CHAPTER I--THE FOREST

CHAPTER II--MENOTAH--HEART THAT KNOWS NOT SORROW

CHAPTER III--THE BUDDING OF A PASSION

CHAPTER IV--THE FORT

CHAPTER V--THE FIGHT

CHAPTER VI--THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN

Part II--THE HEART'S GRIEF

CHAPTER I--THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

CHAPTER II--THE COMING OF DAVE

CHAPTER III--THE RIVALS

CHAPTER IV--WHITE WINS

CHAPTER V--PACTOLUS

CHAPTER VI--DENTON'S DESCENT

CHAPTER VII--AN INCIDENT

CHAPTER VIII--THE PIERIAN SPRING

CHAPTER IX--THE LAUGH THAT DIED

Part III--THE HEART'S PEACE

CHAPTER I--LAMONT

CHAPTER II--THE LIFE-OBJECT

CHAPTER III--RESURRECTION

CHAPTER IV--CHARACTER

CHAPTER V--THE DEAD HEART

CHAPTER VI--DURING THE DAY

CHAPTER VII--DISCOVERY

CHAPTER VIII--RETRIBUTION

CHAPTER IX--DARKNESS

CHAPTER X--McAULIFFE'S RESOLUTION

CHAPTER XI--THE HEART'S PEACE

PREFATORY NOTE

In the following story of the Canadian North-West Rebellion, Louis

Riel--leader of a hopeless enterprise--has not been introduced as an

active character. He was himself so colourless, so commonplace, that a

true picture must have been uninteresting, while a fictitious drawing

would have been unsatisfactory and out of place with the plan of this

story. He was much like his brother, who lives to-day on an

unpretentious farm in the Red River Valley, dull-witted, heavy-featured

and obtuse--in fact, a French half-breed of the ordinary stamp.

So the plot of this work tends more towards the study of passion, and

dwells upon what was undoubtedly one of the principal reasons for the

revolt, viz., the unscrupulous treatment of the Indian women by the

white invaders. The 'Governor and Company of Adventurers of England

trading into Hudson's Bay,' generally and more commonly known by the

simpler title of the 'Hudson's Bay Company,' had well paved the way for

this miserable laxity in matters of morality.

The mighty shadow which looms behind this tale of the Rebellion is that

of the loyal Archbishop Taché. He it was, though the fact has not been

recognised generally, who, almost unaided, crushed the rising spirit of

independence in half-breeds and Indians, and brought the insurrection to

a close. Surely it is not too late to do justice to the memory of this

truly unselfish prelate.

The writer was present in the riverside town of St Boniface on a certain

still evening during the August of 1894. There all the houses, and even

the trees that lined the streets, were heavily draped in black; men and

women passed slowly with heads uncovered and attitude of grief; it was

as though each had lost his or her nearest and dearest relative. There

was not a sound along that little town of mourning.

For the Archbishop lay dead in the Cathedral. Later, when the sun was

setting over this place of universal grief, the writer came within the

dark building, crept up a winding stairway, to find himself confronted

suddenly by a singularly solemn spectacle. Before the altar, robed in

full pontificals, sat in State the dead Archbishop, while lamps

flickered solemnly, and muttered intercessions arose from the trembling

lips of a ring of kneeling priests.

This strange silence, broken only by the whisperings, or occasional deep

gasps of breath; the feeble glimmerings of lights along the rapidly

darkening scene; the presence of the mighty dead still presiding in the

second Cathedral that his efforts had raised[1]--all this made up a

spectacle dramatically impressive, and one not readily to be forgotten.

The writer came at length to the side of the dead prelate, and bent to

reverently kiss the cold gloved hand of the mighty dead. Then he

departed, with a silent resolve to do such justice as he could to the

memory of this beloved Father and Pastor, who had worked so nobly for

the welfare of the country of his adoption.

Menotah's story is a sad one, yet, for purposes of truth, not sad

enough. The colours might well be painted with a far darker brush, but

the book would then probably be deemed too ghastly and too realistic.

The steady march of civilisation is pushing farther north each year,

while Menotah's history is repeated daily. The only thing which can free

that wonderful land from the vice and oppression of its masters is the

building of the Hudson's Bay Railway. About forty miles of the track

(from Winnipeg to St Laurent on Lake Manitoba) have been constructed,

but the rails lie rotting in the prairie grass. This line would open up

a country of boundless timber and mineral resources, and might well

create many a fresh industry.

The characters in this work are for the most part actual life studies.

None are overdrawn, not even Peter Denton, least of all McAuliffe.

The local colour is simply so much word photography. The particular fort

on the Great Saskatchewan has been described with absolute accuracy of

detail. The river pool (Chap. II.) is there; also the island in

mid-stream, where the fight actually occurred; the great rapids, the oil

swamp, the log wharf--all are there. In fact, description and dialogue

has entailed upon the writer rather an effort of memory than any strain

upon the imagination.

[1] The first Cathedral was destroyed by fire immediately after

completion, when all the parish records were destroyed.

PART I

THE HEART'S JOY

MENOTAH:

A Tale of the Riel Rebellion

CHAPTER I

THE FOREST

'There will be full moon to-night, and a south wind. Then the evil one

will steal from the marshes. For there will be war and fire. War and

Fire!'

Within that deep green shade of the forest, amidst the picturesque

sweepings of the foliage, the heat rays of the sun could scarcely be

felt, for odorous firs overspread their thick tresses above. Here, in

this strange, peaceful retreat, active squirrels leapt with mathematical

accuracy from bough to bough; mosquito hawks, in their green and gold

glories, cut through the slanting beams of light with a sharp hissing of

wings; erratic locusts, on a lower plane, hurled their aimless bodies

clumsily into space, falling wherever destiny might direct.

The speaker remained invisible, while the lingering sounds of the joyous

voice died slowly away. A young man, who heard the sudden cry from the

heart of the surrounding silence, started and listened eagerly for an

approaching footstep, which came not. Only the happy echo broke upon the

calm in a full tide of harmony; this merged into a half gasp of musical

laughter; then came peace again as the last vibration settled into

silence.

The listener wondered, then became interested. There had been no flaw in

the musical cadence of that cry. The fiery utterance--bearing a latent

warning--proceeded surely from the heart of one who found life a time of

joy, who gloried in the exultation of overflowing vitality, who was also

intoxicated by an over-gift of health. This passing sound, like the

flitting shadow cast by an invisible presence, contained a message of

youth's hot passion, of a self-conscious rapture of beauty. Those words

fell from the lips of one who had made no acquaintance with sorrow.

The expectant, yet disappointed, listener shifted the rifle to his

shoulder and rubbed his hands, which were hot and moist, upon a bunch of

flowering moss. He seemed uneasy, if his feelings might be judged by the

anxious attention he gave to each slight movement in the adjoining bush.

But after a period of waiting he drew himself up, inclined his head

forward, and listened attentively. Then he nodded and smiled in

self-satisfied manner, listened again, and finally began to work his way

through the thick undergrowth with the subtle motions of the practised

bushman. Perhaps a rippling echo of that musical voice had travelled

faintly down the wind and touched his ear.

He disappeared, while the boundless forest of the Great Saskatchewan

whispered drearily beneath the soft-stirring breeze of evening.

Lonely, somewhat wild, yet certainly there was a rough grandeur in this

particular arrangement of nature's handiwork; a stern beauty, which must

have fascinated the hunter; a wonderful blending of colours, which would

have caused the heart of the painter to despair. Paths, in the ordinary

sense of the term, were there none, though a sinuous, barely defined

trail, where mocassined feet passed occasionally, writhed dimly away

here and thee. The venturesome explorer who plunged into these unknown

recesses chose out his own particular route, fought a way through the

entanglement of undergrowth, while none might ever follow in his

footsteps.

Tangled masses and bewildering festoons of drooping boughs, tinted to

many a different shade of green; black and grey rocks; red sand

stretches, surmounted by wire grass or huge ant-hills; octopus-like

bushes, thorn-protected and thickly covered with red berries. Such were

the principal objects of distinction beneath a solemn green canopy,

which spread like some threatening cloud overhead.

* * * * *

Crack!

Wild echoes fled shrieking through the forest, while a pale mist of blue

smoke rose, flouted upward fantastically, curled and lengthened--then

finally melted.

Just before that sharp, whip-like report had cut the air, a splendid

buck deer sprang from the thick of the sweeping branches out into the

open. Away it bounded, with the ease and certainty of a well-aimed

arrow, over a ridge of splintered rocks. Away--across to the opposite

shadows, where lay shelter and life.

But then the weapon screamed death, and spat the bullet forth.

While still in the air, the graceful creature's body stiffened, as

though each muscle had been thrilled and stretched by an electric

current. The nimble feet touched the ground, but not now to dart away in

fresh flight. The deer tottered forward, because the impulse to seek

shelter was a dying passion, but the slender legs gave way. After

staggering blindly, it fell to its knees; then, after swaying backwards

and forwards with pitiful gasping, it finally rolled over upon the moss

bed with a groan, while warm blood trickled cruelly over the short soft

fur.

'Good shot, Winton! You took him fine, boy.'

Then two men stepped from the bushes. The one, who thus spoke his

opinion of the other's aim, was an elderly man, thin and dark featured.

His somewhat sallow face was decorated by nature with a grizzled beard,

while more than an occasional grey hair might have been observed beneath

the rim of his felt hat. Extremely dark eyes and heavy mouth revealed

the fact of Indian ancestry.

His companion, scarcely more than a boy, was unmistakably English. The

breeze stirred his fair hair at an altitude of over six feet above

ground; age could not claim from him more than twenty-one years.

'Shot a bit too far back, though,' continued Sinclair the hunter. 'Don't

say it wasn't difficult to kill from your position, and you took him on

the jump.'

'Dead, isn't it?' said Winton, blowing down his rifle barrel.

The hunter laughed. 'No, sir. Get over there with your knife, and finish

him. Don't leave the poor brute to bleed and sob himself to death.'

The other slung the rifle to his shoulder, drew a long hunting knife,

then made across the open space. He knelt by the side of the panting

creature, wound his fingers round a branching antler, and pulled the

head round to inflict the _coup de grâce_.

Sinclair leaned up against a rock, his arms folded, a smug smile

gradually widening across his features.

'You shouldn't mutilate,' he called out carelessly. 'Shoot to kill

outright--specially deer. It's bad policy to only wound a buck.' Then he

chuckled as he perceived the statuesque position of his companion.

With a necessary hardening of the heart--for the stabbing of a deer in

cold blood makes the man of refinement feel strangely a murderer--Winton

raised his knife and prepared to cut across the long veins swelling at

the side of the palpitating neck. The blade descended, his grasp

tightened, the steel flashed down--when suddenly the graceful creature

lifted its head with a dying effort, and gazed with great, suffering

eyes full into his face. It was then that the young man paused, while

the dry chuckle broke out behind.

For in that seemingly unequal contest the animal won. All strength fled

from the murdering hand when its owner beheld those dark fixed eyes of

his piteous victim. They were large and luminous, while tear drops of

pain trickled along and blackened the surrounding fur. The small black

nostrils quivered pitifully in death gaspings. A heartbroken torture

overspread the face, which reproached him for the cruel deed of his

hand.

A minute later the knife fell unused to the ground. A sickening

revulsion of feeling followed, sweeping over him with overpowering

force, combined with weariness and a hatred of life. His eyes could not

alter the direction of their gaze, for they were held and fascinated by

that dark, reproachful glance, as a bird is rendered helpless by the

snake.

'Got it,' muttered Sinclair. 'Got it bad. But it will be good for the

boy.'

That strange malady, the deer fever, had a firm hold upon Winton. His

entire body became seized with violent ague. He trembled with cold,

though conscious at the same time that his hands and feet were burning.

His quick breath stabbed him with hot gasps. Moisture broke out on his

forehead as a horrible vision presented itself to the imagination. He

himself was the victim, while the conqueror lay before him. His only

chance for life lay in immediate flight, but his feet were chained

together and fastened to the ground. He must therefore remain and die.

'It's what I looked for,' muttered Sinclair into his beard. Then he came

forward across the open space, and picked up the knife.

As he bent over the deer, and as the animal resigned its life with a

deep sob, the man in the trance revived and gazed blankly, first at the

dead creature stretched beside him, then at the grinning face of his

companion.

'What in the devil's name have you been up to, Sinclair?' he said

stupidly.

'Up to, eh?' remarked the hunter slowly, with evident enjoyment, as he

wiped the knife. 'What are you doing anyhow, lying around there half

asleep? Good sort of buck killer you are!'

The young man pulled himself up. 'You've been fooling.'

'I'm a clever chap, then. Reckon I could knock you over in that shape?

Well, well, to think of a strong young fellow like you being beaten by a

harmless sort of half dead beast.'

'You don't say it was the deer?' asked the young man, still dazed.

The hunter laughed. 'That's what. You had the fever, and as strong as

I've ever seen it take a man.'

'Well--that beats all,' said Winton, hanging on each syllable.

'Told you it wasn't well to wound and not kill. Guess you won't fix

another for quite a time.'

'How's that? Lots of them around, aren't there?'

'I reckon,' said the other drily. 'Question is whether you'll be able to

shoot when you sight one. It'll worry you a bit. I'm thinking.'

Winton stretched his long limbs. 'It takes me all my time to understand

this. Course I've heard of the fever--lots of times, but I didn't put

much on hunters' talk--'

'And now you've had it.'

'It doesn't last, though?'

'Won't with you, I reckon. I've known some taken with it when they

weren't any better than boys, and as they got older it didn't show any

wearing off. Whenever they'd start to shoot at a deer, the fever would

come up as bad as ever.'

'But it doesn't happen to everyone?'

'I guess it's the exception. I've never had it. Some say it's no bad

sign when a young fellow gets knocked over with it. For it's generally

men that are good shots who get bothered with the fever. Another

thing--if a fellow goes to knife the beast with any sort of pity--you

had, I know, for I watched you close--he's gone. You're feeling right

again, eh?'

The other assented. 'It goes off as quickly as it comes on, anyhow.'

'And leaves a man none the worse,' added the hunter. Then he hastened to

change the subject, as he noticed the gradual blackening of the

surrounding shadows.

'See here, Winton, it's getting sort of late. Alf will be bothering, if

we're not back by dark. Suppose you wait here, while I make tracks for

the horses?'

'There's an hour of daylight yet,' said Winton. 'Let's sit down for a

smoke. There's lot of time.'

Sinclair glanced round a little uneasily. 'Make it half a pipeful, and I

don't mind joining you. I'm sort of hungry for a bit of plug. But, I

tell you straight, I'm not wanting to hang around here long after

sunset.'

Winton chuckled. 'My turn now,' he said. 'It's my laugh on you. Why,

you're a regular old woman to-day, Sinclair. What's the racket now?'

The hunter bit at his moustache. 'Well, it's this way--I'm a little

scared of the _nitchies_.'

'Pshaw! That's about the tenth time to-day you've shammed fright. Don't

see why we should want to bother, just because the breeds 'way down

south are painting their faces and making alarming fools of themselves.

What's wrong with your courage, Sinclair?'

'That's all right,' said the other sullenly; then paused, while a dim

blue flame shot upward from his pipe. He seated himself on the white

moss near his companion, then placed a hand upon his knee. 'Tell you,

Winton, this rebellion in the Territories is going to be something worth

jotting down in a book of history.'

