A FIGHT IN THE NIGHT
The days immediately following Lapierre's departure were busy days for
Chloe Elliston. The word had passed along the lakes and the rivers,
and stolid, sullen-faced Indians stole in from the scrub to gaze
apathetically at the buildings on the banks of the Yellow Knife. Chloe
with pain-staking repetition, through LeFroy as interpreter, explained
to each the object of her school; with the result that a goodly number
remained and lost no time in installing themselves in the commodious
barracks.
On the evening of the second day the girl tiptoed into the sick-room
and, bending over MacNair, was startled to encounter the steady gaze of
the steel-grey eyes. "I thought you never would come to," she smiled.
"You see, I don't know much about surgery, and I was afraid perhaps--"
"Perhaps Lapierre had done his work well?"
Chloe started at the weak, almost gentle tones of the gruff voice she
had learned to associate with this man of the North. She flushed as
she met the steady, disconcerting stare of the grey eyes. "He shot on
the spur of the moment. He thought you were going to shoot him."
"And he shot from--far to the Southward?"
"Oh! You do not think--you do not believe that I deliberately _lied_
to you! That I _knew_ Lapierre was on Snare Lake!" The words fell
from her lips with an intense eagerness that carried the ring of
sincerity. The hard look faded from the man's eyes, and the bearded
lips suggested just the shadow of a smile.
"No," he answered weakly; "I do not think that. But tell me, how long
have I been this way? And what has happened? For I remember
nothing--after the world turned black. I am surprised that Lapierre
missed me. He has the reputation for killing--at his own range."
"But he didn't miss you!" cried the girl in surprise. "It was his
bullet that--that made the world turn black."
"Aye; but it was a miss, just the same, and a miss, I am thinking, that
will cost him dear. He should have killed me."
"Please do not talk," said the girl in sudden alarm, and taking the
medicine from the table, held the spoon to the man's lips. He
swallowed its contents, and was about to speak when Chloe interrupted
him. "Please do not talk," she begged, "and I'll tell you what
happened. There is not much to tell: after we bound up your wounds we
brought you here, where I could give you proper care. It took three
days to do this, and two days have passed since we arrived."
"I knew I was in your----"
Chloe flushed deeply. "Yes, in my room," she hastened to interrupt
him; "but you must not talk. It was the only place I knew where you
could be quiet and--and safe."
"But, Lapierre--why did he allow it?"
Chloe flushed. "Allow it! I do not take orders from Mr. Lapierre, nor
from you, nor from anybody else. This is my school; this cottage is
mine; I'll do as I please with it, and I'll bring who I please into it
without asking permission from any one."
While she was speaking, the man's glance strayed from her flashing eyes
to the face of a tarnished, smoke-blackened portrait that showed
indistinct in the dull lamplight of the little room. Chloe's glance
followed MacNair's, and as the little clock ticked sharply, both stared
in silence into the lean, lined features of Tiger Elliston.
"Your eyes," murmured the man--"sometimes they are like that."
Suddenly his voice strengthened. He continued to gaze at the face in
the dull gold frame. With an effort he withdrew an arm from beneath
the cover and pointed with a finger that trembled weakly. "I should
like to have known him," he said. "By God, yon is the face of a _man_!"
"My grandfather," muttered the girl.
"You'll love the North--when you know it," said MacNair. "Tell me, did
Lapierre advise you to bring me here?"
"No," answered Chloe, "he did not. He--he said to leave you; that your
Indians would care for you."
"And my Indians--did they not follow you?" Chloe shook her head. Once
more MacNair bent a searching glance upon the girl's face. "Where is
Lapierre?" he asked.
"He is gone," Chloe answered. "Two days ago he left for the----" She
hesitated as there flashed through her brain the moment on Snare Lake
when, once before, she had answered MacNair's question in almost the
same words. "_He said_ he was going to the southward," she corrected.
MacNair smiled. "I think, this time, he has gone. But why he left
without killing me I cannot understand. Lapierre has made a mistake."
