THE TAKING OF DUSTY STAR
For the first few moments after this awful event, Dusty Star was too
terrified to do anything but crouch where he was. Through the opening he
could see the Indians gesticulating wildly on the other side of the
chasm, as they gazed down into the gorge. Then they disappeared, and
peering out from behind the foliage, he saw that they were retreating
rapidly along the ledge.
He waited a little to allow them to get out of sight; then cautiously
climbed down from his hiding place, and, lowering himself by the
pine-tree's roots till he hung over the very edge of the precipice,
looked down, dreading what he might see.
What he saw, was only a mass of shadowy boulders, far below, with the
wreck of a pine-tree fallen across the creek. Not a sign of Kiopo, or of
his victim! He listened intently. He heard the hollow wash of waters,
rising and falling in a muffled roar, as the flow of the air rushed
through the neck of the gorge. There was no other sound.
It was not possible to climb down at this point. Even if it had been, he
dreaded lest the Indians might be there before him. Nevertheless he
could not bear to remain in uncertainty as to what had been the fate of
Kiopo, who had so nobly defended his life at the risk of his own. He
felt that, at all costs, he must find his way down to the depths of that
terrible gorge.
To do this, owing to the necessity of travelling back along the ravine,
took him so long that darkness had fallen before he would reach a place
where the descent would be possible. After wandering about for some
time, he became completely lost, and it was not till the morning of the
following day that he was at length able to make his way back to the
camp.
During all his wanderings, he was comforted by a vague hope that Kiopo
might, after all, have miraculously escaped with his life, and have
reached the camp before him. But when he came in sight of the familiar
landmarks, and arrived at last to find the place wholly deserted, a
terrible loneliness settled down upon him. The night passed, and the
following day. Still there was no sign of Kiopo. Dusty Star did not like
to leave the camp, in case the wolf should return in his absence and not
find him there to welcome him. He kept hoping against hope that the
worst had not happened. The thought that Kiopo was killed, that he had
seen his faithful companion for the last time, was unthinkable. Kiopo
_must_ come back! He had told himself that he had been injured in the
fall from the precipice, and was in hiding somewhere till his wounds
should heal; Or that he had lost his way, and was wandering in the
forest; Or, being hungry, that he had followed the trail of some
far-travelling buck, and would not return till he had gorged himself
with his kill! Any of these things! But not that other unthinkable
thing, in the black throat of the gorge!
And all round the little valley that now seemed so deserted, the forest
stood gigantically silent, as if it _knew_.
Not far from the camp, grew an immense hemlock. Over its dusky summit a
thousand moons had waxed and waned. The shadow of its boughs was the
darkness that had followed the dead moons. Several times, Dusty Star had
seen Kiopo re-appear from its gloomy shade after he had been away on
some of his long hunting expeditions. Now, he found himself continually
turning his anxious gaze in its direction.
Suddenly, as he looked, he thought he saw something move. He was not
sure. The space under the tree was very dark. Anything might crouch
there and be invisible, even at high noon. What was it?--animal or
human? He could not tell. The great old tree looked as if it had known
no motion within the circle of its shade for a thousand years. Yet Dusty
Star was not to be deceived. He _knew_ that he had seen!
Yet for all his looking at the tree, he saw nothing more. The movement,
whatever had made it, had been very slight. He would have thought
nothing was there if it had not been for the instinct which continual
dwelling among the wild creatures had developed in him: _he felt he was
being watched_.
For some time, he could not make up his mind what to do. He knew that
his smallest movement would not escape the unseen watcher. As the time
went on, the suspense became unbearable. He felt he must do something
definite. Gathering all his courage, he advanced deliberately towards
the tree.
Except his hunting knife, he carried no weapon. But Dusty Star was no
coward. Even though his heart was pounding, and his body tingling, he
did not falter. Without pausing for an instant, he stooped beneath the
sweepings boughs, gripping his knife.
To his astonishment, there was nothing to be seen. He went round the
trunk to the farther side and gazed up into the overhanging gloom.
Still, nothing! He examined the ground all about with the minutest care.
Whatever had lurked there a minute before had left small trace of its
presence yet slight though the traces were, he detected them. _Something
had been there._
He remained where he was for a long time. He preferred to be the eyes
under the tree rather than allow the tree to get eyes again so that it
might keep watch on _him_!
