THE NOR'WESTER'S FLESH
A deeper blot within the shadow which the headland cast upon the water,
Dunvegan's craft silently rounded Caribou Point, beached softly upon the
sand in the granite-walled cove, and spilled its crew into the aisles of
the Black Forest. Beyond rose the craggy ridge called Mooswa Hill, a
landmark to the Hudson's Bay men in times of quiet, a pillar of fire
when the Nor'westers struck.
The winter cabin Gaspard Follet had mentioned stood on a rock shoulder
above the cove. Pine and spruce crowded it. In springtime the shore ice
jammed to its threshold. The ooze and drip of the years were insidiously
working its ruin. But still the halfbreed and the voyageurs sometimes
used it for a night's shelter on their journeys. Once it had saved the
life of Basil Dreaulond in a great blizzard. Exhausted, he had reached
it when he could never have made his remaining three miles to Oxford
House.
A neck of the Black Forest hugged the incline where the hut stood.
Marshy beaver meadows, fringing the Bay, hedged the timber line,
spreading across to Mooswa ridge and giving no solid footing except what
was afforded by a dam traversing the black water. This ridge fell away
gradually to where Oxford House was reared, but reaching the Hudson's
Bay post by land from Caribou Point was precarious business in the dark
for no bridge, other than that which the beavers had built, spanned the
morass. Hence the chief trader with his band had elected to come by
water.
Very warily they emerged from the shelter of the tree boles into the
clearing where the cabin rested.
"Lie down," commanded Dunvegan, in a whisper. "And go slow! The fellow
may have friends with him."
They disappeared at once among the rock ferns, worming noiselessly upon
their faces toward the rough log shelter. The chinks of the logs
streamed candlelight, but no sound came from within. The night seemed
holding its breath. The intense stillness was broken only by the leap of
maska-longe on the distant bars and the rubbing of elbows in the ferny
brake.
At the cabin's corner the chief trader touched three of his followers
upon the shoulder. Immediately they obeyed his unspoken command,
slipping cat-footed round the hut one to the back one to either side.
Possessed of sudden, sardonic humor, Dunvegan stooped and whispered in
the ear of the dwarf whom they had taken at his word and brought along.
"Will you go in first?" he questioned, playing upon Gaspard's cowardly
spirit.
The Fool shuddered and shied. Stifling a laugh, the chief trader thrust
him to the rear of his line. His heavy kick flung the door back, and he
leaped swiftly inside. The hut had an occupant! He rose from a block
seat at the sudden intrusion, striding uncertainly to the center of the
floor. Neither man spoke. Dunvegan's followers trooped in.
The chief trader's glance searched out the stranger's armament, the
rifle in the corner, the belt of pistols on the rude table. The pistols
Dunvegan threw down at the butt of the leaning rifle. Then he whirled
the table itself across that corner of the room, cutting off access to
the weapons, and sat upon it. The tall, sturdily-built fellow watched
him, unmoved. His crafty, blue eyes never wavered. He seemed conscious
of no immediate danger.
"_Bon soir_," he spoke finally, giving them the greeting of the North
with a southern accent.
"It's not good," returned Dunvegan, curtly. "This is the worst night you
ever struck in all your bad nights, Mr. Ferguson."
"Ferguson!" echoed the other in feigned surprise. Then he laughed
cheerfully. "That isn't my name, and I'm not a Nor'wester. I'm a Free
Trader from the South. A Yank, if you must know--from Vermont! I'll get
out now that the Company has spotted me. I have some regard for my pelt.
Come, act square with me. The H. B. C. always gives a man a chance. It's
the first offense, you know. I'll turn my canoe south on the minute."
"Hardly," replied the chief trader, coldly. "There's some one waiting
for you at Oxford House. You will not go far--if I am any judge of the
Factor's designs." He folded his arms and swung his legs comfortably
under the table.
To the Fool, he added: "Gaspard, is this the same person you saw?"
"By the Virgin, yes," quavered Follet, and hid himself behind Connear's
bowed legs between which there was vision enough for his immediate
needs.
"'Tis that devil of a Black Ferguson," the idiot piped from his vantage
ground. "He frightened me; he frightened me." Breaking into a foolish
habit of improvising rhymes, he shrieked:
"The devil's kin; the devil's son;
And all the devils rolled in one!"