'Don't think much of it,' said the other contemptuously.

'That's because you don't know the people. I do, because I'm descended

from them in a way myself. And I know Riel. Have seen him, spoken to

him, more than that--I've fought with him knife to knife before to-day.

Nothing's going to stop him, except a chance bullet, or the few yards of

rope your countrymen are fond of allowing any poor devil who tries to

get the better of them. Give me a match.'

Winton complied, while the hunter continued, 'You don't think much of

the rebellion, eh? Still there's a pretty thick crowd of half crazy

Indians and breeds. Darn me if I know what the opposition consists of.'

'Well, I do,' put in Winton. 'What's the matter with the militia and the

police? They're good enough for you.'

'Yes, they're first-class bullet stoppers. Fine, targets, with their red

coats, for the boys to drive their bullets into. Pshaw! The soldiers

can't begin to save the country. I've not a bit of use for the farmers

and settlers. But I allow it can be done, Winton. There's one man--a

single man, with an almighty lot of power, who can swamp up the whole

rebellion as I'd swallow a dram of whisky. Question is whether he'll do

it.'

'Who are you talking of? Not General--'

'Pshaw! Not that sneaking coward. The man I'm thinking on is general of

the Church, not the army. I reckon, Winton, that Archbishop Taché is the

only one who can put a stopper to this rising. What?'

'Well, if that's so, Sinclair, what's it got to do with us 'way up

here?'

The hunter pulled strongly at his pipe, then spat violently on the moss.

'You don't see it, eh? I'll show you, then. I'm as darned sure as though

he'd told me himself that Riel means to stamp the whole crowd of whites

clean out of the land. Course he can't be around every place himself, so

he just sends round messages all over this country.'

'Telling the tribes to rise?'

'And clean out the whites in their district. They're bound to obey, for

they look upon Riel as a sort of nickle-plate god. Besides, they're

scared of his vengeance if they refuse and he comes off victorious.

They're all dead sure he can't be beaten anyhow.'

'You think we shall have some sport round here?' asked Winton, lazily.

'I don't know anything for certain; but it's likely enough.'

'I don't think so. The _nitchies_ around here are not well armed. We

should be able to beat them off easily enough if they did attack the

fort. Your pipe's gone out.'

Sinclair leaned forward. 'Give me a match.' Then he continued in a

changed tone, 'You wouldn't talk like that if you knew everything. You

only see Riel. You don't know a darned thing about anything

behind--who's stirring him up, who's supplying the brains to run this

rebellion, and all the rest of it. I tell you, I know more than any man

living, and when the time comes--by God, I'll use my knowledge.'

He drew the match savagely along his breeches, and relighted his pipe.

'You're a lot safer up here than you'd be down in Manitoba.'

'I'd like to be back,' said the hunter; 'and I'm going by next boat,

whether the hunting's good or bad. I'd no right to leave the wife and

children in these bad times. How can I tell what's going on while I'm

away up here? If they were all dead and planted, I'd be none the wiser.'

Winton stretched himself, accompanying the action with a subdued laugh.

'You're a terrible croaker, Sinclair. Why don't you look on the bright

side? It's just as easy, and a lot pleasanter.'

The old hunter rose. 'Don't know how it is, Winton, but I feel sort of

low-spirited just now.'

'That's something new. What's wrong?'

'Uneasy, I guess. Well, I'm off. It'll be dark presently.'

He picked up his rifle and prepared to move. 'I've no use for fooling

around in the forest at this time. It isn't healthy. There's too much

mischief drifting up, and a fellow never knows when it's going to break.

You'll wait here till I'm up with the horses, eh?'

'I'll watch the meat and finish my smoke.'

'That's it. Guess you know which way to steer for the fort, eh? Make

north-west till you come to the big fir that the _nitchies_ call the

death tree. You can just catch the top of the flagstaff from there, if

you get up before the light goes out.'

'I know,' said Winton, quietly. 'But what are you telling me for?'

'So as you'd be all right if we got parted. Wouldn't do for you to get

lost in the forest if anything happened to me.'

'What in the devil's likely to happen?'

'Nothing, I reckon. Still, it's good to keep on the right side. Well,

don't fall asleep over your smoke; keep the rifle handy.' The next

minute his spare figure disappeared amongst the bushes.

Left to himself, Winton pulled at his pipe and reflected upon the words

of his late companion.

On ordinary occasions the old hunter was never accustomed to suffer from

any such lack of courage, therefore his parting words became the more

significant. Then there was another thing to remember: Sinclair, himself

of mixed blood, understood the native character thoroughly. On his own

confession, he possessed more knowledge--and that of a secret

nature--than most, so after all it might be advisable to attend to his

warning.

Winton settled his broad back firmly against a tree trunk, and

reflected. For a small quarter of an hour he was left to himself in the

dreary forest, at a time most productive of sentimental thought--when

light was gradually merging into night. This was a solemn time, when a

man was induced to think by the nature of his surroundings, and half

unconsciously review the action of a past.

This young man was, without being aware of it, a type of civilization.

He had not much to look back upon. Merely a schoolboy career, in which

he had won a reputation of being the finest athlete and the most

unprincipled character of his time; a year at Oxford, productive of more

laurels, combined with disgrace for many a daring escapade; then the

crowning act of foolishness, the expulsion, a hurried flight abroad,

because he dared not face the wrath of parents, or the sad reproach of a

pretty, petted sister; lastly the burying of his identity in a strange

land.

There were many such characters in the country. At home they were

considered superfluous beings of uselessness. Here they were the

foundation of a new society, the pioneers of an incoming tide of

civilization. Such men--not the stay-at-home successes of the

schools--have often turned the wavering balance to their country's

profit in such a world's crisis as a Waterloo, a Trafalgar. That

recklessness, that daring--once labelled as viciousness by scholastic

guardians--then become England's glory and shield at time of need.

Somewhere in the neighbouring bush a twig snapped with a sharp, dry

sound. Winston glanced round quickly, while the fingers of his right

hand closed mechanically round the rifle as he remembered Sinclair's

warning. But no other sound reached his ears, while nothing unusual

appeared before his eyes.

He began to wonder whether Sinclair's fear had communicated itself to

him. This weakness was excusable, for the forest was growing very

dark--lonely it always was--and full of strange sounds. Solitude works

strangely upon the imagination.

His hand released the rifle, and roamed idly along the ground. Presently

fingers came in contact with certain matter, which was thick and sticky

to the touch. With a slight shudder he withdrew the hand, and when his

eyes fell upon the red fingers he involuntarily uttered a sharp cry of

astonishment and fear--but the next instant he laughed.

He had forgotten the dead animal, which lay stiffening at his side.

'Lucky old Sinclair isn't here,' he muttered. 'It would be his turn to

have the smile.'

He wiped his red fingers upon the white moss, then began to pace up and

down, listening anxiously for the tramp of horses, or cheery cry of his

returning companion.

The minutes fled past in silence. The sun had fallen beneath the black

tree line, which fringed the northern shore of the Saskatchewan.

Glistening dew was settling softly, while a shadowy presence of evening

stirred along the forest.

Winton grasped a bunch of foliage; the leaves were cold and slimy to the

touch. 'Past the quarter hour. The horses must have strayed, so, like a

fool, he's gone after them. I'll give him ten minutes more. If he isn't

here then, I shall make tracks before the darkness gets any thicker.'

Ah! That sound was no work of the imagination.

He wheeled round sharply, with ready rifle to his shoulder. The sharp

rustling of parting bushes brought the heart to his mouth. But he saw

nothing.

Then a branch waved ominously, and he felt it was not caused by the

wind. He strained his eyes to pierce the gloom which surrounded the mass

of interlacing boughs.

Surely that was a dusky face of one who had sworn destruction to his

race. Fierce eyes of hatred were glaring upon him; a mouth was set in

thin line of determination; hands were raised, perhaps preparing to

point a heavily charged muzzle-loader; he was the object of that aim.

Sinclair's words came back, as he sprang aside in a bath of fear. His

one idea just then was immediate escape. Once he slipped in the

thickening blood, then reached the bushes opposite. Once behind the

thick leafy screen, he would be safe for the time.

But, as the clammy leaves swept upon his face, there was a loud,

vibrating report.

For a second, the darkness round his head surged in a red glow. That

Indian face had been no work of the imagination. The echoes thrilled

through his head; a fearful stab, like a hot breath, glowed along his

body.

He was shot. The charge had passed through his chest, and the blood was

trickling forth sluggishly.

The wound might not be mortal. So he staggered forward, every moment

dreading the shock of a second report. He clutched at a branch, which

swayed up and down restlessly. His heart was beating furiously, his

brain was burning, yet he seemed to grow no weaker. Then, with equal

suddenness, there came to his ears, from the surrounding bush, the

gasping cry--the voice of a man in pain, followed by the stamp of

strong, hurrying hoofs.

He knew that the cry had been uttered by his hunter friend.

This brought him back to reason. So he was not shot after all; _but

Sinclair was_. It would be his turn now. The dark enemies were closing

round him to complete their work. There was still beating in his ears

the horrible, dull sound of a shot body crashing through small bushes

towards the ground of which it was then part.

Should he go back in the direction of that sound? What help could he

hope to render a corpse? Besides, the whole bush was alive with

threatening voices and vengeful faces. There was hostile movement

everywhere along the dark, awful forest.

Then these noises increased tenfold and rose louder. A panting, mad

struggling, a furious crashing, with sparks shooting upward from rugged

stones, bridle reins flying and catching, while before sped a mist of

smoky breath. Such was the vision of the grey monster, which loomed

suddenly from the darkness and stumbled heavily almost at his feet.

It was the grey mare he had ridden that day. But where was the dark

horse, and where was Sinclair? Dead, and in that death lay the most

convincing proof of the truth of the last word he had spoken.

Goaded by fear and the desperation of the moment, he had sprung forward.

He was mounted, and dashing furiously through the forest, ignorant of

direction, feeling only the great and terrible fear of the pursued.

Branches cut and bruised his face; small twigs bent and lashed him

angrily; the night wind hissed with menace upon his ears; while behind,

around, in front, the great forest shrieked and raved.

Onward crashed the horse, the white breath streaming away, the flecks of

foam dashing to each side. He bent down and shrank together, his single

idea being to present as small a target as possible. Every second he

expected to hear the crash of muzzle-loaders, to hear the screech of

shot, to feel the sharp sting of lead in his back.

Still on, heading he knew not where in that terrible fright. Sparkling

dew dashed off the leaves; long bushes streamed past his legs; red

sparks shot madly upward from the iron-black rocks beneath.

CHAPTER II

MENOTAH--HEART THAT KNOWS NOT SORROW

Ne-ha-hah! Drip, flash, gurgle. Down from rock to rock--splash,

tinkle--soft, softer, with a long, peaceful swirl of bubbles, as the

lone rushes by the bank shivered again. With a gleam beneath a dancing

ray of sunlight, with a beauty spot of white foam here and there.

Min-ne-ha-hah! Splash, drip-drip--splash! Then a quickening run of black

and silver bars, a long, golden line of light--with a bright singing

voice, and with a peal of music like the chime of distant bells.

Ne-ha-hah!

The place of the laughing waters. Here the sun quivered for colour

music, while wind and water met and kissed with the whispering caress of

an ever endless song. First came the wind, with deep, long sigh through

the bushes, then the sunlight. After this overture, one might listen to

the melody of the waters.

'Ne-pink, ink-ink-ah. Min-ne-sot-ah-hah. Ha-hah-ne-ah-ah! Ne-ha-hah-ah!

Pink-ink-ink. Ne-pink. Ne-ah. Nepink-ah-hah. Min-ha! Ne-ah-ink-ink.

Min-ne-ha-ink-ink! Ne-sot-ah! So-tah. So-tah-ha-hah-ah! Min-ne-ha.

Pink-ink-ink. Ne-ah! Pink-ink-ink. Ne-ha! Ne-hah! Ne-ha! Ne-sot-ah!

Ne-ha-hah-ha! Ne-ha-hah! Ah! Hah!'

Then the wind swelled louder for the great wordless opera. The sunrays

grew whiter and stronger to light up the great rugged stage of Nature.

There was a mighty slab of black rock, which the waves lapped

listlessly, at one side of the river pool. This appeared to shoot

straight from the heart of the forest--part bathed by the water, part

shielded and hidden by a tangle of bushes. To a pendulous branch,

projecting over the black stone, had been attached a coloured streamer

of cloth, which rose and fell gaily with the wind, like the guiding beat

of a conductor's bâton.

Then the voice of Nature was broken into, yet not disturbed, again. A

clear, thrilling cry came from the forest, the careless, happy cry of a

young life.

'There will be full moon to-night, and a south wind. Then the evil one

will steal from the marshes, for there will be war and fire. War and

Fire!'

That same voice again, but now the speaker was nearer and approaching.

In such a place, at such a time, it might almost have been Wasayap on

her way to meet the Heelhi-Manitou at the Passing Place of the Spirits.

The music of the waters swelled a little higher into a louder, purer

burst of melody. The departing sun streamed slantingly across the so-far

empty stage, where a few white grass stems shivered.

'Min-ne-ha! Pink-ink-ink. Ne-ha! Min-ne-ha. Ne-ha! Ne-hah! Ne-ha!

Ne-sot-ah! Ne-ha-hah-ha! Ne-ha-hah! Ne-ha! Ah! Hah!'

The clinging bushes hung around and above without motion. Suddenly they

parted, with quick swish and rapid rustling of leaves, and the next

moment appeared a wonderful vision.

'Men-ha! Ot-ah! Me-e-e-e-ot-ah. Ah-ha! Ha-hah-ha-ah! Me-ot-hah. Ot-ah!

Ah-ah-ah! Ot-ah! Ot-ah! Ah-hah! Men-ot-ah! Ot-ah! Menotah!'

With a noisy, petulant fluttering of foliage the bushes sprang back to

their former position. The vision finally resolved itself into human

form and shape, as it sprang down to the rock with the agile bound of a

young deer. Then the waters smiled into the laughing face of a young and

lovely girl.

With a soft, gurgling laughter, suggestive of sheer happiness and

exuberance of life, she deftly balanced her dainty body upon one tiny

foot, then, with quick clutch, snatched at and captured the overhanging

bough, which bent itself barely within reach of her hand. When she had

pulled this to a level with her forehead, she swung herself airily

backwards and forwards, her feet softly caressing the hard rock with the

beating motions of a gentle dance.

She had thrown her head well back, and thus revealed the delicate

moulding of her velvet neck; her long hair was rippling unbound along

the bright rays of intermittent sunshine; the liquid song-notes of a

native ditty trilled from her red, smiling lips.

She was admirable; she was perfect; she was adorable.

Her skin was dark, yet by no means swarthy. Soft and delicate in its

purity, she resembled more the refined Creole than an Indian girl of the

forest. Her dress, which reached a little below the knees, was of a

coarse material dyed red, while her arms and feet were bare, or, rather,

clothed in their own perfect beauty. Entwined round her temples, twisted

in careless profusion through the cloud of her flowing hair, wound a

festoon of emerald leaves and glowing berries, snatched from some forest

bush as she sped lightheartedly amongst the trees. Radiant as were these

berries, Nature had not painted them with the rich scarlet of Menotah's

cheeks, nor with the deep carmine of her parted lips, through which came

the pearly glitter of the teeth. And above, the dark eyes flashed and

shone, spreading the happy contagion of mirth as they passed, with the

hovering action of the swallow, from one object to another.

