended the Mackenzie to the grim Arctic Ocean and pushed down to the
Pacific by scaling the Rocky Mountains would stand aloof from a
literally open country which would glut them with gain. One company's
desires were as compelling as the other's. In temerity and endurance
they were equally matched. The only issue could be a violent and bloody
competition till one giant broke the hold of the adversary.
In the very heart of the contention, in one of the richest trading
districts, Malcolm Macleod found himself locking arms with the
redoubtable enemy of his corporation. These were the days of sudden
surprises and stern reprisals; of secret plottings and bloody
skirmishes. A Hudson's Bay fort was beleaguered; a Nor'west fur train
sacked. Or, again, it was a stroke in the dark when a picket was wiped
out, or an entire brigade destroyed.
Ably seconded by Bruce Dunvegan, the Factor upheld the interests of
Oxford House and the Hudson's Bay Company with an iron hand. The problem
of the Nor'west advance faced him. Black Ferguson, one of the rival
organization's leaders, had established a footing in the Katchawan
Valley and built a fortified post, Fort La Roche, which was now the
stronghold of the Nor'westers in that country. From there by secret
trysts in which only a wayward girl would have indulged, Black Ferguson
had enticed Macleod's daughter from under his very nose--enticed and
deserted!
Alone in his council room Malcolm Macleod's black wrath boiled under the
powerful insult. He had never seen Black Ferguson, but he promised
himself that he should soon feast his eyes upon the Nor'wester trussed
up in thongs with the fear of swift death confronting him. Macleod was
only biding his time till Dunvegan should rear up Fort Kamattawa, the
new post with which he intended to shut out Nor'westers from the
Katchawan Valley. With Kamattawa as a base he would wipe Fort La Roche
off the district.
The same possibility was being discussed by Bruce Dunvegan and his men
as they smoked their evening pipes in the hazy light of the trading
room.
"Give me the least opportunity to strike the Nor'westers in the Valley,
and I'll strike hard enough to crush Black Ferguson's fort," the chief
trader declared. "When Kamattawa is finished, the Factor expects to
capture La Roche, but if we ever get a chance in the meantime, we'll
take it, and take it quick. Eh, men?"
They nodded grimly. They loved deeds more than words, and Bruce knew
they were as eager as himself.
Sandy Stewart, the Lowland Scot of the canny head, at length broke
silence, quitting his pipe long enough to utter a brief sentence: "We'll
no be shuttin' oor eyes as we build." His own gray eyes twinkled
craftily through the steel haze of the Company's tobacco.
Pete Connear was sprawling in sailor's attitude, his back on a bench,
his knees drawn up to his chin. He shifted his legs to speak.
"Why not send a spy among them?" he suggested. "There are lots of
strange men in our service who could play the part."
"Too dangerous," commented the chief trader seriously. "Any man who
enters an enemy's fort these days is putting his neck in a noose.
Moreover it's impossible on both sides. The Nor'westers trust no
stranger. Neither do we."
"We trusted yon gossoon Follet," put in Terence Burke, who had a brogue
which was hard to smother.
"Bah! he's a fool."
"He talks loike a lawyer whin he plases. I think he's a deep wan."
"It's his idiocy. Gaspard is harmless. You see they could no more put a
spy into Oxford House than we could employ a traitor to mingle in their
ranks at La Roche. We must watch for our opening, daylight or dark, and
catch Black Ferguson dozing. I'd give a thousand castors to lay hands on
him right now!"
Basil Dreaulond emitted a low chuckle and beat his moccasin with the
bowl of his pipe.
"Nobody don' nevaire catch dat man," he observed. "Ferguson mooch too
smart; he got de heart lak wan black fox. De fellow w'at goin' git de
bes' of heem mus' spik wit' _le diable_, yes!"
"Faith," Burke laughed, "he'd be spakin' wid his-self 'cause it's the
divil in per-rson is me frind Black Ferguson. Oi clapped eyes on him
wanst at Montreal."
"What did he look like, Terence?" asked Pete Connear. Even as the
Factor, none of the other men had seen the troublesome Nor'wester at
close range. The nearest vision they had had of him was in the gun-smoke
of a skirmish or in the semi-darkness of a midnight raid.
"Fair as a Dane wid the same blue eyes," the Irishman answered.
"Listen till that, would ye!" cried Stewart. "An' why maun they gae
callin' him 'Black' Ferguson?"
"Hees soul," explained Dreaulond tersely. "Everyt'ing dis man do be
black as _diable_. Tak' more dan wan t'ousand pries' confess heem out of
hell!"