He was so very still that a couple of wood-mice went running over his
moccasins, and a little black-and-white woodpecker ran up and down the
trunk, searching for insects almost within reach of his hand. But these
things belonged to the ordinary happenings of the forest. There was
neither sight nor sound which gave him any reason to think that the
thing which had watched under the hemlock was still lurking in the
neighbourhood.
After a while he felt he could not stay any longer in the gloom. As he
stepped out into the warm current of air, he had a sense of intense
relief. Yet he did not wish to continue his watch from the camp, because
of its nearness to the hemlock, lest there should steal back into its
blind gloom the eyes that made it see.
So he climbed through the scrub up the mountain-side till he came out
upon a grassy slope, two hundred feet above the camp.
He was above the tops of the sombre spruce woods now. The slanting
sunbeams touched their summits into bronze and ruddy gold. Yet always,
beneath the gold,--as Dusty Star well knew--lay the heavy green silence
that never stirred even at noon, where the furtive feet padded softly
over the brown fir-needles, and the furtive eyes glimmered in the gloom.
In the valley beneath nothing moved. From a thousand miles of forest and
mountain the silence seemed to be oozing into it, filling it to the
brim. And at his back, rose Carboona. From all its gorges, precipices
and barrens there came not a single sound. The vast world of the
afternoon seemed heavily asleep. Worn out with all his watching, Dusty
Star also slept.
When he awoke, the last ray of sunlight had left the eastern peaks. At
his feet the camp lay in deep shadow.
Ah, why did not the Spirit of the Wild Places come to him now, and tell
him not to go down? At various times already during the life the Spirit
had warned him, he didn't know how. There had been no distinct shape,
nor any sound. But the same mysterious warning, that tells moose and
caribou when danger threatens, had come to him also, and he had turned
aside, or taken another trail. And so, whatever the unknown peril was,
it had been escaped. Yet now, even though he needed it as never before,
the warning did not come. But perhaps the Spirit had gone upon a long
trail, and had not yet returned? Or perhaps it had considered the
experience of the hemlock sufficient. Whatever was the reason, nothing
warned him now as he went into the shadow of the trees.
Dusty Star's mind was filled with one thought--the wild hope that Kiopo
might have returned: but when he reached the camp the place was empty,
and everything desolate as before.
He gave a long look up and down the valley into the fast-falling night,
and his heart sank. The forest was very dark now. The hemlock was inky
black. He went to bed with a heavy heart.
He slept uneasily, waking from time to time; but it was only to hear the
solemn cry of a horned owl sitting on some dead limb, or rampike; or the
long, wailing laughter of a loon from the water-meadows to the south.
And once, far off in Carboona, he heard the hunting-call of a wolf. Even
at that remote distance he knew it was not Kiopo's deep-toned, vibrating
bellow.
He was fast asleep when the wolf-call came again. As it rang faintly
out, a shadowy form, gliding from under the hemlock, paused to listen.
When, receiving no answer, it had died away, the form moved stealthily
on.
Dusty Star woke with a start. He knew that something had disturbed him,
but could not tell what it was. He listened intently. Over the valley he
heard the notes of a pair of night-hawks swooping down from the hill;
and between the stones, the stream went with a wandering murmur. That
was all.
He lifted himself on his elbow, and looked towards the doorway. A
silvery glimmer showed that the moon had not yet set. As he looked out;
a man's shape darkened the entrance of the hut.
Dusty Star held his breath. In the absolute stillness, he could hear his
heart thump against his ribs.
The man entered the hut. Instantly Dusty Star sprang for the opening. As
he did so, he felt arms thrown round him. He struggled frantically, but,
in that strong Indian grasp, he was powerless, and the next moment he
was dragged mercilessly outside the hut.
Half-a-dozen Indians immediately surrounded him; but not a word was
spoken. While two of them held him, a third passed a deer-skin thong
round his chest, fastening it securely under his arms.
The thing had been done so rapidly, that from the moment when the
Indian's shape darkened the doorway till that when the whole party moved
noiselessly down the valley with their captive in their midst, the thin
shadow of a rampike falling on the moonlit space in front of the tepee
had scarcely shifted its black finger an inch towards the east.
In spite of the fact that it was night, the Indians travelled quickly,
owing to the moonlight. It was only under the trees, or in the shadow of
some great rock, that the darkness made it necessary to slacken the
pace. As they went, Dusty Star kept listening backward along the trail.
