It was beyond the middle of summer. The day had been hot, but now the
velvet night was descending. The canoe had turned into the channel at
the head of the island on which was situated Conjuror's House. The end
of the journey was at hand.
Dick paddled in the bow. His face had regained its freshness, but not
entirely its former boyish roundness. The old air of bravado again sat
his spirit--a man's nature persists to the end, and immortal and
unquenchable youth is a gift of the gods--but in the depths of his
strange, narrow eyes was a new steadiness, a new responsibility, the
well-known, quiet, competent look invariably a characteristic of true
woodsmen. At his feet lay the dog, one red-rimmed eye cocked up at the
man who had gone down to the depths in his company.
The Indian Jingoss sat amidships, his hands bound strongly with buckskin
thongs, a man of medium size, broad face, beady eyes with surface
lights. He had cost much: he was to be given no chance to escape.
Always his hands remained bound with the buckskin thongs, except at
times when Dick or Sam stood over him with a rifle. At night his wrists
were further attached to one of Sam's. Mack, too, understood the
situation, and guarded as jealously as did his masters.
Sam wielded the steersman's paddle. His appearance was absolutely
unaffected by this one episode in a long life.
They rounded the point into the main sweep of the east river, stole down
along the bank in the gathering twilight, and softly beached their canoe
below the white buildings of the Factory. With a muttered word of
command to their captive, they disembarked and climbed the steepness of
the low bluff to the grass-plot above. The dog followed at their heels.
Suddenly the impression of this year, until now so vividly a part of the
present, was stricken into the past, the past of memory. Up to the very
instant of topping the bluff it had been life; now it was experience.
For the Post was absolutely unchanged from that other summer evening of
over a year ago when they had started out into the Silent Places. The
familiarity of this fact, hitherto, for some strange reason, absolutely
unexpected, reassured them their places in the normal world of living
beings. The dead vision of the North had left in their spirits a
residuum of its mysticism. Their experience of her power had induced in
them a condition of mind when it would not have surprised them to
discover the world shaken to its foundations, as their souls had been
shaken. But here were familiar, peaceful things, unchanged, indifferent
even to the passing of time. Involuntarily they drew a deep breath of
relief, and, without knowing it, re-entered a sanity which had not been
entirely theirs since the snows of the autumn before.
Over by the guns, indistinct in the falling twilight, the accustomed
group of _voyageurs_ and post-keepers were chatting, smoking, humming
songs in the accustomed way. The low velvet band of forest against the
sky; the dim squares of the log-houses punctuated with their dots of
lamplight; the masses of the Storehouse, the stockade, the Factory; the
long flag-staff like a mast against the stars; the constant impression
of human life and activity,--these anodynes of accustomedness steadied
these men's faith to the supremacy of human institutions.
On the Factory veranda could be dimly made out the figures of a dozen
men. They sat silent. Occasionally a cigar glowed brighter for a moment,
then dulled. Across a single square of subdued light the smoke eddied.
The three travellers approached, Sam Bolton in the lead, peering through
the dusk in search of his chief. In a moment he made him out, sitting,
as always, square to the world, his head sunk forward, his eyes gleaming
from beneath the white tufts of his eyebrows. At once the woodsmen
mounted the steps.
No one stirred or spoke. Only the smokers suspended their cigars in
mid-air a few inches from their faces in the most perfect attitude of
attention.
"Galen Albret," announced the old woodsman, "here is the Ojibway,
Jingoss."
The Factor stirred slightly; his bulk, the significance of his features
lost in obscurity.
"Me-en-gen!" he called, sharply.
The tall, straight figure of his Indian familiar glided from the dusk of
the veranda's end.
"To-morrow at smoke time," commanded the Factor, using the Ojibway
tongue, "let this man be whipped before the people, fifty lashes. Then
let him be chained to the Tree for the space of one week, and let it be
written above him in Ojibway and in Cree that thus Galen Albret punishes
those who steal."
Without a word Me-en-gan took the defaulter by the arm and conducted him
away.
Galen Albret had fallen into a profound silence, which no one ventured
to break. Dick and Sam, uncertain as to whether or not they, too, were
dismissed, shifted uneasily.
"How did you find him?" demanded the Factor, abruptly.