So, unconscious of evil, insensible to suffering, she swung herself from

side to side upon the black rock, while her face shone with rapture,

like the laughing water which bubbled beneath her feet. The sun dropped

down to the uneven line of a long ridge opposite, while a fine glow shot

into the sky. Again she swung on tiptoe, and sang in a clear voice a

sweet voice with a thrill in it that sounded through the forest and over

the water, light and sparkling as the tinkling of raindrops upon the

leaves.

In her youthful, ignorant passion she sang to the Spirit for

understanding of life, for knowledge of human secrets, for unending joy

and eternal love in the years to come, while the wind and the water

played her a wonderful accompaniment.

She stopped suddenly, with a musical cry of sheer happiness, then

sprang, lithe and supple as a squirrel, from the higher ridge of the

rock, in mid-air releasing her grasp of the branch. Upward it darted,

with the force of a steel spring, striking down upon the dark tresses a

shower of brown fir spines with many small green cones.

Lightly as a snowflake the girl came to the lower platform of stone,

which lay almost at a level with the water. Her step was sure, for her

young limbs were strong and yielding. She made a dancing step; cast her

arms delightedly above her head, accompanying the action with a merry

burst of laughter; passed two shapely hands beneath a dark mist of hair,

which had streamed forward over her face, and threw it back with a

graceful gesture.

She gazed around and upward, finally fixing her eyes upon the branch she

had lately clung to. It seemed as though she searched for something not

at once discernible. Presently she clasped her hands together with a

short cry of pleasure.

'The Spirit is pleased,' she cried, with a sudden catch to her rich

voice. 'I am always to be beautiful; I am always to be happy. The Spirit

himself has waited here to tell me.'

For the coloured steamer had disappeared. Probably it had been shaken

away to the neighbouring bushes, when the bough had sprung back into

position; perhaps it had then been unsecured and the wind had since

removed It. At all events it had vanished, and this knowledge brought

her happiness.[1]

She paused for awhile, as though in thought. Her soft forehead fell into

little, curved lines, while the beautiful face grew grave. 'It might

have been the wind,' she said doubtfully, speaking slowly to the

rippling waters, 'but, if it was, the wind is a spirit--yes, a good

spirit. Now he has spoken to me. I am beautiful, and I shall be happy.'

A dull roar from the distant rapids beat down ominously along the

evening wind. With the wind that bore the sound came a wave, which broke

itself against the black rock, casting a tiny cloud of spray upward.

The girl's face altered its expression at once. The thought lines

vanished, while others appeared to bend round her mouth in the shape of

a smile.

'Beautiful,' she murmured, alone, yet half bashful; 'the water has told

me so often, and now it calls me again.'

She inclined her head forward, while the smile deepened. 'Listen!'

The waters splashed, rippled, flashed, swung round in a long gurgling

eddy, then splashed again. Out of this rose a low, musical tinkle, with

a soft lap-lap upon the rocks which sounded like a kiss.

'Yes. That was a name. Listen! There it comes again--Menotah! Heart that

knows not sorrow.'

She timidly came to the extreme edge, then fell to her knees. As the sun

disappeared behind the grey-dark ledge opposite, she bent her dainty

head over and down, until the long black hair divided and fell in two

glossy strands, the ends of which floated like seaweed upon the foam

patches.

The river pool commenced to blacken, while flowering rushes tossed their

shivering heads and murmured. The Spirit of the waters called her. So

she leant over--down, nearer, closer, until her fingers curved over the

stone amid the moisture and green slime.

For a moment or so she was motionless, in a set posture of watching and

wonder. Then, with the darting action of a bird, she was up to the

higher ridge of rock with a single bound. Another spring, and she was

upon the grass track at the side. An invisible frog awoke his water-side

orchestra into sharp chirpings with a gruff note. It was time for her to

desert the quiet river pool, for evening was pressing down, and there

was much on hand.

But, as she was about to flit away, a guttural cry proceeded from the

bush behind, while the stroke of a thick staff tapped fretfully upon the

rock platform she had recently abandoned. Casting a glance back over her

shoulder, she perceived an old man, with long hair and scrubby white

beard, emerging from the bushes.

'So, I have come upon you, child. I have found you at length.' Such was

the manner of his greeting.

She turned back, and placed a curling foot upon a point of stone. 'And

what has led your footsteps into the forest, wise Antoine?' she asked

lightly.

'You, child--you.' He spoke slowly.

'What! You wish to borrow my eyes? You have come forth to pluck berries

and gather strong medicines. Come! I will help you.'

The old man fixed his keen eyes upon her laughing face, then drew his

coarse blanket of a gaudy yellow more conveniently over his shoulders.

Then he came forward and said, 'Girl, I have been seeking you for long.

I watched you dart like a sunbeam into the forest, so I followed with my

slow speed to give you warning.'

She tossed back her head. 'Warn me! Of what, and why?'

'The white man,' said the other impressively. 'He is abroad in the

forest. From this time he is our foe. Perchance one might meet you in

such a spot as this, and--'

She interrupted him scornfully, with a proud movement of her head. 'Let

him find me. I am stronger than any man, since I can disarm him with a

woman's weapons.'

The old man raised a reproving hand. 'You speak, Menotah, with the folly

of youth. Now will I answer you with the wisdom of age. For who are you

that you should know the cunning of the white man? He feels not the

emotion of love, for his heart is made of ice, while his dark mind

changes as the waters of yon river. Mayhap you might be captured by him.

Then, what darkness would settle upon the tribe without its heart of

joy? There would be no music in the song, nor passion in the dance.'

The girl laughed with a long musical burst of happiness.

'Child! I have warned you. Listen to an old man's words. Follow his

advice, and keep the heart to yourself.'

For answer, Menotah snatched a long tendril of bright green from a

neighbouring bush. She cast this wreath around the old man's neck, then

danced back, clapping her hands in delight.

'Now you are young again,' she cried joyously. 'You are to forget that

the frost of age has ever stiffened your limbs. You must now cast aside

all your wise sayings, which always fall like cold water upon my ears.

Come! Take me by the hand. Then we will wander forth together. If you

are mournful, I will sing to you. I will dance and laugh, that you may

forget your infirmities. For where I come, sorrow may never be found.'

The red glow on her cheeks deepened, as the light in her eyes leapt into

a flame. The ruddy berries dropped over her temples and kissed the

eyelids when she stirred.

But the old man only shook his white head, and gave back no reply.

Then Menotah stepped to his side, and bent her graceful figure down. She

held her face near his, while the soft mouth twitched in the effort to

restrain its mirth.

'Wise Antoine,' she said, with an attempt at carelessness. 'You have

travelled over much land and water. You have seen many people. Is it not

so?'

Wonderingly he replied, 'It is so, my daughter.'

'Then tell me'--and there was a slight tremor in her voice--'since you

have seen so many women, tell me, have you ever looked upon one more

beautiful than I? Have you seen any more perfect?--more graceful?'

Her face was quite solemn as she finished her question.

The old man frowned, and pulled at the falling blanket with a claw-like

hand.

At length he spoke. 'It is true that I have seen many women. I have

looked upon the daughters of white men, and some of these are fair. I

have watched, also, generations of my own people, as they passed from

childhood to maturity, growing and ripening like green berries in the

sunshine. Many of these were very good to look upon.'

'But I--' she murmured, and then stopped short.

The old Antoine smiled feebly, displaying a perfect row of teeth. Then

he would have turned aside, but she touched him with light, eager hand.

'I stopped your words, old father. What more had you to say?'

'Let us go back,' he said. 'See! the night comes upon us.'

But Menotah only laughed again, while the roar of the great rapids beat

down upon their ears with sound of sombre menace.

She bent her beautiful head over his shoulder, and asked, 'The daughters

of the white men are fair--you have said so?'

'But you are more beautiful than all,' broke forth the old man, half

fiercely. 'Surely. None, on whom my eyes have rested, have owned such

flow of life, such health, such gladness of spirit. These things are

beauty. You are as straight as a young fir, and as fair as the evening

star.'

In an instant her assumed gravity had disappeared. Laughing merrily, she

darted back, with black hair streaming cloud-like behind. But the old

man pursued her with a searching question,--

'Child! Menotah! What dream spirit has whispered into your brain, as you

slept beneath the moon? What is that which has told your mind that you

were more beautiful than others--that you were even fair at all? You

have learnt from me, yet on such matters have I given you no knowledge.'

Menotah was singing gaily, unconcernedly, and for the time appeared not

to notice his quick questionings. But suddenly she sprang aside to the

bushes, and parted them with eager hands. Then she glanced back, and

commenced to chant in loud, distinct tones,--

'Old father, you have taught me much, yet, being a man, you might not

read a woman's heart. You could not tell her all--not that she wished

especially to learn. So she has searched for that knowledge wherever it

might be found. Behold! she has succeeded.'

The Ancient would have spoken aloud in wonder, but the bright girl gave

him no opportunity.

'One day, near the setting of the sun, I came along this way. The

river-pool was already growing black, while long rushes bent and

murmured when they saw me approach. Then, when I stood upon the black

rock, I heard the echo of a soft voice, which arose in music at my feet,

and crept up until it touched my ears. So I knew that it was the Spirit

of the waters who was calling me. And he had knowledge for my ear, and

mine alone. Do you still hear the soft voice calling beneath us, old

father?'

She raised her dainty figure, then uplifted a small hand, inclining her

head forward with a graceful gesture. The waters lapped and whispered

against the slime-green base of the rock.

'Men-ha! Ot-ah! Me-e-e-e-ot-ah. Ah-ha! Ha-hah-ha-ah! Me-ot-hah. Ot-ah!

Ah-ah-ah! Ot-ah! Ot-ah! Ah-hah! Men-ot-ah! Ot-ah! Menotah!'

'Do you hear, old father?' she cried joyfully. 'Can you hear the voice

of the laughing waters? Each night they call me, and bid me come.'

Then the old man frowned, and raised a crooked hand to point upward over

the rock-ledge opposite, where a cold ray of white light struggled

through shadows.

'Hear also the voice of the great rapids, daughter. They shout, and they

call, also. Would you hasten to their bidding?'

She shuddered slightly, then replied, 'Not so, old father. I would not

obey the summons to death and silence.'

Antoine shivered also, as the night chilled his body. 'We tarry past the

sun-setting,' he muttered. 'It is not well to be abroad at this time.'

'Ah! But listen first,' she pleaded. 'Here what the Spirit of the water

had to show me.'

Again he paused, while she wrapped the cold bushes round her waist, and

bathed her fingers in the dew-wet foliage. Then she spoke,--

'I came onward to the rock-brink, yet I trembled. For I feared lest the

Spirit might stretch forth an angry arm to draw me down, and claim me as

his victim.

'So I came with hesitating footstep, and leant with hidden dread over

the great stones, whereon the brown reeds beat their flowering heads. I

looked, yet saw nothing, but the drifting clouds and bright pictures of

evening sunset, for the waters swirled and bubbled, as though in anger.

Again I looked, but there was still nothing, save the shadow of the

bright sky.

'But then a dim mist formed slowly and rose with gradual motions from

the bottom. As it came nearer it gathered together, and took a wonderful

shape, while my heart beat loudly as it rose to the surface, which was

now calm and smooth, for the white foam and curling ripples had fled

beneath the rock. And as I bent down--lower--nearer, until the ends of

my unbound hair kissed the face of the waters, that shadow lay upon the

surface, and held its lips up to mine.

'Then I looked upon a being of beauty. There was a maiden, with eager,

parted lips which were curved into a smile. I saw also eyes, happy but

determined, and thick waves of hair enclosing a blameless face. At the

pleasure of beholding so much beauty I smiled. And, behold! the vision

smiled also, while the waters broke into ripples of silent laughter.

Then I frowned, creasing up my forehead into long wrinkles, and

forthwith the waters moaned with storm breath, while sunshine departed

from the valley. So then I laughed aloud, bringing again joy to the

Spirit, with adornment to the face of the waters.

'For I knew that I was beautiful--beautiful--beautiful!'

She bent her happy face forward, with a small shake of the head at each

repetition of her final word. Then she liberated the bushes. They closed

behind, and she vanished. But her happy song was still borne through the

forest as she glided, bird-like, amongst the trees.

The Ancient was left again to himself He pulled the blanket over his

scanty white locks with weak motions, while his thin lips parted in

unspoken words. His deeply furrowed face was pinched and frowning.

Then he turned, also, and went his way.

[1] It is a native custom thus to hang streamers to some bush after a

prayer. The disappearance of such is a sign that the Spirit is pleased

and will grant the desired favour.

CHAPTER III

THE BUDDING OF A PASSION

Nearer the outskirts of the mighty forest, where between the tree trunks

might be caught, when the bushes sometimes parted beneath a slight gust

of wind, a silvery flash of the sun-kissed river, two men stood side by

side in earnest conference. Very dissimilar were they in every

particular, save in the one important distinction of race. One was much

bent by time's heavy hand; the other enjoyed the full vigour of early

manhood.

This latter was tall and finely shaped; his arms were like strong wire

ropes, and swelled with blue muscles as he moved with the unconscious

animal grace of the native; his dark-skinned face was clearly cut and

set in firm lines of determination, while the keen eyes flashed and the

nostrils expanded as he listened to the words of the shrunk figure at

his side and gave him back reply.

They were completely alone in this great solitude. Close behind there

spread a thick tangle of bush, which gradually merged into the dark

forest line, a luxuriant growth, which might readily have concealed many

an invisible foe. But these men had no fear of their own, and as for the

hostile white--well, there were but very few of them, and these

harmless, since they could not be suspicious of approaching danger.

The old man slowly turned himself from the glowing face of the setting

sun, and raised his wrinkled countenance heavily towards the powerful

features of the young warrior. His cheeks were thickly painted with a

lurid stain of carmine; the effect of the unnatural colour upon the

dried up flesh was ghastly to an extreme. His form was doubled together

almost by infirmity and time, for the weight of over four score years

was pressing him down to the grave.

He extended and spread an almost fleshless hand upon the warm flesh of

the other's rounded arm.

'You have finished all preparations, Muskwah? The young men are now

ready, and each has weapons for the fight?'

'All that I can accomplish as leader of your children has been done,

Father.'

The old man was chief of the tribe and therefore regarded as the titular

father of all.

'But the warriors understand their duties Muskwah? I would have no sad

scene of women lamenting in the encampment. I would not listen to the

low chanting of death songs.'

'I have done your bidding, Father. I have made all things clear,'

replied the young man.

'There has been nothing left undone, Muskwah? I am old, and have often

seen the brave conquered, not by greater strength or skill, but by the

thing unlooked for, the one thing forgotten. This is that which causes

the defeat of the brave. Tell me now the words the wise Antoine spoke

into your ears. Repeat to me the orders you have given to my children.'

He wrapped the cloak round him and bent again in close attitude of

listening. The wind whispered in the pines behind, while the sun went

out and the colours slowly faded into greyness. Then the young warrior

cast out his long arms, drew his figure to its greatest height, and in

clear, sonorous voice declaimed aloud the following spirited

apostrophe,--

'Warriors! O, Warriors!