Suppose, at the last moment, Kiopo should have returned? Finding the hut
empty, Dusty Star knew that he would start instantly in pursuit. But
suppose he did not come back in time to get the scent before it faded
from the trail? Even _his_ fine nose would not serve him on a cold
trail. Once only, when they were nearing the end of the valley, Dusty
Star caught a faint wolf-howl very far behind; but whether this was
Kiopo's voice or not, it was impossible to say.
It was evident that the Indians had some idea that the wolf might follow
them, for it was plain, by the speed with which they were travelling,
that they were anxious to push on with the least possible delay. They
were among the spruce woods now, and the air was full of the
unmistakable smell of the trees, with that peculiar tang one could never
forget. They travelled in single file. Even when it was so dark that
Dusty Star could scarcely see his captors before, or behind, the
deer-skin thong about his chest was always there to prove their presence
as it tightened or slackened according to the pace, or the unevenness of
the ground.
At dawn, they reached the thin edges of the forest. Dusty Star's heart
sank. If Kiopo had caught them up in the thick woods, there would have
been some chance of escape under cover of his whirlwind method of attack
which would have suggested a pack of wolves rather than one. But now, in
the more open country and the growing light, this would not be possible.
The Indians quickened their pace. In the day-light, Dusty Star
recognised them as belonging to the same tribe as those who had followed
him and Kiopo a few days earlier; Yellow Dogs every man of them, under
the leadership of Double Runner.
It was near noon before they reached the head of a long lake. Dusty Star
could see the water glimmering far away to the south over the tops of
the red Indian willows. Without pausing for an instant, the Indians
pushed their way through the thicket, their moccasins sinking deeply in
the spongy ground between the willow roots. Then they pulled out a
slender canoe of birch-bark concealed among the reeds.
Dusty Star had never seen a canoe before. It struck him with
astonishment; and when his captors forced him to get in, and he found
himself floating on the water, his astonishment was mingled with fear,
especially when, urged by the vigorous strokes of the Indian paddles,
the canoe shot out into the open. Once out upon the lake he was utterly
amazed. Prairie-bred, he had never imagined it possible that so much
water could exist. And it was deep, very deep! When you looked down, you
could not see any bottom. And the thin sides of the canoe seemed a poor
protection from the rippling vastness of that inland sea. The waves
struck the bows with a husky noise. Dusty Star dreaded that at any
moment, the canoe might be engulfed. Already the willow-thicket where
they had embarked seemed a long distance away. A feeling of despair took
hold of him. The thicket was the last place where Kiopo could find the
trail; for, as Dusty Star knew too well, all trails die out upon the
running watery smell.
When at last the Indians reached the end of their journey, Dusty Star
found himself in a large camp near a stream which flowed into the river
down which they had come from the lake.
Their arrival caused a great deal of excitement among the inhabitants,
who came crowding round to examine the captive. It was evident to Dusty
Star that they had already received the news of Kiopo's attack upon the
Indian who had jumped the gorge. As he looked at the hostile faces
crowded about him, as if he were some strange wild animal, his heart
sank. In spite of his youth, he knew only too well what Indian vengeance
meant. After he had been sufficiently examined, the deer-skin thong with
which he was bound was fastened to one of the lodge-poles, and he knew
that, unless a miracle happened, he was a prisoner whose chance of
escape was small indeed.
When night came on, he was ordered to enter the lodge, which he found he
was to share with Double Runner, and another Indian; and, after they
were all inside, the door-flap was securely fastened.
Notwithstanding his long journey and the anxiety of the last few days,
he found it difficult to sleep. All night long he kept waking up with a
start, and then dropping off again into uneasy slumbers, in which the
dread of the uncertain fate in store for him oppressed him with terrible
dreams.
Next morning he was let out again, and the day passed without any sign
as to what his enemies intended to do with him. And at night he was
imprisoned as before. Food was given to him as often as was necessary,
and, although he was kept a close prisoner, carefully guarded day and
night, he was not subjected to any ill-treatment.
Day after day passed, and it became evident that the Yellow Dogs were
preparing for some great ceremony. Plentiful game of all sorts was
brought into camp, and there was much boiling of tongues and other
Indian dainties, filling the air with a juicy smell. The forest people
wrinkled their noses in the tainted breeze, and the word travelled.