"You do him an injustice! Mr. Lapierre does not want to kill you. He
is sorry he was forced to shoot; but, as he said, it was your life or
his. And now please do be quiet, or I must leave you to yourself."
MacNair closed his eyes, and, seating herself by the table, Chloe
stared silently into the face of the portrait until the man's deep,
regular breathing told her that he slept.
Slowly the moments passed, and the girl's gaze roved from the face of
the portrait along the walls of the little room. Suddenly her eyes
dilated in horror; for there, tight pressed against an upper pane of
the window, whose lower sash was daintily curtained with chintz,
appeared a dark, scowling face--the face of an Indian, which she
instantly recognized as one of the two who had accompanied MacNair upon
his first visit to her clearing.
Even as she looked the face vanished, leaving the girl staring
wide-eyed at the black square of the window. Curbing her impulse to
awake MacNair, she stole softly from the room and, unlocking the outer
door, sped swiftly through the darkness toward the little square of
light that glowed from the window of the store.
The distance was not great from the door of the cottage to the soft
square of radiance that showed distinctly in the darkness. But even as
Chloe ran, the light was suddenly extinguished, and the outlines of the
big storehouse loomed vague and huge and indistinct against the black
background of the encircling scrub. The girl stopped abruptly and
stared uncertainly into the darkness. Her heart beat wildly. A
strange sense of terror came over her as she stood alone, surrounded by
the blackness of the clearing. Why had LeFroy extinguished his light?
And why was the night so still?
She strained to catch the familiar sounds of the wilderness--the little
night sounds to which she had grown accustomed: the bellowing of frogs
in the sedges, the chirp of tree-toads, and the harsh squawk of
startled night-fowls. Even the air seemed unnaturally still, and the
ceaseless drone of the mosquitoes served but to intensify the unnatural
silence. The mosquitoes broke the spell of the nameless terror, and
she slapped viciously at her face and neck.
"I'm a fool," she muttered; "a perfect fool! LeFroy puts out his light
every night and--and what if there are no sounds? I'm just listening
for something to be afraid of."
She glanced backward toward her own cottage where the light still
glowed from the window. It was reassuring, that little square of
yellow lamp-light that shone softly from the window of her room. She
was not afraid now. She would return to the cottage and lock the door.
She shuddered at the thought. Before her rose the vision of that dark,
shadowy face, tight-pressed against the glass. Instinctively she knew
that Indian was not alone. There were others, and--once more her eyes
swept the blackness.
Suddenly the question flashed through her brain: Why should these
Indians seek to avenge MacNair--the man who held the power of life and
death over them--who had practically forced them into servitude? Then,
swift as the question, flashed the answer: It was not to avenge MacNair
they came, but, knowing he was helpless, to strike the blow that would
free themselves from the yoke. Had Lapierre known this? Had he left,
knowing that the man's own Indians would finish the work his bullet had
only half completed? No! Lapierre would not have done that. Did he
not say: "I am glad I did not kill him"? He was thinking only of my
safety.
"We'll be safe enough till morning," she muttered. "Surely I have read
somewhere that Indians never attack in the night. Tomorrow we must
hide MacNair where they cannot find him. They will murder him, now
that he is wounded. How they must hate him! Must hate the man who has
oppressed and debauched and cheated them!"
The girl had nearly reached the door of the cottage when once more she
halted, rooted in her tracks. Out of the unnatural silence of the
night, close upon the edge of the clearing, boomed the cry of the great
horned owl. It was a sound she had often heard here in the northern
night--this hooting of an owl; but, somehow, this sound was different.
Once more her heart thumped wildly against her ribs. Her fists
clenched, and she peered tensely toward the wall of the scrub timber
that showed silent and black and impenetrable in the little light of
the stars. Again the portentous silence and then--was it fancy, or
were there shapes, stealthy, elusive, shadowy, moving along the wall of
the intense blackness?
A light suddenly flashed from the window of the storehouse. It
disappeared. The great door banged sharply, and out of the blackness
sounded a rush of moccasined feet, padding the earth as they ran.