'Ye, who are brave, ye, who have earned the glad approval of women, draw

round me, and listen to the words of your Father and Chief.

'The Spirit has whispered into his ear, "Destroy now the white men, for

they are wrong-minded and have offended me. Cast them forth from this my

land in death." Your Father and Chief will obey the great command of the

Spirit, lest black sickness come upon the tribe, lest the hunters be

caused to return empty-handed to the tents.

'Warriors! O, Warriors!

'Ye, who speed forth with the great strength of the winds, ye, who dart

over earth like shadows when the moon shines, listen to the voice of

your leader. When the night light casts silver upon the fir tops, and

the spirits crawl from the marshes to their deeds, ye shall be ready and

await my signal. Then shall ye hear thrice repeated the cry of a horned

owl. When the last echo has died, gather ye yourselves round the sad

death tree, where ye shall find me awaiting, and there will I separate

ye into two bands. Those who are young and strong upon their feet shall

descend the valley along by the way of the river-pool, and these shall

wait at the foot of the cliff beneath the fort of the white men. And at

the sound of the first report of a gun, ye shall ascend, each man

bearing dry branches of the fir. These shall ye place around the walls

at the cliff side and apply the fire. And, as for the other band, these

shall advance with stealth upon the open and hide behind the rocks. When

the red fire shoots upward, ye shall fire upon the door. Then will the

white men come forth, driven out by the hot fire behind, and when they

appear they must be killed, nor must one escape to carry away the deed.

For the white man knows not how to pardon.

'Warriors! O, Warriors!

'Ye, who fly over the ground with the swiftness of deer, ye, who laugh

with joy when the hot blood flows, listen to the words of the Spirit.

'Destroy and spare not. Avenge, as ye have been wronged. Spare not your

strength. Lose not your courage. And while ye fight, the women around

the tents will dance, and call upon the Ghosts and Skeletons of the

tribe. Then, also, will the Father's daughter come forth to greet ye

with a smile, when ye return, laden with victory and the glad spoils of

war.

'Warriors! O, Warriors!

'Ye, who are brave, ye, who have earned the approval of women, heed and

obey the words of your Father and Chief.'

The young warrior paused and lowered his arms, while the fire in his

eyes died out. A feeble impulse of passion spread itself over the

Chief's half dead face as he listened with rapt attention to the

recital. Then he spoke in his thin voice,--

''Tis good, Muskwah. You have spoken well. Tell me now, are the hearts

of my children full of a warm courage? Do their eager hands reach out

for their weapons? Do their eyes gleam with thoughts of slaughter and

vengeance? Have they well oiled the body and painted the face? Are they

withal hard to restrain, like our dogs on the clear day of winter? Is it

so, Muskwah?'

The young warrior's brow grew sterner as he shook his head. 'Nay,

Father, 'tis not so. The courage of the young men is faint. This is what

they spoke in my ear, "What calls us to the fight? At this place the

white men have done us no wrong--"'

'False, Muskwah!' cried the old man shrilly. 'They have robbed us.'

'Only the old Antoine thirsts for the blood of the invaders,' said the

other quietly.

The Chief struck his staff in anger upon the ground. 'The young men know

not all. Did you not remind them, Muskwah, how the base white man has

deprived us of our land and food?'

'And their answer still comes, Father, that here we have been deprived

of naught. The hunters take their skins, and the wives carry oil to the

fort. In return they bring back to the tents food for the body, with

tobacco and clothing.'

'There are others, Muskwah,' pursued the old man solemnly. 'There are

many of our brothers far across the great water. These have suffered to

the bitterness of death, and their wrongs still lie unavenged.'

'This did I tell to the young men,' continued the warrior. 'They

listened to my words, but still replied, "We know none of these. If they

have been wronged, let them look to their own. When they rejoice, what

part do they offer us in their joy? Now that they have cause for grief,

what duty calls us to take part in their voice of mourning?" There is

wisdom in the words of the young men. Father.'

The old man but turned at him angrily. 'There is also rebellion,' he

cried, with fierceness. 'It is their duty to obey, and not seek a cause.

Tell them, Muskwah, make known to each one of them, that he who shrinks

from the battle, let the cause be what it may, that man shall be beaten

openly by the women of the camp. I have said it.'

Muskwah bowed his stately head, but replied in defence of his

underlings. 'There are no cowards among the Children of the River, my

Father. Their wish is only for no strife with those who have done them

no wrong.'

The Chief cast his bleared eyes round suspiciously, and finally rested

them on the tall figure at his side. 'But you, Muskwah, what are your

inner thoughts?'

'I obey my Father,' came the instant reply. 'It is not for me to

reason.'

The Chief was satisfied. 'Obedience is a sure footway to power,' he

muttered. He tore apart his shirt with tremulous fingers, to display

many a long black scar crawling across his brown chest.

'See, Muskwah. Obedience gave me these life marks. Still I obeyed, until

that same gift made me Chief of my tribe.'

The young man listened, while the shadow of solicitude gathered slowly

upon his face. Presently he exclaimed his thoughts aloud.

'Is it well to thus provoke the wrath of the white man? Should we not

rather dwell ourselves in peace, and leave those who have suffered to

carry out the work of vengeance?'

The doubts thus expressed aroused the old man, and his answering voice

rang forth loudly,--

'Has the foolishness of my other children touched your brain also,

Muskwah? What did the old Antoine tell you beneath the quiet of the

tent, when the moon was young. Have you no memory for that story? A man

came across the great water,[1] up the river, and along the forest

trail, to pause at our encampment with a solemn message. He commanded

me, in the name of the friend of the Great Spirit, to attack the white

men who dwelt in our land, and to destroy them all. How should I refuse

to listen to the command of Riel? For when he has conquered the white

men and made himself great chief, he will turn to the punishment of

those who have refused to listen to his words. To such he will show no

forgiveness nor pity.'

The young warrior stirred his limbs with a mute gesture of resignation.

'If the Father of the tribe says to us, "Fight," surely we will strive

until the enemy is swept away, or our own feet have been tripped up by

death. Yet methinks the storm will arise when the battle is past. For

then must we face either the vengeance of Riel, or the fury of the white

men. But now is there little boldness in the minds of the young men, for

their hearts have not been warmed by the song, nor has passion been

thrust into each limb by the madness of the dance.'

'True--'tis true,' muttered the Chief, regretfully. 'There has been no

dance of the Ghosts. Yet will the Spirit not for that desert us. The

shrill cries of warriors, as they leapt along the measured circle, and

the loud beating of music must surely have warned the white men. Then

would they have made themselves ready for fight, and perchance have

escaped or defeated our efforts. Our prayers to the Spirit must ascend

in silence, until the fight is over, and victory comes to the Children

of the River.'

At the last words Muskwah picked up his antique gun, and placed it in

the crook of his left arm. Then he pointed ahead with steady brown

fingers. 'The light of the sun has sunk beneath yonder tree tops. The

night comes. Shall we not return?'

The Chief gave no heed to the remark. He but fastened his sunk eyes upon

a bunch of dead leaves which rattled in the wind.

Suddenly he spoke abruptly, and with forehead creased up in a frown, as

he put a question which touched his heart closely,--

'Hast seen the heart of joy, Muskwah, since the sun crossed the centre

of the heaven?'

The young warrior shifted with an awkward motion before replying. 'Nay,

Father. These eyes have not rested upon her beauty since the drying of

the dew. Perchance she wanders in the forest.'

'Too often is she absent,' said the old man fretfully. 'She passes from

place to place like a bright ray of sunlight, and none may stay her.

Often does she forget me and my needs; yet I cannot speak to her in the

voice of anger. Dost think her fair, Muskwah?'

The question came with unexpected suddenness. For a time the young man's

quick breathing was plainly audible.

'Father!' he cried at length passionately, 'what am I, that you should

ask me whether the heart of joy is beautiful? Surely there is none made

of the spirit to compare with her. There is no flower on the earth, nor

star in the night sky, that is so beauteous. And when she speaks, a man

may hear the laughing of waters. Which is he of the tribe, who would not

give life to save Menotah from sorrow, or win from her a smile? When she

is happy, all the Children of the River rejoice; should she see the

shadow of grief, then shall not be found a glad eye or a light heart.'

He paused and panted, while his sinewy chest rose and fell.

The Chief watched him from beneath shaggy grey eyebrows. 'So, Muskwah,'

he muttered slowly, as though in thought, 'the passion flame has burnt

your heart also. A man may not so speak, when the cause moving him is

but some idle fancy of the mind. What, Muskwah, is there more to tell?

Has she cast the glance of favour towards you? Has she ever smiled upon

you as she came across your way? Has she dwelt upon her pleasure, when

you have done the service of her wish?'

The young warrior sought in vain for words with which to fashion reply.

But the old Chief laughed aloud with the feeble sounds of age, and spoke

further with many a sidelong glance, 'Closely have I watched you, until

I came to understand the hidden secrets of your mind. You would be chief

after me. I know it. But first must you win scars and spill the blood of

your foes, that all may learn to fear the utterance of your name. Higher

still does the ambition of the heart lead you, for you seek to make the

fair heart of joy a bride. Who may speak on the future, Muskwah, and

learn that which lies in the beyond? What gifts the Great Spirit may

stretch towards us in his clenched hands we may not know. Yet you are

young, and much lies in front. For me all is behind, save a few poor

shadows.'

Muskwah would have spoken, but the old man drew away with the uncertain

motions of weak age. 'The night comes upon us,' he said, as he drew the

coarse blanket to his chin. 'There is toil ahead, and we must make

ready.'

Leaning heavily upon his staff, the aged Chief advanced slowly along the

sinuous trail, while in his footsteps came the young warrior with head

erect. There was that within him which words might not express, so his

heart beat wildly with the hot passion of his years, while it seemed to

him good to live.

So they both passed on, the young and the old, until the evening shadows

closed round them at the point ahead.

But the solitude was soon to be again invaded. Scarcely had the two

natives disappeared, when the green tangle of dew-besprinkled bush in

front of which they had made their stand became suddenly agitated, as

though some imprisoned animal held therein, then sought to free itself.

Presently the long sweeping tendrils lifted, small scrub bushes parted

with a sharp hissing of leaves through the air, while the next instant a

young man--he who had listened earlier to the musical voice ringing

through the forest--came forward and stood alone in the open.

He stretched his well-formed limbs and smiled in a self-satisfied

manner. Then he bent, groped among the thick undergrowth, and finally

extracted a rifle from the bush. Quickly he glanced along the sights,

passed the sleeve of his coat along the dark barrel to remove a slight

smear, afterwards looking up again, along the dim trail that wound round

towards the distant point, where the wreathing smoke of the camp fires

lingered.

Then he laughed softly to himself, and spoke aloud, addressing the

weapon which his white fingers caressed lovingly.

'Good business that, though those rascals kept me tied in an aching knot

longer than I'd bargained. So they're going to make a raid on the fort

to-night, are they. _Bien!_ Let them come. It's going to be a fine,

clear night, with full moon into the bargain. Lucky stroke for me--I can

now redeem part of my lost character. As usual, I go to the best side.'

He laughed again. 'I reckon it might surprise them to know who has

overheard their plans. The best shot in the Dominion--likely enough, in

the world. It's something to boast of, having escaped the white chief's

aim.'

Then the smile disappeared, as memory stirred within, and he frowned. At

once a deep line broke along each side of his face, running past the

corners of the mouth to wander away indefinitely along the chin. During

that moment the finely-cut features wore a hard and ill-favoured look,

which disappeared in an instant when the lips were again parted.

He flicked away a savage and belated bull-dog, which had settled upon

his hand. 'I've scored another point,' he muttered complacently. 'My

friends, who are few, have combined with my foes, who are many, to swear

that it's impossible to play the spy on a _nitchi_. Bah! it's as easy as

hating. What if those two had turned me out? The old man was no better

than a child. The other would have dropped for the coyotes before he

could have stirred a finger.'

The rising darkness reminded him of duty to be performed. He fastened

his coat and pulled the felt hat down over his forehead. 'And now for

the fort; I've a good enough passport now.'

He waved his hand lightly in the direction of distant fir tops, where

many branches had been lopped away, where many long shadows formed and

hung. Then he prepared to depart, with the knowledge of such importance

which had unwittingly been imparted to him.

One step away he made, then his foot halted, as the whispering sound of

a quick footstep came from behind through the bush. His senses were very

keen. Round he started like a well-drilled soldier, with a hand to his

side. But the next instant the fingers released their sure grip on the

revolver which lay there concealed. He started, with a sudden

exclamation, as his eyes fell upon the outer fringe of the forest, then

stood again motionless.

For here surely--he felt it instinctively--was the author of that happy

passing voice.

Standing opposite him in the dim light, and at no great distance,

appeared the vision of a perfectly beautiful girl. She was

bareheaded--indeed, she required no artificial covering to that wealth

of hair, which flowed in luxuriant masses down her back and trailed in

confused tresses over her dainty shoulders. A long wreath of red berries

shone jewel-like from the thick of these black coils.

She stood there, for the time, scarce without motion. Her shapely head

was tilted slightly back, as though soliciting a caress; two radiant

eyes flashed across to those of the young man a bold challenge of love;

a pair of red lips were divinely parted in a smile, half mischief, half

passion, beneath which lurked the covert invitation prompted by desire.

In her slender hands swayed a long red-willow wand, plucked by the side

of the black rock platform.

Thus did Menotah, as she passed from the river-pool to the encampment

beneath the evening, present herself to the young Canadian.

And he stood spellbound, completely over-mastered by a new power of

fascination. As he kept his gaze fixed upon this lovely apparition of

the summer forest, all his anxiety for the present, all the necessities

of the present, fled away forgotten.

She was wonderful with the rich colouring of her perfect health, in the

glorious line moulding of her fully matured figure. It was happiness of

itself to stand and feast the eyes upon such a triumph of Nature's

handiwork, and if the stronger was satisfied to gaze, the weaker was

equally delighted to be admired. Yet it was the latter who gave the

first intimation of the monotony of such a pleasure.

So she commenced with those dainty alluring wiles, irresistible yet

dangerous, in which the graceful woman of beauty, whatever her blood or

race, excels. She gave a slight nod of her pretty head, accompanying the

coquettish movement with a wonderful smile. Then she raised the

red-willow wand, and pettishly struck at the tall flowering head of a

plant before her.

The young man felt as though his senses were yielding beneath the subtle

influence of an anæsthetic. In a dreamy mood he watched the curious

evolutions of the beheaded bunch of bloom, as it darted upward, then

settled softly and without sound to the ground.

But this mood changed when she looked across at him again. Then there

surged over his entire being an irresistible impulse, which prompted him

to spring forward and clasp this lovely being in his arms. Menotah, with

the quick skill of her sex, read the keen desire of his mind at a

glance. So, after the manner of women, she but hastened to add fuel to

the growing ardour of his inclination.

An erratic firefly wandered down from the overhanging branches, then

commenced to dart from side to side near her head. She followed its

shining course with her bright eyes, and twisted her little face into a

charming expression, which revealed a sudden glimpse of two gleaming

lines of pearl-like teeth. Then, as the insect tumbled near her, she

made a quick snatch at the glowing point of fire. She missed, of course.

