THE IRON TRAIL
Pluff! Pluff! The crunching of Maskwa's snowshoes sounded back through
the bitter starlight of the dawn. Taking advantage with his skilful
heel-spring of the resilience of the taut shoe webbing and the
elasticity of the curved frames, Maskwa ran easily in a long, lurching
stride. The shifting of his whole weight from one foot to the other sank
his raquettes in the snow with uniform pressure. The ankle's side-swing
came with unfailing precision. The Ojibway traveled like a machine,
perfectly poised and full of potential strength. Thus he could run if
need be from sun to sun.
Behind him in the broken trail galloped the first of the six dog teams
that carried the outfits. Five halfbreed track beaters packed the snow
in front of the other sledges. Six Indians drove. At intervals the
positions were shifted, each team taking its turn at the lead where lay
the heaviest toil.
"Mush! Mush!" cried the Indian dog drivers. Crack! Crack! snapped the
whips in weird staccato. These sounds with the noises of travel were the
only ones to echo through the white stillness. For the rest the Hudson's
Bay men went in silence because the cold was that awful cold that
strangles the northern world before sunrise. Its frigid hands seemed to
catch their chests and clamp their lungs tight. A gauntlet removed to
allow the fastening of a moccasin lace, the adjustment of the parka
hood, or the clearing of iced eyelashes left the bare fingers numbed by
the cruel frost which bit through the flesh and lacerated the tense
nerves beneath. Through many a dawn-hour had these northmen fought this
freezing horror. On countless trails had they come face to face with
this death masked ice spirit. Well they knew their capabilities.
Closely they guarded their energies. With all his relentless power and
subtlety the frost fiend might not take them unawares!
Steadily moved the long line of men across the wind-packed surface of
Oxford Lake, their bodies leaning forward at identical angles, their
limbs swinging with machine-like regularity. Shoulders heaving at their
collars, the dog teams ran in their own peculiar fashion, heads down,
tongues lolling between steaming jaws. So exactly alike the outfits
seemed that the hindmost ones might have been the oft-repeated shadow of
the foremost brushing back across the snows, indistinct, vague beneath
the waning starlight.
Quitting Oxford Lake at Kowasin Inlet, the trains ascended Kabeke Ridge
that they might make the descent on the other side to the smooth ice of
Blazing Pine River which would afford them easy progress for many miles.
Among the trees of the crest the cavalcade lost definition. The men were
merely shadows on the snow, flicking ghost-like between the silhouetted
tree trunks. The dogs were wolfish things sneaking low to the ground.
The utter silence of the morning was ethereal in its intangibility.
Sharp detonations of frost-split trees brought contrasts that ripped the
screen of silence with weird, unearthly noises. A phosphorescent glimmer
smeared the crust. Little shadowy shapes began to dance before the men's
snow-stung eyes. A suggestion of mirages drifted here and there,
mocking, oppressive, supernatural, phantasmagoric.
Where the course of march led from the elevated ridge to the low river
surface the incline fell so sharply that extreme care was necessary to
make the descent in safety. The Indian dog drivers whipped up their
teams to force them in a direct line, while some clung to the sledges
that they might not break away wildly and over-run the rushing _giddés_.
The plunge beat up a cloud of foaming snow particles. Sled after sled
shot down. The men half coasted, half ran with amazing speed on the
feathery slope. An immense groove in the white covering of the mountain
side showed after them. They turned down Blazing Pine, on the banks of
which was the Indian encampment that Father Brochet had gone to visit in
his mission of administering to the sick.
Maskwa, the tireless, still broke the trail. Dunvegan sent forward Black
Fox, a sinewy Salteaux Indian, to relieve him for a space, but the
Ojibway smiled a little and refused.
"Strong Father," protested Black Fox, dropping back, "this Maskwa the
swift one will not listen. Nor will he give me the task. His legs are of
iron, and his lungs are spirit's lungs--they breathe forever! Strong
Father, there is none like him from Wenipak to the Big Waters."
"That's true, Black Fox," commented the leader of the expedition, "but
he should take some rest."
Dunvegan sped forward till he was running side by side with the Ojibway.
"Maskwa, my brother," he urged, "take the easy place for an hour. It is
not well to punish yourself!"
The fort runner smiled again. He had ideal features for an Indian, and
the stamp of noble lineage was set upon the bold curve of brow, nose,
and chin.
"Strong Father," he replied, "it is not hard for me. I will keep on, for
I would have my own eyes search the trail ahead. There are spies about.
Let Strong Father mark how the fur trains were sought out and set upon!
Mark how the French Hearts took council to surprise Oxford House! We
have need to keep the clear eye. We must go swiftly but craftily.
Therefore, Strong Father, let Maskwa have the lead. His sight will not
fail you."
The Ojibway's dark face glowed earnestly in the golden haze of light
which heralded the near appearance of the sun. He was running as easily
and breathing as quietly as he had done in the first mile they
traversed.
"As you will," conceded Dunvegan. "You have my trust!"
The chief trader dropped back in turn with the main body. Maskwa spurted
far ahead, performing the duty of scout as well as that of track
beater. Before the Nor'westers could compass another surprise they would
have to reckon with the cunning Ojibway.