"Kind of brother to Captain Kidd, or a cousin of old Morgan's, eh!"
remarked Pete Connear. "Pretty figure to have leading the other side.
I'd think the Nor'west Company would put a decent man in charge."
"He's just the sort they want," Dunvegan declared. "They know they're
beyond their rights and trespassing on ours. They want a man who will
stop at nothing. In Black Ferguson they have him!"
Even as Dunvegan finished speaking a scuffle arose at the door.
"What's that?" the chief trader demanded.
"Sounds like a husky," observed Pete Connear.
They could hear snarling and groaning with now and then a whimper of
fear as from a frightened animal.
"No, it's a human voice," declared Dunvegan. He strode across the room
and kicked up the latch.
The door swung back swiftly and in bounded the weird shape of Gaspard
Follet, the little idiot. He dashed forward as if propelled from a
catapult, but the chief trader's peremptory voice halted him.
"Stop," Dunvegan commanded. "What in Rupert's name is the matter with
you?"
Gaspard stood speechless. His owlish eyes glared in a perfect frenzy of
real or simulated terror, and he hopped from one foot to the other in
the center of the floor, hunching his dwarfed shoulders with a horrid,
convulsive movement.
For the most part amazed silence struck the men, but Maskwa, the Ojibway
fort runner, regarded Follet with the superstition of his race and
jabbered in guttural accents.
"The Little Fool has seen a god," he asserted in Ojibway. "He has spoken
with Nenaubosho!"
"_Non_," was Basil Dreaulond's more commonplace explanation. "De mad
_giddés_ bite heem. Dis Gaspard goin' crazy lak' dose yelpin' beas'."
But the chief trader bade them speculate in silence.
"Speak, Follet," he urged. "Take a long breath and you'll get it out.
Something's tried your nerves!"
"Ah!" gasped the Fool between his chattering teeth. "I have been
frightened. I have been frightened." He crossed himself a score of times
and shut out an imaginary vision by holding claw-like fingers before his
great, staring eyes.
"Speak out," ordered Dunvegan sternly. "Where have you been all day? I
haven't seen you since Pierre Lazard put you out of the Mission House
this morning."
"In the Black Forest," answered the dwarf. "I went in a canoe to be
alone, for they put me out of the chapel. Who was it? Oh, yes, old
Pierre. I will remember that. I went in a canoe and I saw a devil."
"What was it?" asked Bruce, smiling.
"I--I forget." Gaspard beat his forehead in a vain attempt at
recollection.
The chief trader was well acquainted with the Fool's frequent
pilgrimages here and there, his harmless adventures, his constant lapses
of memory. Where others sometimes doubted, he believed Follet's
imbecility was genuine. Else why was it kept up?
"You had better do your wandering within the stockades," he advised.
"The woods aren't altogether safe for pleasure jaunts."
"Who would harm a silly head?" mumbled Gaspard.
"That's no protection. Your head might be taken off first and its sanity
inquired into afterwards. That's a peculiar habit these roaming
Nor'westers have."
"The Nor'westers!" echoed Gaspard Follet, in a strident scream, his
whole face lighting with the gleam of certain knowledge born of
suggestion. "One of them was the devil I saw in the Black Forest in the
winter cabin. Name of the Virgin, how he frightened me! Now I remember
well. It was the worst of them all. Any of you would have run as I did.
Don't tell me you wouldn't! Ferguson sits in yon cabin!"
The floor shook with the spring of the men to their feet. Dunvegan had
instantly leaped the length of the room and lifted the dwarf in his
hands, shaking him to search out the truth of the statement.
"Do you lie?" he cried tensely. "Speak! Is this an idiot's fancy?"
Gaspard wriggled. His face no longer bore vacancy of expression. The
flush of real intelligence mantled it.
"No, by the cross," he vowed. "I speak truth. I know what I saw. If you
think I lie, take me there. Should the Black Nor'wester not sit in the
cabin as I say, you may kill me."
Because Gaspard Follet was above all things a coward, this offer forced
immediate conviction upon the group. As the chief trader set the fool
upon his feet, he turned and saw Malcolm Macleod's form bulking broad in
the doorway.
"You have heard?"
"I have heard." The Factor's tone boomed out, savage, exultant. The
order that followed was given with a swiftness as sinister as it was
explicit.
"Take a dozen men," he directed briefly. "Bring me the Nor'wester,
living or dead. You understand?" Again he spaced the words for them:
"Living--or--dead!"
Clement Nemaire swung wide the stockade gates. Bearing a forty-foot fur
canoe, Dunvegan and his men filed out on their mission. The entrance
closed behind the mysterious going.
"_Bon fortune_," whispered Nemaire.