In disappointed resentment, very pretty to watch, she endeavoured to cut

short its career by means of her willow twig, but failed again. Then she

glanced across at the watching eyes opposite. The following second the

silence was broken for the first time by her clear burst of light,

melodious laughter.

Nature has set a varying limit to all human endurance. One extra turn of

the tormentor's screw, and the spirit, so dauntless the moment before,

yields in abject submission. This young Canadian was very human indeed.

Menotah's laughter exceeded the extreme limit of his self-control.

So what happened during the next minute he hardly knew. The forest had

melted away, drawn back as it were into the mysterious night; his eyes

saw nothing but the alluring loveliness beyond his body felt nothing,

beyond the strange warmth of passion. Memory, duty, danger, became empty

words that had no meaning.

He felt that he had moved forward with a sudden motion, and maddened by

impulse. He was conscious of a lovely face with red, curling lips

upturned to his, of liquid eyes, and a soft mouth wreathed in smiles.

So near, so close, he could feel the warmth emanating from her young

body, with the fanning breath playing like a summer breeze around his

neck. This was a gift reserved for him, and sent to him alone.

Then his eager arms darted forward, but met nothing save cold, dewy

bushes. His hot, excited lips came only in contact with the keen air of

a northern night, while the melodious echo of a clear, departing voice

mocked his ears.

So, when understanding returned to his brain, he found himself alone,

standing beneath the gloomy trees, with the night shadows falling

thickly round his head. In the neighbouring bush great frogs were

chirping derisively. The air became suddenly chilly, while life seemed a

burden.

There was something in his hands--his eyes became fastened upon a

trailing festoon of green leaves studded with bright red berries, which

flickered from his fingers irresolutely beneath the breeze.

[1] Lake Winnipeg.

CHAPTER IV

THE FORT

Before a low fringe of willow undergrowth, which gradually led up to the

first thick bank of firs, spread a narrow strip of turf, not more than

fifty feet in width, and terminating in the broken cliff line of the

Great Saskatchewan River.[1] Scattered irregularly along this undulating

grass expanse appeared great rocks, deeply imbedded for the most part in

the soil, some, indeed, not exhibiting more than an iron-grey splinter,

which protruded aggressively from the turf in the shape of a grotesque

nose or elbow.

At one side of this small clearing uprose a single-storey hut. This was

built of unshapen logs, whitewashed, the crevices being filled in with

mud; while, not more than a dozen yards distant, another equally

incomplex building stood close to a lofty fir, which had been denuded of

all branches and converted into a natural flagstaff. Here two flags

indolently whipped the air. Above flew the ever-victorious ensign of

England; below, that of the Hudson's Bay Company.

In a southerly direction, lying between the forest line and cliff brink,

were dotted small huts at long intervals. These were all grass-roofed

and innocent of windows, other than a square cut hole at one side of

each dwelling, while occasionally the smoke-begrimed apex of an Indian

_tépee_ forced itself from the thick of a separate tree clump. Yet, for

all this, no human being appeared in sight; no canoe sped bird-like over

the waters of the Saskatchewan; no sounds of human activity uprose on

the breeze.

In the principal room, or office usually styled, of the log fort, which

was the whitewashed hut situated a few yards from the cliff brink, and

beside the flagstaff, two men were creating conversation by a simple

process of mutual disagreement. A dilapidated sofa, minus legs,

supported on two boxes; a deal wood table, well chipped with knives; an

aged writing desk, and small bookcase crammed to overflowing with all

kinds of literature, ranging from a translation of Homer and

yellow-covered narratives of sanguinary impossibilities to a treatise on

the parables, and a deep work of Hooker's--such were the chief articles

of furniture in the room. Behind the door, unmethodical hands had piled

a stack of dirty boots and empty bottles, while hard by an assortment of

guns and rifles stood supported by the log wall.

Behind were two other apartments, used respectively as bed and store

room, while, running from the centre of the building, a passage had

recently been erected, which led into a diminutive kitchen, where at the

present moment a half-breed cook was preparing supper for the garrulous

mouths within.

From a small window in the back room the great river could be readily

scanned. At this point the stream of the great Saskatchewan was

unusually wide, being divided by a long, though somewhat narrow island,

thickly covered with vegetation, and rising to some height above water

level.

Conspicuous in the centre appeared a tree-environed hut. This rough

habitation was the property of the H.B.C, and had been erected some

years back to afford a harbour of refuge for any officers of the Company

who might be compelled to retreat from the fort on the main bank, owing

to Indian hostility.

Into the office a subtle aroma of supper stew crept insidiously, while

the two disputants became refreshed into other differences by the

pleasant anticipation of a satisfactory meal. Chief Factor McAuliffe

rose from the box on which he had been seated, and having opened the

door gazed up and down along the river bank. This representative of the

most powerful company in the world presented a strange appearance. His

was an average height, yet he was broad and strongly built, of great

strength and activity, in spite of his age, which hovered in close

proximity to the three score. His immense head, posed on a bull-like

neck, and the determined set of every muscle in his face, betokened an

obstinate character, which would never allow itself to be thwarted by

even a superior--either in argument or actual fight--whether he were in

the right or wrong. His black beard and moustache, plentifully

besprinkled with grey, had recently been clipped into short lines of

bristles, evidently by the amateur hand of one of his companions, while

the same inquisitorial agency had ruthlessly reaped the hair on his

scalp as close to the skull as scissors could touch. His costume was

primitive and economical.

The other occupant of the room was a tall, ungainly man, who moved with

stiff motions, and swung his arms with the mechanical action of

semaphore signals whenever exacted. This was extremely often, for he and

McAuliffe were generally bickering over some question, raised by the

one, merely for the sake of argument, and as warmly refuted by the

other. Externally there was little remarkable about Peter Denton, as

this individual was named. He owned a yellow moustache, coarse hair of

the same complexion, and watery-blue eyes. Internally he was complicated

and extraordinary.

The Factor stood at the open door, watching the slowly gathering shadows

lengthening upon the trees. At length he remarked abruptly, 'Don't catch

any signs of the other boys, Justin. Time they were back, for it's bad

travelling in the forest after dark.'

The half-breed was arranging the table. He turned his head, gave a low

grunt, then spread out his fingers in the air. 'Moose,' he ejaculated.

'That's so, I reckon. They're on a fresh track, and don't feel like

giving up.'

'Let boy look,' said Justin, pointing a crooked forefinger. 'His eyes

good.' Then he moved towards the kitchen with a dull chuckle.

The Factor wheeled round, his great face aglow. 'His eyes! I could make

better ones out of a toad's body. They're like a potato's--only fit to

be cut out and chucked away.'

Denton's hollow voice sounded from a corner, where he sat mending a

coat. 'Make use of your eyes in searching after righteousness, as I've

done, Alfred. Perhaps then there would be still a chance of escaping the

lake of fire which yawns beneath your feet.'

'I'm glad you allow you haven't found righteousness, Peter. By the way

you're searching, you can go on until they want you 'way under. I never

found any use striking north when I wanted to get south.'

Denton wagged his head mournfully. 'The time must come when you will be

cut down and perish in your sins.'

'Don't take trouble, Peter. The good are taken early, mind; so there's a

pile of years ahead for you after I've gone.' And McAuliffe chuckled

loudly.

Denton was ready with rebuke.

'I'd like you to listen a few hours to the preaching of our pastor, Dr

McKilliam. But that holy man would refuse to cast his pearls before such

swine.'

The Factor was more interested. 'None of your ministers could knock

spots off my hide. Talk of preaching! Why, I've heard our Dr Bryce

preach on hell-fire, until everyone in the congregation was fairly

sweating.'

Denton groaned and cast his eyes upward. 'Well you might sweat, with

your sins staring you in the face. But if you come to preaching, I've

heard our minister talk for three hours without a break, except to tell

a stranger to quit throwing orange peel around the church. When he'd

finished, the congregation clapped so loudly that he had to bow his

acknowledgments three times from the pulpit. I tell you, we advertised

that in the papers, and filled our church to the doors within the

month.'

'With a lot of bummers who hadn't any comfortable place to sleep in

Sunday nights. I heard one of your ministers preach once, and 'twas

worse than chloroform. They might have taken a leg off me without my

knowing it.'

Here Justin entered with a steaming bowl of stewed moose meat and

prairie spinach. This he set on the table, then pointed maliciously at

Denton. 'Boy preach,' he said. 'I hear him.'

The Factor at once interposed. 'You're right, Justin. This fifth-rate

specimen of humanity the Company's burdened me with, used to be a

minister in the summer and a bar-tender in the winter. When it was hot,

he cursed fellows for drinking cool-eyes, and reminded them there was a

sultry place all ready for their whisky-black souls. During the cold

weather, he put in his time making fellows drunk, and getting full

himself.'

Denton fired up instantly. 'Whoever told you that is a right friend for

you. He's as bad a liar--'

'Then you must have converted him, Peter. He was straight enough when I

last came across him,' said the Factor. 'I suppose you'll say next you

never ran that menagerie?'

'I do,' said Denton, sullenly. 'My only dealings with menageries were to

denounce them as sinful pleasures.'

McAuliffe whistled. 'Better get outside, Justin, before the roof

tumbles.' He glanced admiringly at Denton. You're wasting good talents,

Peter. If I could lie like you, I'd expect to make my fortune in a few

years as newspaper correspondent. See here a minute, Justin, while I

show him up. This spot of dirt turned up one Sunday evening at his

church, so full he couldn't see straight. He started in to work by

cursing all the black sheep that had come to hear him. Of course they

couldn't take that. They'd got to obey their natural instinct of

hyprocrisy, though they might envy their minister's power of language.

So they took Mister Man, and fired him out of the place, which is the

only good deed they're ever likely to have to look back upon. Then he

makes off with another deadbeat, and starts a kind of show outside the

town--this was in Port Arthur, mind. He used to stand on a chair by the

door of the tent, with dollar bills stuck in his hat brim, trying to

catch the people's money. I tell you, what with the menagerie by day,

and with shooting loaded craps by night, these two blacklegs looted a

pile of dollars out of the pockets of decent citizens.'

Denton raised his head from the half-mended coat, and said sulkily,

'You're a shameless liar, Alfred! It stamps a man for life to be seen in

your company.'

'So it does, Peter,' said the Factor, heartily; 'let's shake on that. If

you're seen along with me a few more months, some folks may begin to

think of trusting you. Don't lose heart, lad. There's hope even for the

worst.'

'Not when a man gets to your state,' retorted Denton.

The Factor laughed. 'That's a sharp answer for you, Peter. You're

learning fast under me. If you keep that pace--steer clear of brain

fever and such diseases--you'll perhaps be able to give an answer to a

ten-year-old child in another five years. Can't promise all that, Peter;

but it's wonderful what perseverance will do.'

Denton extended a denouncing and dirty forefinger at the Factor's broad

chest. 'Stop your wicked judgment of fellow creatures!--you, who walk

through life with the mark of Satan on your knee!'

McAuliffe's nether garments were fashioned out of sacking originally

used for packing liquor cases. Consequently, on that portion of the

garment indicated, a lurid red star was visible above the stencilled

letters--'Old Rye Whisky.'

'We differ again, Peter. It's better having it on the knee than the

forehead. You're wonderful jealous to-night. It's the minister talking,

instead of the bar-tender.'

'I never was a bar-tender,' said the other sullenly.

The Factor glanced at the heavens. 'It's going to be a fine night, with

full moon. Don't get spoiling it by bringing up a thunderstorm. Were you

ever a minister? Let's have a bit of truth. You're getting monotonous,

Peter.'

Denton was about to return an angry reply, when the half-breed again

appeared and pointed significantly to the waiting supper.

McAuliffe paced to the door with the exclamation, 'Say, Justin, I wish

those fellows were back.'

'It's near quarter to nine,' muttered Denton.

'And your insides are aching for grub--might as well say so right out.'

The Factor turned back into the room. 'Well, if they must stay away half

the night, they can't expect us to keep a look-out. Come on, Justin.

Pass me over that sturgeon steak before Peter gets his teeth against

it.'

The three gathered round the crazy table, and for a few minutes there

was silence of tongues.

Thus quarter of an hour passed. Then the Factor cleaned a greasy hand

upon his beard, and stretched himself with a sigh of satisfaction. He

drew out his pipe, and had just commenced to shave a plug of T.&B., when

Justin raised his hand and whistled in a manner peculiar. McAuliffe

understood the signal. He listened, and presently there came dull,

distant sounds from without.

His face grew very grave, while the knife in his hand tapped gently upon

the table. An ashen hue crept over Denton's sallow features. Nearer came

the sounds and louder, as they spread towards the fort through

thickening shadows and the white dews of night.

Then McAuliffe spoke. 'That's Kitty. I know that gallop of hers. Goldam!

how she's tumbling through the bush!'

The night was fearfully still--not a breath stirring the tree tops.

Above, the stars were lit one by one.

Justin pushed back the door, and listened stolidly to the crashing of

green boughs, the snapping of dead branches, the sharp click of hoofs

against rock splinters. Inside--no sound, except the Factor's deep

breathing, and an irregular tattoo, produced by Denton's heels tapping

upon the floor. Then he turned, and, without altering a muscle in his

heavy face, began to load the rifles and lay them out upon the table.

The Factor peered into the darkness, for the moon had not yet risen.

'She'll be clear presently,' he said carelessly. 'Reckon young Winton

got switched off from Billy. Then he got bothered by a touch of forest

fright and lost his herd. What the devil you doing, Justin?'

The half-breed was methodically counting out shells. He glanced up and

said laconically, '_Nitchies_!'

'Pshaw! you're crazy, boy. There's no rebellion up here.'

Justin grunted. 'You wrong. Riel send message. They paint and fight. You

see.' Then he coolly fell to oiling his rifle, while a fresh wave of

fear passed over the shivering Denton.

The Factor swore quietly. The next moment a grey mare dashed furiously

from the darkness. At the door she pulled up panting, with blood-red

nostrils, her sides covered with foam-sweat, while a figure tumbled

helplessly from the improvised saddle.

McAuliffe caught him as he staggered forward, and half carried him

inside.

Justin stood by the mare, with his rifle at the ready, and his bead-like

eyes staring into the gloom, but there was no sign of pursuer. The black

trees whispered solemnly in a light breeze.

'Fetch my whisky keg along!' bellowed McAuliffe. 'Give the boy a good

dram, and damn the water.'

Denton shuffled off to obey, while Justin's voice came rolling inside

with weird effect. 'Billy!--be gone!'

The Factor's great hands shook as he administered the liquor. Winton

gasped and clutched at him.

'Don't claw me; I'm not a _nitchi_. Now, then, you're right again, eh?'

The young fellow struggled up and glared round wildly. 'So it's you,

Alf?'

'That's what. Old Billy's coming on behind?'

Winton shuddered. The words rattled forth like shot upon a hollow wall.

'They've fixed him.'

Justin entered in time to catch this. The long hair at the sides of his

face shook solemnly. 'I tell you; _nitchies_ fight. See, boy?'

McAuliffe was wiping his massive forehead with an oily rag the

half-breed had recently employed for gun-cleaning purposes. 'Mix me a

glass, Justin--a stiff one to straighten my nerves out. Goldam! this

corks me.'

Winton blinked his eyes like an owl in the sunlight. 'He's dead. Plugged

by those devilish _nitchies_! Then he briefly told his tale.