Dunvegan silenced him with a word and addressed the Irishman.
"Burke," he asked, "can you corroborate this poor fool's statement? We
want the right man. The Factor won't forgive any blundering."
"Fair as a Dane wid the same blue eyes! It's him. It's Black Ferguson."
"Do I look black?" demanded the baited man angrily.
"_Saprie!_ We no be see you on de inside," was Basil Dreaulond's swift
answer.
"I'm from the South," persisted the object of their quest, turning to
Bruce. "A Free Trader, I tell you." His gestures were of irritation.
Dunvegan smiled a cold, triumphant smile. He delighted in the loss of
his enemy's cool demeanor, in the failure of his self-possession.
"Ferguson," he began, "you're a weak liar. Your accent betrays you. We
have you identified to our satisfaction, and your next interview will be
with Macleod. I warn you that this first meeting with the Factor may be
your last and only one, so carry yourself accordingly!" Dunvegan broke
off, waving an arm to his band. "Bind him!" he added.
The Hudson's Bay men closed in, but Black Ferguson fell back, a defiant
sneer on his handsome face directed at the chief trader.
"One minute!" he parleyed insolently. "What's your name?"
"Bruce Dunvegan."
"I've heard of you," Ferguson sneered.
"Perhaps," chuckled the chief trader. "Most Nor'westers have. But I
wouldn't advise you to resist my men unless you want to get roughly
handled."
"I've heard of you," the other repeated tauntingly; "heard of you as one
of the Company's bravest. Is this how you show your courage? You have
one, two, three--nine, without counting the dwarf. And you spring upon a
solitary man. Dunvegan, you're a cursed coward!"
Before Dunvegan had felt the depressing gloom of the Nor'wester's
shadow. Now he felt the flaming insult of the Nor'wester's flesh.
Under that insult his blood stung as under the stroke of a dog-whip. The
scintillating fire grew in his darkened eyes. His teeth gleamed white
between his drawn lips.
"Back, men," was his snarling command. "I never ask you to do what I'm
afraid to do myself."
He leaped from the table and strode across to his enemy.
Black Ferguson stood perfectly still till Dunvegan was almost upon him.
Then he plunged low with a wolf-like spring. What grip the Nor'wester
took the other men never knew, but they saw the chief trader's big form
whirled in the air under the tremendous leverage of some arm-and-leg
hold. When he came down, Dunvegan was flat on his face upon the floor.
Black Ferguson sat astride his back, pinning the chief trader's arms to
the planks.
"You're quite helpless," Ferguson cried, laughing at his adversary and
sneering at the circle of amazed men. "That's a wrestler's trick. I
learned it in--in Vermont. What'll you do about that binding? I
fancy----"
A grip of iron on his throat killed the words. Ferguson gurgled and
twisted his head, casting his eyes down to see whose hands held him. But
there were no hands. Dunvegan had swept his muscular legs up over his
back and crossed them in an unbreakable hold about the Nor'wester's
neck.
Like lightning he swung them down with all the power of his sinewy body.
Torn from his momentary position as the upper dog, Black Ferguson
crashed to the floor. His head seemed nearly wrenched off. His breath
was hammered out. Dunvegan crouched on his chest, choking him into
submission, but even in this strait he had voice enough to spring his
big surprise.
"La Roche! La Roche!" he roared in a gasping shriek which sounded more
like the desperate death rattle in some wild throat than a human call.
"To me, comrades! To me!"
Something dashed out the candlelight. A gun roared in the doorway. The
cabin rocked under a powerful assault. It all came in a whirl that dazed
Dunvegan's brain. He heard the chug of bullets through the rotten logs,
the oaths of his men, the battle cry of the rushing Nor'westers who had
been craftily lying in wait.
"Damn you!" he cried to his prostrate antagonist, "this is your devilish
trap!"
In a flash he understood that Ferguson had got wind of their coming and
laid a trap for them. Dunvegan's force in his power, and Oxford House
would be an easier prey! And Desirée Lazard an easier prey still! A
madness seized Dunvegan. He vowed that Black Ferguson should pay the
penalty! His fingers closed on the man's wind-pipe, but a falling beam
hit him on the shoulder, hurling him away from his enemy and half-way
through the door amid the rush of feet. There was little return shooting
till Dunvegan squirmed into the open. Then he began it with his pistols,
leading a dash for the canoe and shouting the Hudson's Bay cry.