From the edge of the timber--from the direction of the shadowy
shapes--came a long, thin spurt of flame, and the silence was broken by
the roar of a smooth-bore rifle. The next instant the roar was
increased tenfold, and from the loopholes high on the walls of the
storehouse flashed other thin red spurts of flame.
Terror-stricken, Chloe dashed for the cottage. Along the entire length
of the timber-line, spikes of flame belched forth, and the crash and
roar of rifles drowned the rush of the moccasin feet. A form dashed
past her in the darkness, and then another, forcing Chloe from the
path. The terrified girl realized that these forms were speeding
straight for the door of the cottage. Her first thought was for
MacNair. He would be murdered as he slept.
She redoubled her efforts, feeling blindly in the darkness for the path
that led toward the square of light. In her ears sounded the sharp
jangle of smashing glass. Her foot caught in a vine, and she crashed
heavily forward almost at the door. All about her guns roared; from
the edge of the scrub, from the river-bank, and from the corners of the
long log dormitories. Bullets whined above her like angry mosquitoes,
and thudded dully against the logs of the cottage.
Again sounded the sharp jangle of glass. She struggled to her knees,
and was hurled backward as the huge form of an Indian tripped over her
and sprawled, cursing, at her side. The door of the cottage burst
suddenly open, and in the long quadrangle of light the forms of the two
Indians who had passed her stood out distinctly. The girl gave a
quick, short sob of relief. They were LeFroy's Indians! At the sound
the man on the ground thrust his face close to hers and with a quick
grunt of surprise scrambled to his feet. Chloe felt her arm seized,
and realized that she was being dragged toward the door of the cottage
through which the other two Indians had disappeared. She was jerked
roughly across the threshold, and lay huddled up on the floor. The
Indian released his hold on her arm and, stepping across her body,
reached for the door.
Outside, the roar of the guns was incessant. Suddenly, close at hand,
Chloe heard a quick, wicked spat, and the Indian reeled from the
doorway, whirled as on a pivot, and crashed, face downward, across the
table. There was a loud rattle of porcelain dishes, a rifle rang
sharply upon the floor boards, and Chloe gazed in horrid fascination as
the limp form of the Indian slipped slowly from the table. Its
momentum increased, and the back of the man's head struck the floor
with a sickening thump. The face turned toward her--a face wet and
dripping with the rich red blood that oozed thickly from the irregular
hole in the forehead where the soft, round ball from a smooth bore had
torn into the brain. The wide eyes stared stonily into her own. The
jaws sagged open, and the nearly severed tongue protruded from between
the fang-like yellow teeth.
Someone blew out the lamp. The door slammed shut. Chloe felt strong
hands beneath her shoulders; the voice of Big Lena sounded in her ears,
and she was being guided through the pitch blackness to the door of her
own room. The lamp by the bedside had also been extinguished, and the
girl glanced toward the window, which showed in the feeble starlight a
pattern of jagged panes. One of the Indians who had preceded her into
the cottage thrust the barrel of a rifle through the aperture and fired
rapidly at the flashes of flame in the clearing.
In the other room someone was shrieking, and Chloe recognized the voice
of Harriet Penny. Big Lena left her side, and a moment later the
shrieking ceased, or, rather, quieted to a series of terrified, choking
grunts and muffled cries, as though something soft and thick had been
forcibly applied as a gag. Chloe groped her way blindly toward the
bed, where she had left the wounded man. Her feet stumbled awkwardly
through the confusion of debris that was the wreck of the over-turned
medicine table.
"Are you hurt?" she gasped as she sank trembling upon the edge of the
bed. Close beside her sounded the sharp snap of metal as the Indian
jammed fresh cartridges into his magazine.
"No!" said a voice in her ear. "I'm not hurt. Are you?" Chloe shook
her head, forgetting that in the intense blackness she had returned no
answer. There was a movement upon the bed; a huge hand closed roughly
about her arm. The Indian was firing again.
"Tell me, are you hurt?" rasped a voice in her ear. And her arm was
shaken almost fiercely.