'You didn't see him corpsed?' cried the Factor, eagerly.

'Next thing. The shot, groan, the fall--all the rest.'

'This fairly sets me on the itch,' said the Factor, pacing up and down.

'Poor old Billy. Goldam! I'd like to get my axe alongside the skull of

the skunk who did the lead-pumping business. I'd set his body to pickle,

I tell you.'

'Vengeance will fall upon the wicked man who striketh his neighbour

secretly,' came in a weak voice from the corner. 'Let us watch and

pray.' Denton became himself again when he understood that Winton was

unpursued.

'Never mind him,' said McAuliffe, generally. 'He's only a crazy kind of

fool, anyhow. He don't know what he's talking about.'

Again Justin's dark hand shot upward, and the warning whistle sounded.

He set his head forward, then remarked, as though it were the most

natural thing in the world, 'Boy coming.'

Denton's heels recommenced their tattoo, while the others caught up

their guns. The moon was rising now, and some silvery rays slanted

through the window. Suddenly a heavy knock fell upon the door.

'Ho!' cried the half-breed through a crack.

'Open up,' came back the answer in pure English.

'Goldam!' shouted McAuliffe, 'it's the devil, or a pal of his.'

The door creaked back. On the threshold, with the night behind, stood a

young man, a rifle swinging from his hand.

'Chief Factor McAuliffe, I reckon?' he said smoothly, entering the fort.

'That's so,' the burly Factor replied. 'The devil bless me if I know who

you are.'

_'Benedicite!'_ laughed the new-comer, a strange smile crossing his

handsome face. 'My name is Hugh Lamont--at the service of the Hudson's

Bay Company,' he concluded.

'I guess the Company can hustle along without smashing your shoulders,'

returned McAuliffe, who was absolute despot of the district.

'I'm not so sure,' came the cool answer. 'This is a bad time for

modesty, so I'll hurt my feelings to the extent of letting you know that

there isn't a man in the Dominion who can down me at any range with

rifle or revolver. Like to try?'

This was an unfortunate challenge. McAuliffe was accustomed to boast of

being the worst shot on the Continent. It was, however, a fact that he

was perfectly useless as a marksman.

'You've just come from the Lord knows where to tell me that,' he shouted

angrily. 'Just you quit your shooting toy, and get your arms round my

body. I tell you, I could throw your weight from here to the forest.'

Lamont laughed contemptuously. He glanced through the window at the

Saskatchewan burning beneath the moon, then remarked, 'I guess you'll be

hearing an owl pumping out hoots round here presently.'

'Let them hoot,' said the Factor, hotly. 'Goldam! the derned old owls

don't have to ask your permission--'

'These owls don't grow feathers on their skins,' continued the young

man, unmoved. 'The kind that'll be hooting presently are just now laying

paint on their faces, and fixing up their shooters.'

Then the others gathered round him at once.

'What's that?' cried the Factor. 'Never mind my crazy talk. What are the

_nitchies_ after?'

'They're going to clear you out at midnight,' replied Lamont,

nonchalantly.

* * * * *

Quarter of an hour later, the position had been discussed and plan of

action determined on. There was only one course open, namely, a retreat

to the island on mid-stream, where they would be fairly safe against a

small attacking force. It was then two hours before midnight, so they

had ample time.

Angry and excited, McAuliffe paced the narrow floor, his great voice

booming forth like a bull's bellow. Lamont took a seat at the table, and

coolly attacked the remnants of the supper with the hearty appetite of

hunger. Winton stood upright, refreshed and ready to meet the men who

had cut short the career of his hunter friend. Nobody noticed Denton

squirming in a dark corner.

'Boys, we must be shifting. Say, Justin, the York boat lies right below,

eh?'

The half-breed grunted, while the Factor continued, 'Let's get. Don't

make more noise than you want to. We'll fix up and come back for you,

Lamont,' he concluded, with the easy familiarity of the country.

The three men left the fort, and followed a winding path along the side

of the cliff. Drawn up on a narrow sandspit, like some antediluvian

monster, lay a black York boat, which was dragged by concerted effort to

the water's edge. Then burdens were disposed of, Justin left on guard,

while the others climbed back up the stony pathway, talking in loud

tones, as though there were no such things as Indians in the world.

McAuliffe, who had given the warning, was of course principal offender.

Yet it was difficult to be low-spirited on such a night.

There was no wind--no sound, except a soft sighing over the waters, and

a whispering through scarce quivering leaves. The moon, rising in her

silvery glory, cast over the lonely forest and glittering river track a

gorgeous mantle of light, investing all things with mystical shadow of

unreality. The shimmering foliage of the bushes, agitated by the bodies

of the men as they passed, appeared bathed in a flood of radiance, while

from the point of each jewelled leaf small dewdrops fell like pearls in

a shower of silver. Across the river a broad ladder of light lay

shivering and burning. Little gilded serpents wound their phosphorescent

coils from wave to wave, darting to each side of the glowing road into

blacker water, then casting tiny lamps of fire and points of beauty upon

the curling crest of each murmuring ripple. Again they darted back, to

receive new energy, while in a breath the eye was dazzled anew by fresh

wonders.

Above, in a clear sky, the constellations glimmered faintly, their

beauty somewhat dimmed by the nearer glories of earth's satellite. A few

fragile _cirri_ floated, like dream spirits, beneath the blue expanse,

while, in the distance, long auroral streamers, indistinct cones and

spindles of vapour, shot upward from an arched smoky cloud, rising a few

degrees above the northern horizon.

'Wonder they didn't make off with the boat,' said Winton, as they

struggled along the difficult track.

'The devils are too clever; it would have given us fair warning. They

couldn't have dragged the old ark far without bringing Justin down. The

old chap can see everything.'

'Grand night, isn't it?'

'Fine,' agreed McAuliffe, slapping his mighty chest. 'Just the time when

a fellow feels like devilry of some sort. Give me the night, a good moon

lighting up the trees, a clear sky and soft wind, and I'm fit to throw a

dozen men one after the other. Time of day makes a lot of difference to

me. In the morning, I feel sort of weak, and want to knock around doing

woman's chores. Noon, I'm for eating; while in the afternoon, I'm bound

to stretch out my legs and pull at the pipe. But when the darkness comes

round, I begin to feel good. I want to use up my spare strength on

anything handy. The night's the time, I tell you. When you're tired,

there's always a glass of whisky and bed waiting. What more can a man

want?'

'Only home and friends,' muttered the other, in a low voice.

Lamont, in the meantime, was left to himself, as he thought, in the

fort. So, as he satisfied the cravings of man within, he speculated upon

the possibility of danger for man without. For that night he would have

his hands full. The Factor was useless as a rifle shot, so they were

very short-handed. Still, his own aim was unerring.

He smiled to himself, as he lay back in a bright ray of moonlight. A

scene of blood, burnt powder, shrieking bullets, and cries of agony rose

before him. He saw again that desperate struggle at Fish Creek. A

gallant, though straggling, line of the 90th, Manitoba's pride, came

charging recklessly up the flowery slope--there were brave boys in the

90th, but they lacked good leadership. Young boys from the Red River

Valley, with sterner fighters from Fort Garry. Up they came, their

beardless faces red with determination and heat of battle. But many of

them were dropped silently at long range, and fell upon the soft bed of

prairie grass, bleeding from a mortal wound.

Lamont's smile grew crueller, as he saw again a lithe, graceful figure

stretched along a declivity in the ridge, with cheek cuddling a rifle

stock. Every time that weapon spoke, one of the 90th boys grabbed the

air and tumbled. Riel had at least one powerful auxiliary at the Creek.

Shuffling movements in an opposite corner brought him back to the

present. He uttered a quick exclamation, then snatched up the lamp and

held it above his head. As a dark body stirred slowly, his brow grew

damp and his face white. But the blood returned slowly to his face, when

the feeble rays smote upon the abject countenance of the miserable

Denton. 'I thought I was alone,' he said, with a short laugh. 'Are you

one of the crowd?'

Denton crept up to the table, with shivering limbs and ghastly eyes.

'You're looking sick,' Lamont continued. 'What were you doing in that

corner?'

'I was asleep,' came the shaky answer. 'My eyes were weary from much

searching of the Scriptures.'

The young man laughed openly. 'I guess a rifle will be of more use to

you than the Scriptures to-night.'

The other grabbed his arm. 'Say, this is just a job you're putting up on

McAuliffe, eh?'

'You keep your ears fairly active when you're asleep. But it's true

enough, siree. The _nitchies_ are on the red-hot jump for us.'

'We shall be killed,' quavered Denton, with hands shaking like river

reeds.

A hearty roar of laughter burst from the doorway as the Factor's burly

figure blocked the aperture. 'The _nitchies_ are after you, Peter, so

you'll be killed sure. Never mind, lad. You're all the time saying you

can see the gates of the heavenly city open before you. Kind of anxious

now whether you haven't switched off on a side track, eh?'

Lamont sprang to his feet, passing his fingers caressingly round the

rifle stock. 'I'm ready to shift, Factor. The sooner we're over the

better. There may be spies around.'

'They're dead sure we're trapped,' said McAuliffe 'Anyway, we'll be as

easy there as here. Get a gait on, Peter. We're going to stick you up

the end of the island, same as we used to fix up a pole with old clothes

on it, in the fields at home, to scare away the crows.'

'Choke off, Alf,' interposed Winton. 'If you chaps start that chin

music, we sha'n't get away before sunrise.'

'Well, I'm not delaying you. Peter's mismanager here. Goldam! listen to

that, will you?'

His face grew stern again, and he held up a great hairy hand.

'The half-breed's whistle,' said Lamont. 'There's danger around.'

'Shut the door!' shouted the ex-minister, wildly.

'Quit your blasted noise. There it comes. Goldam! listen to it.'

Again the weird conflict of sounds proceeded from the forest. There was

a great crashing of branches, the sharp striking of hoofs upon rock, the

heavy plungings of a frightened animal. Up from the river came the

second warning whistle.

The moonlight poured into the room; the Factor dashed outside, with

weighty axe in his hands; the next minute a loud oath rolled off his

tongue.

A black horse was pawing at the turf. At every sound he flung up his

head and trembled, while his eyes glittered savagely.

'You tell me old Billy's been fixed by _nitchies_?' shouted McAuliffe.

'If anyone says that, it's a dam' great lie. There's been filthy work

around here to-night, boys, or I'm talking through my hat.'

Then Lamont came forward, with his usual grace of motion. 'You're

right,' he said slowly; 'the rifle's strapped to the saddle yet. No

Indian would lose such a chance.'

The Factor bit at his moustache, and glanced round towards Winton

beneath heavy eyebrows. Midway his gaze was arrested by Lamont, and the

two stared at each other in the white light. McAuliffe was the first to

lower his gaze.

Kitty, the grey one-eyed mare, came and rubbed her nose against the

black horse. Then an owl hooted loudly from the edge of the bush.

A weird shriek came from the interior of the fort.

'It's the signal!' exclaimed Winton, excitedly.

'That's the genuine moper,' said the Factor, sullenly. 'Come on, boys,

let's get across the water. I reckon the devil himself's among us

to-night.'

[1] The less known Little Saskatchewan empties itself into the lake on

the opposite side, about forty miles further south.

CHAPTER V

THE FIGHT

A long hour had dragged away. The moon, then a glowing disc of radiance,

had reached the centre of the heavens, and cast over the northern land a

shivering mantle of white light.

On the long, wooded island, round which the mighty river hissed and

murmured, five men were stationed at various points. Sheltered behind

the efficient rampart of the black York boat, which had been drawn up on

the shingle beach, Lamont knelt, nursing his rifle. He had taken off his

coat to sling over head and neck, for protection against the mosquitoes

that swarmed in malignant numbers between river and under growth. Before

him a delicate green poplar branch waved from the boat. This concealed

the gleam of his weapon without interfering with his sight.

Not far distant Winton lay stretched along a fir-shadowed rock, the

slime-green base of which was washed by the lipping waves. He kept a

watchful eye on the opposite shore, while pulling strongly at a short

pipe.

In the dark shadows behind, the comedy of a melodrama was being

rehearsed. McAuliffe, self-appointed leader of the defence party, having

placed his crack shots, paced up and down before the log hut, drawing

ghastly pictures of a probably impending fate for the benefit of the

terror-stricken Denton. As his mercurial excitement increased, he swung

his only weapon--a keen-edged bush axe--over his head, while at each

flash of the metal the quondam bar-tender shrank back with a fresh

shudder. Reproof came at length from young Winton.

'Say, Alf, that axe shines like lightning. You're raising an awful

racket.'

The Factor quickly lowered his weapon. 'You're right. I'm just

explaining things to Peter, though. He wants to know which is the

position of danger, as he's dead set on getting it. There's a lion's

heart under Peter's modesty, I tell you.'

Winton chuckled softly, and carefully struck a match. With huge relish,

the Factor continued, 'See here, Peter, when the _nitchies_ get hold of

you they'll start to work and strip you bare as a shell-fish. Likely

then they'll fix you up with a tight suit of paint trimmed with

atmosphere. Wonderful playful they can be when they set their minds to

it. Shouldn't wonder if they didn't pour oil on your wool and touch it

up with a light; just to see how you'd dance, or hear the talk you used

preaching. They've got lots of fun in them, Peter. All they want's a

fellow with humour, one that could see the point of their jokes. You'd

do that fine. Might stick skewers into your stomach to try your

digestion, or--'

Here the rifle Denton had been grasping gingerly fell with a crash.

Small sweat-beads stood upon his white forehead.

'Hold on!' cried McAuliffe, with more concern, 'we haven't got too many

rifles as it is. Pick up that shooter, and just come along with me.

Don't point the derned thing at my stomach.'

'It's not loaded,' stammered the ex-minister.

'Not loaded!' shouted the Factor, in a voice that might almost have been

heard at the mouth of the Saskatchewan. 'You old doodle-nowl! I reckon

you think that when you point it at a _nitchi_ he's going to tumble dead

just to oblige you. Here, hand over your shells, while I pack the thing

for you.'

'I haven't any,' quavered Denton.

'I'd like to know darned well what you have got, outside a lump of

pigeon heart and chunk of white liver. Justin!'

The half-breed appeared at the low doorway.

'Give me some shells,' continued the Factor. 'And--Goldam!'

After his favourite oath, the agile tongue became silent. From the

distant forest came the solemn hooting of an owl. The dreary sound hung

solemnly over the water. Again it screeched forth, then a third time.

Lamont shifted his position slightly, while a light glittered in his

keen eyes. Winton slipped the warm pipe into his pocket, and nervously

rubbed at his arms, to remove a suggestion of stiffness. Justin handed a

fistful of shells to the Factor, then proceeded unconcernedly to the

water's edge. Squatting on his haunches he wrenched a large tobacco-wad

from a black plug, then leaned over towards his neighbour and grunted.

Winton looked across inquiringly. 'Tobak?' queried the half-breed,

extending the greasy plug.

The young man shook his head.

'Good,' affirmed Justin, touching his right eye and raising the rifle to

his shoulder.

'No good to me,' came the answer. So Justin grunted again, while his

jaws moved faster.

McAuliffe dropped his axe and vigorously forced the shells into the

rifle chamber. Then he shoved the weapon into Denton's hand, and hurried

him over the shingle with the remark, 'Now chuck off the fleece, Peter.