Their guns belching fire across the dark, the hardy band zigzagged
among the trees, covering their retreat to the cove with a rattling
fusillade that kept the pursuing Nor'westers at a distance. Connear and
Burke ran knee deep into the water with the big craft. Gaspard Follet
was the first to leap in, but he sank clean through the bottom with a
howl of dismay. Like a dripping rag they pulled him out, and Connear
completely exhausted his store of sailor's expletives.
"Silence," ordered Dunvegan sharply. "What's wrong with you there?" The
Nor'westers were shooting from the incline above the cove and their
bullets spat in the water.
"Hole in her as big as a whaleboat," Connear growled. "We're caught in a
trap, and those blasted Nor'west lubbers know it."
It seemed that the enemy had worsted them at every turn. The lake
offered no means of escape, neither did the morass, and the Nor'westers
held the slope. Dunvegan wondered why they had so easily fought their
way to the canoe. Now he knew the reason.
The Nor'west leader thought that he had them hemmed in, that their
extermination was already a decided fact. Then would come his surprise
of Oxford House! The scoundrel was brainy, without a doubt. His ruse had
been clever. But he had forgotten one thing--the topography of the
country! There was a way out other than that up the incline and over the
muzzles of the Nor'west rifles. The path lay across the black morass
which ringed the Bay, and Dunvegan knew that path.
"Are we all here?" he asked suddenly of his men.
"All but Michael Barreau and Gray Eagle," Connear answered. "Someone
caved in Michael's head with a gun stock; Gray Eagle was shot--I saw him
fall! And old Running Wolf fired the shot!"
"The Cree joined them, eh? I expected that. Where's Maskwa?"
"Here, Strong Father," called the Ojibway fort runner. "What is your
will?"
"You know the beaver dam, the wall across the meadows?" Dunvegan
inquired. "You remember it, the new dam we found some moons ago?"
"I remember well," Maskwa answered solemnly. "Did not Strong Father
carry me over that----"
"Never mind," the chief trader interrupted hastily. "If you remember the
place, lead these men to it. When you get across, hurry up Mooswa Hill
and light the beacon. I'll come last! Now then, altogether with the
guns! Give them a good volley to make them think we are preparing to
storm. Then slip away."
The fusillade boomed and roared. Return volleys belched out. Oxford Lake
rumbled and quaked with a million echoes. Like heavy artillery the black
powder thundered. Then dead silence fell. Expecting instant attack, the
Nor'westers lay close, but the inaction continuing, their scout worked
down close to the beach and found it deserted. At that moment Dunvegan's
file was crossing the long beaver dam.
The Hudson's Bay men had their guns slung to their backs. All except
Maskwa and the chief trader carried long poles in their hands, with
which they saved themselves when they missed their footing and sank to
the armpits in the rubbish of the structure.
Maskwa was leading the line. Pete Connear walked next. When they had
reached the solid ridge and were waiting for the others, Connear poked
the Ojibway's muscled back.
"What's that yarn you started to tell back there about bein' carried
over this rickety dam?" he asked.
"The day of the great wind, three moons ago," began Maskwa
unemotionally, "Strong Father upset with me in my canoe out in the big
waters beyond Caribou Point. I took the bad medicine, the cramp, and the
lake spirits nearly had me. But Strong Father swam out with me, pumped
my breath back, and carried me over the dam of the little wise ones to
the Company's post, for our canoe was in pieces on the rocks. Strong
Father will not talk about it."
"By--the sailors'--god!" exclaimed Pete Connear slowly. Then he
whistled siren fashion in failure of further speech, while the tall
Ojibway bounded like a spikehorn up the Mooswa Hill.
When the last of Dunvegan's men had crossed the bridge built by nature's
children, swift Maskwa had accomplished his mission. As they ran down
the ridge toward the post, the beacon flamed, a pillar of fire, against
the dark sky.
On through the stockade gates under Nemaire's challenge they sped. And
the Hudson's Bay stronghold shook itself into ready defense at
Dunvegan's news. But although they lay upon their arms, no attack came.
Ferguson's intent had miscarried.
Yet the surprises of the night were not done. When Macleod made search
for his daughter to see if she could throw any light on recent Nor'west
movements he found her gone and his own canoe missing from the landing.