"No!" she managed to gasp, struggling to free herself. "But oh, it's
all too, too horrible, too awful! There is a dead man in the other
room. He is one of LeFroy's Indians. One of _my_ Indians, and they
shot him!"
"I'm damned glad of it!" growled MacNair thickly, and Chloe leaped from
the bed. The coarse brutality of the man was inconceivable. In her
mingled emotion of rage and loathing, she hated this man with a fierce,
savage hatred that could kill. She knew now why men called him Brute
MacNair. The name fitted! These Indians had rushed from the security
of the fortlike storehouse upon the first intimation of danger to
protect the defenseless quartet in the cottage--the three women and the
wounded, helpless man. In the very doorway of the cottage one had been
killed--killed facing the enemy--the savage blood-thirsty horde who,
having learned of the plight of their oppressor, had taken the warpath
to venge their wrongs. Surely MacNair must know that this man had died
as much in the defense of him as of the women. And yet, when he
learned of the death of this man, he had said: "I am damned glad of it!"
How long Chloe stood there speechless, trembling, with her heart fairly
bursting with rage, she did not know. Time ceased to be. Suddenly she
realized that the room was no longer in intense darkness. Objects
appeared dim and indistinct: the bed with the wounded man, the contents
of the table strewn in confusion upon the floor, and the Indian
shooting from the window. Then the flare of flames met her eyes. The
walls of the storehouse stood out distinctly from its black background
of timber. Savage forms appeared in the clearing, gliding stealthily
from stump to stump.
The light grew brighter. She could hear now, mingled with the sharp
crack of the rifles, the dull roar of flames. The dormitories were
burning! This added to her consuming rage. Her eyes seemed fairly to
glow as she fixed them upon the pale face of MacNair, who had struggled
to a sitting posture. She took a step toward the bed. A dull red spot
showed on either cheek. A bullet ripped through the window and
splintered the dull gold frame of Tiger Elliston's portrait, but the
girl had lost all sense of fear. She shook her clenched fist in the
bearded face of the man, and her voice quavered high and thin.
"You--you--_damn you_!" she cried. "I wish I'd left you back there to
the mercy of your savages! You're a brute--a fiend! It would serve
you right if I should give you up to them! He--the man who was
killed--was trying to save you from the righteous wrath of those you
have ground down and oppressed!"
MacNair ignored her words, and as his eyes met hers squarely, they
betrayed not the slightest emotion. The pallid features showed tense
and drawn in the growing firelight. His gaze projected past her to the
lean face of Tiger Elliston.
"You are a fighter at heart," he said slowly addressing the girl. "You
are his flesh and blood and he was a fighter. He won to victory over
the bodies of his enemies. In his eyes I can see it."
"He was no coward!" flashed the girl. "He never won to victory over
the bodies of his friends!" With an effort the man reached for his
clothing, which hung from a peg near the head of the bed.
"Where are you going?" cried the girl sharply.
"I am going," MacNair answered gravely, looking straight into her eyes,
"to take my Indians back to Snare Lake."
"They will kill you!" she cried impulsively.
"They will not!" MacNair smiled; "but if they do, you will be glad.
Did you not say----"
The girl faced swiftly away, and at the same moment the Indian at the
window staggered backward, dropping his rifle and cursing horribly in
the only English he knew, as he clutched frantically at his shoulder.
Chloe turned. MacNair was lacing his boots. He raised himself weakly
to his feet, swaying uncertainly, with his hand pressed against his
chest, and laughed harshly into the pain-twisted features of the Indian.
"When the last of yon dogs gets his bullet, I can leave this place in
safety."
"What do you mean?" cried the girl, her eyes blazing.
"I mean," rasped the man, "that you are a fool! You have listened to
Lapierre and you have easily become his dupe. There is no Indian in
his employ who would not kill me. They have had their orders. Have
you stopped to reflect that the brave Lapierre did not himself remain
to stem this attack? To protect me from my Indians?"
The sneer in MacNair's voice was not lost upon the girl, who drew
herself up haughtily.