Be a ravening wolf, and worthy of the Company. We've got to fight, and

there's no flies on it. You do your biz to-night, and I'll let you hold

a prayer meeting in the fort when everything's over. Think of that,

Peter.'

Then he passed to the others, with axe under arm, kicking up the wet

sand and muttering, 'Darn it, why can't I shoot? I'd give my nose and

ears to be able to send a bullet straight.'

The minutes dragged heavily after the signal had been given. McAuliffe

stood in a deep shadow, leaning forward on his axe. He fixed his gaze

upon the low, whitewashed walls of the fort--where his best years had

been spent in isolation from the world--showing ghastly in the

moonlight; he looked on to the open space, with the black rocks and long

forest shadows, then at the motionless bank of trees, which concealed

the approaching foe. Casting his eyes higher, he beheld the majestic

flag of England swaying listlessly from the denuded fir; yet higher--he

saw the pale stars, and for the moment wondered what lay beyond.

Justin's small eyes were keener even than Lamont's, for he it was who

first perceived dark forms, half concealed by bushes they were carrying,

winding in single file round the base of the cliff. He gave his low

whistle, then deliberately glanced an eye along his sights.

The Factor was sprawling along the shingle, watching the Indians as they

commenced to climb the cliff face, led by one man particularly agile. He

muttered softly, 'They're fooled by the light you left burning, Justin.

Goldam! I'd like to be on top of that cliff now. This old axe of mine

would rattle among their jawbones!'

Then Lamont turned himself and called, 'Say, boys, I want you to give me

first shot.'

A word, then a grunt, came back by way of assent, but there was no third

voice.

'Wonder what Peter's doing,' resumed McAuliffe. 'Hope he won't play

monkey tricks with us, anyway. If he aims this way, we're right enough;

but if he shoots at the _nitchies_, there's a fair chance for one of us

to damage a bullet.'

That unearthly silence still brooded over the great river and lonely

forest. The northern lights crept higher up the sky with a stronger

glow. A few sounds, which intensified the solitude, beat the air--the

sharp chirping of frogs from the white muskegs behind, the sullen roar

of great rapids miles up stream, the piercing refrain of the chief of

insect pests.

The tall leader crept up the cliff front, followed by his companions,

their bodies flattened against the rock. On the island shore lay Lamont,

rifle to shoulder, his cheek caressing the stock, head leaning over as

though in sleep. He might have been a stone figure. Another minute, and

the leader came up to the summit. He shot forth a long arm to seize the

overhanging rock cornice and drag his body over the ledge. But, as he

did so, two or three pale blue smoke rings circled peacefully from the

island, to float down with the murmuring river. Afterwards came a

whip-like _crack_, which set the wild northern echoes shrieking.

The leader flung up both arms with convulsive action, then crashed

backward, down amongst his followers, sweeping them to the cruel rocks

and sand beach beneath. Then Lamont aroused himself and looked round for

criticism.

McAuliffe shambled up from his bed of loose stones with ungraceful

motions. Up and down the beach he went, laughing and bellowing,

bull-like, in his excitement.

'Goldam!' he shouted again and again. 'That beats all! That's the

daisiest thing in long shots I've ever blinked at! Goldam, Lamont!

you're a peach! Brought them all down, by the almighty Jerusalem! Every

dirty, lickspittle squaw's papoose! Here they are again. Pump away your

lead, boys. Goldam! Goldam!'

The attacking party from the forest appeared out in the open. Some

ventured round the corner of the fort, and these discovered the fate of

their companions. But directly they showed themselves, three shots rang

out sharply.

The Factor narrowly escaped wounding his leg with the axe in his

evolutions. He puffed out his beard, while his great red face glowed and

shone. 'I tell you, you're doing fine, boys. You picked off that big

fellow as though he'd been a chicken on a fence post, Justin. Hope he

isn't dead, though; he owes the Company for a pair of blankets. Look at

that, would you?'

Small shot whistled through the air, pattering against rocks, through

leaves, and dropping like hail into the river. The natives had fired a

volley from their old muzzle loaders, which were almost useless at the

distance. Then the attacking party, evidently disappointed and

mystified, withdrew again into the forest.

The defenders left their post and came round McAuliffe, with the

unimportant exception of Denton. A sharp query at once arose, 'Where's

that derned skunk, Peter?'

The half-breed jerked his head towards the trees, and muttered, 'He no

good.'

'The mean devil. He can shoot well if he wants. I'm going to track him

up, then tie him down to his place.'

'What's the good, Alf?' said Winton. 'Let him alone. He won't be any

good if you do find him.'

The other yielded. 'Well, well, I guess you're right. Now I wonder what

scheme the rascals t'other side mean working.'

'Get canoe,' said Justin, abruptly.

'I reckon. Then they'll try their dirtiest to land. I shall have my

chores to see to soon as they cross the Jordan. How many boats, Justin?'

The half-breed held up a hand, then replied, 'Canoe; one boat.'

'Five canoes and a York,' said McAuliffe, interpreting the sign

language. 'That's rough. There's not another tribe in the district with

a York boat. This is an old one; used to belong to the Company. It may

be leaky, still I reckon it'll do the trip.'

'How large is the tribe?' asked Lamont.

'Small. Not more than sixty males, counting the old 'uns and boys. We

should be able to hold them off.'

'Hope they'll soon come,' said Winton, stretching his long arms.

McAuliffe passed his thumb across the axe edge. 'I reckon this is an

interval for refreshment,' he observed. 'There should be a bottle in the

hut, boys. Let's turn in for a nerve-straightener and a bit of plug.

Justin'll whistle out when we're wanted.'

Then they disappeared within, while the night silence grew again.

About half an hour had slipped away, before the half-breed's whistle

gave warning of danger. The men were quickly back in their places, to

see a couple of canoes working up stream, hugging the opposite bank

closely.

Lamont knelt for a time at the side of the half-breed, talking and

explaining. Justin nodded and grunted as a sign of understanding, then

took a fresh wad of chew, and, without the least outward show of

interest, watched the progress of the enemy.

McAuliffe now wore the axe strapped to his back, and appeared with a

huge breech loader, which he had loaded with No. 2 shot and a heavy

charge. This was for close quarters.

But as he scanned the moon-lit prospect, his peace of mind was

considerably perturbed by a slight, yet sufficiently significant omen.

The rope might have been tampered with by some Indian, or the slight

wind might possibly have loosened the rings, but it was certain that the

two flags, which recently had fluttered in their proper places, were now

hanging at half-mast.

The Factor was superstitious, like most northerners, so the sight

troubled him. It did not appear as though the others had noticed the

change--Justin would not have understood the meaning of the sign--and

this was perhaps as well.

A gaunt, flat-bottomed York boat came suddenly round the bend in

mid-stream. Six paddles flashed on either side between water and

moonlight. Even so, progress was slow.

'Ready, Justin?' called Lamont, quickly. A sonorous grunt.

'First canoe.'

Brief silence, then a double report. Two Indians, one at each end of the

leading canoe, staggered and fell over the side. Immediately the

birch-shell overturned, and cast its occupants into the river.

But the black York boat came steadily on. In vain Justin crashed his

bullets through the thick sides. In vain Lamont skilfully pierced the

planking beneath water line. The gaunt bulwarks of this floating castle

grew nearer. Even Justin shook his head and muttered, 'Bad!' McAuliffe

swore and laid a brawny hand upon his axe. The boat was not more than a

stone's throw from the end of the island, when a canoe, just launched

from the opposite bank, came cutting a white line through the water. It

had already reached mid-stream, when a strong cry rose from Winton's

corner.

'What is it?' called McAuliffe, hurrying up.

'A canoe coming down stream. Not fifty yards off.'

'Attacked on three sides,' groaned the Factor, as he came to the young

man's side. 'Half a dozen in it. Anything would send it over. Winton,

boy, you must tackle it.'

'Right, Alf,' said the young fellow simply.

The Factor turned away heavily, but the voice behind called him back.

'Here, Alf, you've been square to the deadbeat.'

An oily, powder-stained hand was extended. McAuliffe clutched it in his

great fingers, then hurried along the loose shingle.

He soon came up with the half-breed, who was firing steadily, but

without apparent success, at the black boat. The Indians reserved their

fire for close quarters. With them reloading was a lengthy process.

For the time Lamont's skill seemed to have left him. Shot after shot he

aimed at the speeding canoe, but with no decisive result. At length his

nerve was restored, and he disabled the Indian in the bows. The next

time his rifle cracked, water poured through the birch bark, and the

frail canoe settled at once, not fifteen yards from shore. Then Lamont

pulled out his revolver, and coolly picked off the dark heads bobbing

among the waves caused by the furious struggles of desperate swimmers.

Hard by, young Winton toiled single-handed. With the speed and coolness

which had won him his football blue during that short 'Varsity career,

he aimed, fired and reloaded, though his boyish face grew pale at the

odds against him. If Lamont had only been by his side, as he so easily

might have been! Opportunities were narrowing down rapidly--the canoe

was perilously close, and so many of his bullets went astray.

Ah! that was a good shot. The canoe had overturned, but there were still

three men uninjured. One held his weapon above water, and clung to the

inverted canoe, which he steered towards land, employing it as a

life-buoy and shield. Also, he could rest his gun on the birch bark, and

take fairly deliberate aim. The other two reached shallow water, and

were making for the bank.

Winton pressed his lips fiercely, as, with a hand that trembled for the

first time that night, he fired at the approaching foe. The tension was

fearful, after the attack of deer fever and the fright of Sinclair's

end. If Lamont would only come! From the other end of the island came

the loud yells of Indians, and over all the roar of the Factor's deep

voice.

For McAuliffe's opening had arrived at last. With the imperturbable

Justin at his side, he 'lay for' that York boat. Hurriedly he explained,

'We must empty their guns, boy. When I call "down," flop for your life.'

With jerky motions the black monster drew down, the water rippling and

gurgling along the sides. Paddles flashed in the moonlight, while drops

rained from the quickly moving blades in fiery points of light.

Not more than a dozen yards distant, and a head appeared. Justin's rifle

flashed from the crook of his arm--a paddle dropped, and floated away

down stream. That was a shot Lamont might have envied. Three more

strokes, and a dozen pointing guns flashed within sight, as many painted

faces glared defiance from the stocks.

'Down!' roared McAuliffe, in a voice that set the leaves trembling.

Before the echoes threw back the sound, they were sprawling against the

wet sand. Literally at the same moment a thrilling report shrieked over

island, up river, across distant forests. Small boughs and bunches of

leaves rained from surrounding trees, while each trunk bled from a

thousand wounds. The shot crashed, like the bursting of a hurricane,

against the rocks, while the air was thick with fluttering wads, and

foul with powder.

A wild shout of triumph burst from the black boat. There were two

lifeless figures stretched upon the beach! So the paddles worked faster,

while the keel ground sullenly on fine sand. There was no thought of

concealment. Every warrior leaned over the side, laughing and howling in

foolish joy.

But as the smoke collected overhead in one large cloud, and commenced to

drift away, extraordinary animation visited one of the supposed corpses.

It sprang to its feet and rushed into the water, pointing a heavy gun.

At a merely nominal distance it levelled a great gun, then pulled the

trigger, with a result that it fell floundering backwards with the force

of recoil. It was up directly, spluttering and jubilant. 'You skunks!

I've fixed your dirty racket. Goldam! if I haven't made a straight shot

this journey, call me Ananias.'

Justin stood behind, stolidly chewing. He grunted and expressed his

feelings by the monosyllable, 'Good!'

The attacking party were quiet enough now, for there was hardly a single

man unwounded. True to their nature, all had emptied their guns

together. Now the foremost idea was immediate departure; so a couple of

men sprang overboard to push the boat off.

But McAuliffe threw down the gun, and swung round his axe. 'I'll spoil

the first man who starts shoving,' he said cheerfully.

The half-breed fired again, and a man who had been endeavouring secretly

to load his gun fell forward in the boat.

This robbed the Indians of their last vestige of determination. They all

cried aloud for mercy.

The Factor was now in his element. 'Throw up your hands! Come ashore one

by one, and fling down your fixings!'

This injunction was obeyed. The warriors threw knives and ammunition to

the beach, then stood with uplifted hands.

'Bring along that new rope, Justin!' The half-breed disappeared within

the hut, while McAuliffe, with the air of a general, reviewed his

prisoners. 'First that makes a break gets a bullet in his liver! If any

want to commit suicide, all he's got to do is move out of his place!'

When the rope was brought, Justin cut it into lengths, while his

superior, with considerable zest, fastened the hands of each warrior

behind his back. To each he addressed a few conciliatory remarks. Such

as to the leader,--

'Well, Muskwah, my boy, you've gone to work and made a derned fool of

yourself to-night. Now I've got to use a good bit of new rope to

decorate your arms; but see here, boy, I shall notch it down to your

score in the store books. You'll have to bring along a gallon of fish

oil to get square.'

However, it was not reserved for Justin to fire the last shot of the

fight.

His share of the work completed, Lamont exchanged rifle for pipe, and

began to chop at a plug of T.&B. Thus employed, he suddenly heard a

rattling of footsteps along the shingle towards his left. He turned,

expecting to see Winton; but it was a native, speeding along stealthily,

with a long knife in his hand.

Lamont dropped smoking materials, and with quick movement jerked up his

revolver. He was lying in a perfectly opaque shadow, so was safe from

the hostile eyes, which, indeed, never glanced in his direction.

Probably this man had some personal grudge against McAuliffe, and meant

now to settle it. How he had managed to elude Winton was a question

Lamont could not attempt to answer.

He crouched lower, and brought the muzzle down, until it finally rested

at the crook of his left elbow. His hand was like a rock. In the dim

light he could see his victim's head through the sight.

'Poor devil!' he muttered to himself, with a smile. 'I'll give him a few

more seconds to enjoy life in.'

The Indian slackened speed, then began to crawl towards a bush. Half a

dozen movements he made, then every muscle in his body tightened with a

strange agony. For a second he knelt, as though turned into stone, then

dropped over noiselessly, with right side pressing the sand, and head

supported on his bent arm, as though he had suddenly been overcome with

sleep. And a sleep it was--yet one which leaves the body for ever

silent.

CHAPTER VI

THE BREAKING OF THE DAWN

The prisoners had been secured to the last man when Lamont came slowly

along the beach. Then Justin tapped the Factor's arm, and said in his

usual direct manner, 'Chief coming.'

The last navigable birch bark was crossing the river in their direction.

When it came closer, the victors perceived two old men huddled together

in their blankets, like a couple of dreary crows. The paddle was wielded

deftly and gracefully by a young, slender girl, who knelt upright in the

centre, with her dark hair streaming and tossing behind.

Along the east, red light was waving and breaking. Misty clouds crept

over the forest, to burst in a soaring dew. Damp air crept from the

bosom of the Saskatchewan and made the men shiver. The night was merging

into a new day.

McAuliffe rubbed his hands briskly, and peered through the shadowy

gloom.

'It's old whisky bottle, sure enough. He's going to tumble to his knee

bones and lick my shoes.'

Lamont was gazing too--but not at the withered Chief. 'Who is the girl?'

he asked, with slow intonation.