"We went with old Haukemah's band down as far as the Mattawishguia.
There we left them and went up stream and over the divide. Dick here
broke his leg and was laid up for near three months. I looked all that
district over while he was getting well. Then we made winter travel down
through the Kabinikágam country and looked her over. We got track of
this Jingoss over near the hills, but he got wind of us and skipped when
we was almost on top of him. We took his trail. He went straight north,
trying to shake us off, and we got up into the barren country. We'd have
lost him in the snow if it hadn't been for that dog there. He could
trail him through new snow. We run out of grub up there, and finally I
gave out. Dick here pushed on alone and found the Injun wandering around
snow-blind. He run onto some caribou about that time, too, and killed
some. Then he came back and got me:--I had a little pemmican and boiled
my moccasins. We had lots of meat, so we rested up a couple of weeks,
and then came back."
That was all. These men had done a great thing, and thus simply they
told it. And they only told that much of it because it was their duty;
they must report to their chief.
Galen Albret seemed for a moment to consider, as was his habit.
"You have done well," he pronounced at last. "My confidence in you was
justified. The pay stands as agreed. In addition I place you in charge
of the post at Lost River, and you, Herron, in charge of the Mattágami
Brigade."
The men flushed, deeply pleased, more than rewarded, not by the money
nor the advancement, but by the unqualified satisfaction of their
commander.
They turned away. At this moment Virginia Albret, on some errand to her
father, appeared outlined in slender youth against the doorway. On the
instant she recognized them.
"Why, Sam and Dick," she said, "I am glad to see you. When did you get
back?"
"Just back, Miss Virginia," replied Sam.
"That's good. I hope you've had a successful trip."
"Yes," answered Sam. The woodsman stood there a little awkwardly,
wishing to be polite, not sure as to whether they should now go without
further dismissal.
"See, Miss Virginia," hesitated Sam, to fill in the pause, "I have your
handkerchief yet."
"I'm glad you kept it, Sam," replied the young girl; "and have you
yours, Dick?"
And suddenly to Dick the contrast between this reality and that other
came home with the vividness of a picture. He saw again the snow-swept
plain, the wavering shapes of illusion, the mock suns dancing in unholy
revel. The colour of the North burned before his eyes; a madness of the
North unsealed his lips.
"I used it to cover a dead girl's face," he replied, bluntly.
The story had been as gray as a report of statistics,--so many places
visited, so much time consumed. The men smoking cigars, lounging on
cushioned seats in the tepid summer air, had listened to it unimpressed,
as one listens to the reading of minutes of a gathering long past. This
simple sentenced breathed into it life. The magnitude of the undertaking
sprang up across the horizon of their comprehension. They saw between
the mile-post markings of Sam Bolton's dry statements of fact, glimpses
of vague, mysterious, and terrible deeds, indistinct, wonderful. The two
before them loomed big in the symbolism of the wide world of men's
endurance and determination and courage.
The darkness swallowed them before the group on the veranda had caught
its breath. In a moment the voices about the cannon raised in greeting.
A swift play of question and answer shot back and forth. "Out all the
year?" "Where? Kabinikágam? Oh, yes, east of Brunswick Lake." "Good
trip?" "That's right." "Glad of it." Then the clamour rose, many
beseeching, one refusing. The year was done. These men had done a mighty
deed, and yet a few careless answers were all they had to tell of it.
The group, satisfied, were begging another song. And so, in a moment,
just as a year before, Dick's rich, husky baritone raised in the words
of the old melody. The circle was closed.
"_There was an old darky, and his name was Uncle Ned,
And he lived long ago, long ago--_"
The night hushed to silence. Even the wolves were still, and the
_giddés_ down at the Indian camp ceased their endless quarrelling.
Dick's voice had all the world to itself. The men on the Factory veranda
smoked, the disks of their cigars dulling and glowing. Galen Albret,
inscrutable, grim, brooded his unguessable thoughts. Virginia, in the
doorway, rested her head pensively against one arm outstretched against
the lintel.
"_For there's no more work for poor old Ned,
He's gone where the good darkies go_."
The song finished. There succeeded the great compliment of quiet.
To Virginia it was given to speak the concluding word of this episode.
She sighed, stretching out her arms.
"'The greatness of my people,'" she quoted softly.