Steadily on went the file of dog trains. The men were feeling the cold
less. By this time extreme exertion had infused a warm glow in each
man's frame. Every part of the human anatomy responded to the strong
blood coursing in the veins. An excess of virile strength permeated the
muscles. An effervescence of buoyancy toned up the nerves.
Eyes gleaming brighter for the fringe of filmed ice above, lips blowing
cloud-breaths, clothes frost rimmed from over-activity, these Hudson's
Bay giants held on their way. Soon they came to the branching of the
Blazing Pine River and continued down the tributary which curved by the
Indian village lying three hours' journey below the junction point.
At last the belated sun rose over the spruce trees, glaring with a sort
of amazed, fiery wrath upon these travelers who had taken advantage of
his slumber to win so many miles of their hard march. But the wrath
subsided, lost in the rosy day dreams that wrapped earth and sky in a
brilliant winter mist. Radiating beams created the impression of
cheerful heat. The whole range of imaginable colors, multiplied by
tinting and blending, wove and shifted in a vast web of living fire
across the opal clouds. A stupendous panorama lay the wilderness world,
exhaling color, displaying jewels, wrapping itself in beauteous
necromancy!
In the late forenoon Maskwa sighted the Indian village in the middle
distance. Dunvegan decided to make mid-day camp there. He gave the order
to his men, an order that was received with great alacrity.
"_Chac! Chac! Chac!_" yelled the drivers to the _giddés_, enforcing the
order with splitting reports from the long lashes of their dog whips.
Gleefully and dutifully the sledge animals turned toward the Cree tepees
pitched permanently in the warm shelter of a pine forest to the left of
the river. At the thought of rest, a good meal, and a smoke the Hudson's
Bay men dashed forward jauntily, eager to make the bivouac. But an
Indian, running out of the winter wigwams, stopped Maskwa from entering
the village by a peculiar motion of his crossed hands. The others saw
the fort runner halt in his tracks and draw away, while a momentary
conference in the native dialect took place.
The Ojibway beckoned to Dunvegan who ran up hastily.
"Strong Father," spoke Maskwa quickly, "an Indian has come to this
village and he has fever. We cannot enter. Else will the fever spirit
destroy our own men."
"Where's Father Brochet?" Bruce demanded, speaking in Cree. "Where's the
priest--the praying man. Bid him come forth!"
On the summons Father Brochet appeared. His greetings were none the less
cheerful for the distance that intervened between the friends.
"It wouldn't be wise to come in," the priest called, "and risk exposure
to infection. This case isn't so bad, but you know the dangers. The
Indian came from the tribe on Loon Lake, and some of his fellows up
there are sick with the same thing. When I get him in shape so that the
Indian women can bring him through, I am going up to see after the
others."
"Loon Lake!" exclaimed Dunvegan. "That's up beyond Fort Brondel. You'd
better be careful when you are in the Nor'west haunts."
"The Nor'westers don't trouble the men of God," returned Brochet simply.
"I have no fear of them! We are indispensable to both Hudson's Bay
servants and Nor'westers!" He smiled grimly at the significance of his
plain words.
"But lately men on our side have died unshriven," the chief trader
observed bitterly. "There is a chance that the same may happen to the
enemy."
"You are heading for Brondel?"
"With all haste! The sack of the Wokattiwagan train will be speedily
and thoroughly avenged."
"And the Factor has set out to raze Dumarge as he planned?"
"Yes. We both have hoped to surprise the Nor'west forts for, failing
that, we must sit down to a long siege."
Brochet shivered a little even in the sheltered place where he stood.
"It is ill weather for a siege," he commented, "and the Nor'westers are
as cunning as wolves. You know, I suppose, about--about Glyndon?"
Dunvegan's face was hard as a mask. By this time he had curbed his
emotion tightly.
"I know--that is, I heard," he answered slowly. "Tell me all about that
marriage, Brochet!"
The priest raised his hand in a deprecating fashion and shook his head
out of sad pity for his friend's disappointment.
"There is nothing to tell," was his low response. "It was a swift, eager
wooing--a sort of autumn dream! The golden woods and the white moons
were theirs for an uninterrupted, rapturous space. The fascination was
intense. Its durability I cannot judge. The climax compelled their
marriage. My hope is that Glyndon may prove worthy!"
"Amen," Dunvegan breathed. He seemed desirous of hearing no more, and
signaled for the trains to move on.
"If on your return from Loon Lake the Company's banner flaps over Fort
Brondel, give me a call," was his parting word to Father Brochet.
"Indeed, yes," the kindly priest promised. "And watch carefully, my son!
Guard your person against the enemy, and guard your passions as well.
Remember that he who conquers himself is greater than the lord of all
the Hudson's Bay districts."
Three miles farther the cavalcade wound with the frozen river. Dunvegan,
brooding within himself as had been his custom of late, took little note
of its progress. The leadership had devolved for the moment upon Maskwa.
Presently the tall Ojibway answered the call of his stomach. He stopped
beneath a jutting headland and looked once at the sun. Then with his
native stoicism and abruptness he twisted his heels from the loops of
his snowshoes.
"Camp here!" he decided.