"Mr. Lapierre," she answered, "could hardly be charged with
anticipating this attack, nor could he be blamed for not altering his
plans to fight _your_ battles."
MacNair laughed. "The idea of Lapierre fighting _my_ battles is,
indeed, unique. And you may be sure that Lapierre will not fight his
own battles--as long as he can find others to fight them for him. Miss
Elliston, this attack _was_ anticipated. Lapierre knew to a certainty
that when my Indians read the signs, and learned what had happened
there on the shore of Snare Lake, their vengeance would not be
delayed." He looked straight into the eyes of the girl. "Did you arm
your Indians?"
"I did not!" answered Chloe. "I brought no guns."
"Then where did your Indians get their rifles?"
"Well, really, Mr. MacNair, I cannot tell you. Possibly at the same
place your Indians got theirs. The Indians, who have come to me here
are hunters and trappers. Is it so extraordinary that men who are
hunters should own guns?"
"Your ignorance would be amusing, if it were not tragic!" retorted
MacNair. And picking up the gun which the wounded Indian had dropped,
held it before the eyes of the girl. "The hunters of the North, Miss
Elliston, do not equip themselves with Mausers."
"With Mausers!" cried the girl. "You mean----"
"I mean just this," broke in MacNair, "that your Indians were armed to
kill men, not animals. With, or without, your knowledge or sanction,
your Indians have been supplied with the best rifles obtainable. Your
school is Lapierre's fort!" Thrusting the rifle into the hands of the
girl, he brushed past her and with difficulty made his way through the
intervening room to the outer door, which he threw open.
Chloe followed. Outside the firing continued with undiminished
intensity, but the girl was conscious of no sense of fear. Her eyes
swept the room, flooded now by the glare of the flaring flames. Beside
the stove stood Big Lena, an ax gripped tightly in her strong hands.
The remaining Indian lay upon the floor, firing slowly through a
loophole punched in the chinking. At the doorway MacNair turned, and
in the strong light Chloe noticed that his face was haggard and drawn
with pain.
"I thank you." he said, touching his bandaged chest, "for your nursing.
It has probably saved my life."
"Come back! They will kill you!" MacNair ignored her warning. "You
have one redeeming feature," cried the girl. "At least, you are as
brutal toward yourself as toward others."
MacNair laughed harshly. "I thank you," he said and staggered out into
the fire-lit clearing. Dully, Chloe noticed that the Indian who had
been firing from the floor slipped stealthily through the doorway and,
dropping to his knee, raised his rifle. The next instant the girl's
eyes widened in horror. The gun was pointed squarely at MacNair's
back. She tried to cry out, but no sound came. It seemed minutes that
the Indian sighted as he knelt there in the clearing. And then--he
pulled the trigger. There was a sharp, metallic click, followed by a
muttered imprecation. The man jerked down the rifle and reaching into
his pocket, produced long yellow cartridges, which he jammed into the
magazine.
The horror of it! The diabolical deliberation of the man spurred the
girl to a fury she had never known. In that moment her one thought was
to kill--to kill with her hands--to rend--to tear--and to maim! For
the first time she realized that the thing in her hand was a gun.
Again the Indian was raising his rifle. The girl twisted and jerked at
the bolt of her own gun. It was locked. The next instant, with a
loud, animal-like cry, she leaped for the doorway, trampling, as she
passed, with a wild, fierce joy upon the upturned staring face of the
dead Indian.
Out in the clearing the flames roared and crackled. Rifles spat. And
before her the Indian was again lining his sights. Grasping the heavy
rifle by the barrel, Chloe whirled it high above her and brought it
down with a crash upon the head of the kneeling savage. The man
crumpled as dead men crumple--in an ugly, twisted heap. Fierce, swift
exultation shot through the girl's brain as she stood beside the
formless thing on the ground. She looked up--squarely into the eyes of
MacNair, who had turned at the sound of her outcry.
"I said you would fight!" called the man. "I have seen it in your
eyes. They are the eyes of the man on the wall."
Then, abruptly, he turned and disappeared in the direction of the river.