The Factor laughed. 'She calls herself his daughter. How the shrivelled

old hulk can claim to be her father, darned if I know. She's a daisy, I

tell you. If she comes pleading for these fellows with her pretty face

held up, and the tears shining in her eyes--well, I shall likely make a

fool of myself.'

'What are you going to do with them, anyhow?'

'Let 'em go, soon as they've sworn not to fight against us again.

They're all heathens here, so will stay by their word. I've just fixed

them up to scare the old chap, and bring him to his senses. Here they

come. You watch me give old whisky bottle a good rubbing down.'

Justin came up with the two old men, not speaking but occasionally

tapping his rifle with a significant gesture, and grunting loudly.

Ahead, Menotah tripped gaily, full as ever of life and happiness, though

she had that night seen her tribe more than decimated. She was safe

enough in the hands of white men, who might be cruel, yet who always

fell down to worship beauty. Therefore she had twisted a fresh wreath

among her black tresses, and volunteered to lead her father with Antoine

to sue for pardon.

The girl's bright eyes were, however, quickly attracted and held.

Lamont, as he stood leaning against a fir, among the shadows slowly

turning from black to grey, was a sight good to look upon. He was

bareheaded, with the cool morning wind passing through his wavy hair.

The excitement of the fight still lingered over his refined face, while

a self-satisfied smile round the mouth and a certain tired look in the

eyes were both singularly adapted to that clear style of masculine

beauty he possessed in no ordinary degree.

To her it was as if the sun had just descended from heaven and taken the

form of a man. For the first time in her short life she found herself

conflicting with nervousness. This was of short duration, however. Then

she gave him a smiling glance, lightly touching with dainty finger tips

the bright wreath which twined along her thick fringe. He recalled the

scene of the previous evening, and smiled back.

This was McAuliffe's opportunity for asserting his power. Before him

stood the Chief, pleading and gesticulating, throwing the blame upon the

shoulders of the conveniently absent Riel and his associates, making

abundant promises for future obedience. Close by, old Antoine, the real

sower of strife, stood wrapped to the chin in his yellow blanket,

malevolent and silent.

The Factor listened with what he flattered himself was a frown of

judicial severity on his genial red face. Then he made a lamentable

effort to deliver himself of fulminations after the manner of the

Chief's grandiloquence.

'You've just gone to work and made everlasting moon-heads of

yourselves,' he thundered. 'You've tried to play monkey with the

Company, and fix its representatives. You've gone a peg worse, for

you've rebelled against the Great Mother.[1] She's not going to stand

your fooling, I tell you.' He shook a great fist in the direction of the

captives. 'Listen here, now. These fellows are all going to be shot

under the hour. As you two are bosses, and might feel sort of hurt going

along with the crowd, I'm going to let you down soft. All I'm going to

do is just string you both up to the big fir 'way side of the fort. May

you jump easy!' he concluded, with a dim sense of being called upon for

commendatory words by way of peroration.

The Chief shook like a jelly-stone, while Antoine began to display

feeble signs of interest. Then the former trembled to his knees and

wailed, 'Great Sun, from whom we receive light and food, have pity upon

your miserable servants. The wicked rebel Riel, who has dared to fight

against the Great Mother, commanded us to rise and destroy, and who am I

to disobey his word? Pardon us, friend of the Great Spirit. Then I and

my children will ever be your slaves.'

'Can't do it,' said McAuliffe, winking towards Lamont.

We feared the vengeance of Riel,' continued the old man, his wrinkled

hands beating upon the shingle. 'His warriors are many, while the white

men are few. Have we not received our punishment? The best of the tribe

are already cold with death. To-night, round the tents will be heard the

voice of weeping; maidens will mourn for lover or father; old men, who

bear the scars of life trouble, will lay their white hair in the dirt

when the pride of their age is borne to the tent. Instead of music and

the dance, there will be beating of death knells, and the belabouring of

breasts. Is not the white man satisfied with such vengeance?'

'Can't be helped,' said the Factor, stubbornly. 'Nobody but the Great

Mother can forgive you.'

'But has she not placed you here to rule over us? The white man is

mighty. He can give pardon to his enemies without fear. The host lies in

his path, and he breathes on them. Then no man may tell where that host

is.'

McAuliffe had no wish to continue argument, as he was tired and hungry.

He had asserted his dignity, which was all that could be required of

him. So he replied, as sternly as natural advantages would allow, 'I've

heard enough of your gas, and now I'll tell you what I've got a mind to

do. I'll let these fellows go, after they've all sworn that they won't

fight again against the Hudson's Bay Company. You two will want to chip

in as well. There's generosity for you! Goldam! don't you think you'd

have slipped out of Kiel's hands like that. He'd have hung first, and

let you off afterwards.'

The Chief would have burst into triumphant thankfulness, but he was

speedily choked off. 'Now then, I'm waiting here for your curses.

Justin, unfix the crowd.'

The half-breed passed behind the captives, and passed a knife blade

across each binding rope. Then they fell into line, the Chief leading,

and filed before the grinning Factor, each with right hand held aloft,

and left spread upon the heart. They swore by Light, by Darkness; by

Sun, by Moon; by the Great Spirit, the Totem[2] the River, never to

fight against the Hudson's Bay Company, nor to break the laws of the

Great Mother. McAuliffe knew that, if occasion arose, they would seal

such an oath with their lives.

Permission was then granted the survivors to reclaim their weapons and

carry away the dead.

'I've a good stock of blankets in the store,' said the Factor, grimly.

'Guess you may be wanting a few to wrap up the corpses with. The

store'll be open about noon. Ten dollars' worth in trade'll buy them.

Oil for choice, as I'm short.'

It was remarkable what little concern Menotah showed for her father's

fate. She certainly listened to the pleading, and had watched the

Factor's glowing face with a satisfied smile, which betokened her

certainty of the result. In her vivacious light-heartedness she imitated

him as he launched his thunderbolts at her crushed parent. She drew up

her slight figure with an injured dignity when he swelled with virtuous

indignation; she frowned, though two sparkling eyes gave the lie to the

soft forehead lines, when he attempted sternness; she threw back her

little head and folded her arms in patience of resignation when he

paused to hear the petitioner.

She was only an ignorant girl, whom Providence had strangely endowed

with beauty. Her one idea was to charm. She could not know that across

success lay the shadow of a life's sorrow.

Lamont stirred from the fir with a soft-voiced remark of flattery. The

young man spoke the melodious Cree with native ease. By way of answer,

Menotah plucked a berry from her hair, and threw it at him. It struck

him on the nose, and she laughed. The tuneful sound was infectious, and

the next minute he was at her side. The over-ripe berry had left a

blood-like stain upon his fair skin. She turned impulsively, and wiped

away the mark with a lingering, caressing touch of her small fingers.

It was then that Lamont's gaze fell to the other shore, and perceived in

the raw light the altered position of the flags. The quick eyes,

watching his movements, noticed the sudden start, so the red lips parted

in a request for explanation.

He looked into her happy face, upturned trustfully. 'The flags!' he

exclaimed, pointing.

'What! You have seen them before, haven't you?' she asked.

'They should be hanging from the top of the fir,' he explained.

'Oh! I did that,' cried Menotah, joyously.

'You!'

'I was pulling at the ropes--it was only for mischief--when they came

tumbling down. They stopped half way, and then I left them alone.'

With careless hand and ignorant heart of happiness, she had set the sign

of mourning for the dead.

'Have I done any harm?' she asked wistfully.

'Of course not,' he replied lightly. 'At least not with your hands.' He

looked at her in a new manner. Again she felt that sudden strange

timidity, which she did not know was the birth of love.

The dawn was scattering rays of light across forest and river. Red and

golden bars stretched along the eastern sky, through which peeped a

glory of the imprisoned sun. The birds shook the dew from their plumage,

and flew from brake and bush in search of food; frogs sank in the slime

of the muskegs and ceased their night song; locusts whirred sharply in

the long grass; Nature shook off the passionless mantle of sleep, and

rose with the smile of opening flowers and balmy odour of earth's

incense. It was the season of new life.

Wiping his massive brow, McAuliffe came up to Lamont and took him by the

shoulder. 'I'm proud of you, boy. You've put in good work to-night all

right, and saved this old hulk from drifting into harbour. Yes, you're

the best shot in the Dominion, sure as I'm the worst. Queer us two

fellows should have come together, eh?'

'Extremes,' said the other, yawning. 'Anyway, you made the shot of the

fight.'

McAuliffe puffed out his beard in a grim smile. 'Goldam! you mustn't

spin shooting yarns before me now. I should chip in and cap the best.

But, say, where's Winton?'

'Haven't seen him.'

The Factor's satisfied smile disappeared. He called at Justin, who was

launching the heavy York, with Indian assistance, but the only answer he

received was a decided shake of the black hair.

'Pshaw! he'll be keeping the bottle company. Come away into the shack,

and fetch him out. He's only a boy, and played out with the work.'

But Winton was not inside the hut. Then the Factor laughed gruffly.

'He's too good-natured a young fool for this world. Tell you what; he's

gone to work and set out to find Peter, just to tell him to keep clear

of me for a while, the dirty rascal. He'd always sort of stick up for

him, when he thought I was laying it on too thick. Goldam! Winton's a

fine boy. You believe me, Lamont.'

'That's so,' said the other carelessly, glancing towards the kanikanik

bush, beside which lay the corpse of the last killed.

The Factor continued, 'I've got a bit of a scheme in this old

razzle-pate. There's a neat pile of shin-plasters getting bigger and

mounting up all the time. When I'm given long leave, I'm going to blow

'em out by taking the boy back to the old country. Got into trouble at

his University, he did, fired out, and came right on here. Derned silly

thing to do, anyway, but he was scared of the folks. He's an only boy,

so I reckon the people wouldn't want to come hard on him.'

'Lots of his class around,' said Lamont, thinking of the heated faces

and desperate struggle at Fish Creek.

'And they're darned sight better-hearted than the good ones that mope at

home. Mind you, Lamont, not a word to the boy. Not a word, or you'd

spoil the racket.'

Justin called to them from the slime-green rock which the big fir

shadowed.

Lamont waved his hand. 'I reckon he's found,' he said shortly.

'What are you driving at anyway? Why should he want to stay out there?

Goldam! you're not making out--'

The sentence unfinished, he hurried away over the loose shingle. Lamont

followed more leisurely, and presently they both stood at the

half-breed's side.

Winton was still at the post of duty, clutching his cold rifle, with

face turned towards the colours of the dawn. McAuliffe stooped, panting,

then burst into a hearty laugh.

'Just as I said right along. He's played right out, and gone off to

sleep. Well, well, I hate to wake him, but we must be getting across.'

Still laughing, he knelt and turned the young man over by his shoulder.

But the sleeping figure was of a board-like stiffness. Then his red face

became grey tinted, and settled in fear.

For the eyes which looked up at his were unclosed and covered with light

film; the forehead was like marble, over which the hair trembled in the

raw air of morning, like grass on the dry rock; but the ears heard no

sound of McAuliffe's deep cry, the stiff and parted lips gave back no

cheerful word of welcome.

Young Winton had done with life and the troubles living brings.

[1] The Queen.

[2] See Glossary.

PART II

THE HEART'S GRIEF

CHAPTER I

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

The presence of death, which casts so powerful a shadow of sorrow, and

imposes so profound a silence, brooded along the smiling shores of the

Saskatchewan. In the fort on the cliff summit, Justin had prepared food,

and the two men had eaten, then sought sleep for a few hours. About

mid-day the Factor appeared outside, swinging the store key, while

Lamont stirred himself and began to chop tobacco in the outer office.

On the pure air came distant sounds of lamentation for the dead, shrill

voices rising and falling in monotonous cadence, with dull drum

beatings. Nearer there were different disturbances of the

atmosphere--McAuliffe's deep voice, swearing angrily at some natives,

alternating with the funereal strokes of a spade. The half-breed was

preparing a grave for the cold figure lying in the other room.

The door swung open--no mosquitoes were stirring in that white heat--and

the sun slanted inward with long dazzling rays. Presently a soft,

hesitating step pattered along the planking outside, a shadow crossed

the hot beams, then a face timidly peeped within.

Lamont called out lightly, and Menotah slipped inside. Warm colour shone

in her cheeks, her bosom heaved slightly, while the radiant eyes were

moist. Her red lips parted in a quick little sigh of surprised pleasure.

'I did not know you were here,' she said, the soft fringe dropping over

her eyes. '_He_ said I might come--to say good-bye.'

Lamont bit his lip. 'He is inside.' Then she flashed a sudden look upon

him and disappeared.

Sitting with the smoke rising to the log roof, he presently heard the

sound of a kiss. He started and shuddered. It was a horrible idea for

one so young, so warm, so beautiful, to press a kiss with ripe lips on

the cold blue features of a corpse. When she appeared, somewhat more

solemn and less smiling, he asked, 'Did you like him, Menotah?'

'Yes. He was nice, and used to kiss me; so I have kissed him, now that

he has gone to the shadow land.'

She made a light step onward. Her heart was too happy to feel grief for

long.

At that moment Lamont was almost glad a possible rival had been removed.

This girl was such an entirely perfect piece of nature.

'You may come with me if you like,' she said artlessly, holding out a

small brown hand. 'I will talk to you. Perhaps, if you are nice to me, I

will kiss you.'

Her colour deepened as she made the innocent promise. She had never felt

this warm, elevating desire before. For her it had no name, yet she was

certain it was a thing not to be lost lightly. Somehow she imagined a

contact of lips would intensify that feeling, might bring it nearer

consummation. That the awakening desire was a threatening danger to the

'heart of joy' she did not guess, she could not know.

But he was by her side, and they were walking through the cool of the

forest, soothed by the whisperings of the leaves.

Beneath the spreading fir known to the Indians as the 'death tree,' they

paused, while Lamont noticed that Menotah's long lashes were fringed

with tear dew. 'You are crying,' he said quickly.

She laughed up at him gaily. 'No, I am not. But I am so happy.'

He smiled back at these innocent words, which contained a latent

flattery. Then he looked with a growing tenderness at the dark clusters

of hair and wonderful health bloom on the delicately curved features.

This beautiful girl would obey the natural impulses of inclination. She

was ignorant of life--more, could scarce recognise the first emotion of

love birth. Certainly he must teach her.

It was a strange spot for the meeting-place of lovers. At every breath

of wind overhead branches rocked with a weird sound of bone creaking.

For there were many brown-ribbed skeletons swaying airily among the

chafing boughs. Sometimes the breeze would fan aside a leaf cluster to

disclose a jocund skull secured to the bark behind. They were surrounded

by relics of the dead, for the ground and bushes were plentifully

besprinkled with bones, which had decayed away, and been swept aside

during dark nights when the storm howled through the forest.

'You are happy,' said Lamont almost enviously. 'Have you no wish--'

'Yes,' she interrupted joyously. 'I should like to be wise and know

much, more even than old Antoine. Then I would go over the Great Water

to the City of the Wind.[1] I would show the white chiefs that the poor

Indians, though not great and powerful, are yet beings of flesh and

blood. We see with eyes, hear with ears, speak with tongues and life

breath. The Indian's body casts as good a shadow as the white man's. Oh,

if I might only be wise, and do what I wish!'

'What gives you such a wish?'

With true native reverence for the unknown, she replied fearfully, 'The

Dream Spirit whispers in my ear when I sleep. I do not forget.'

She stopped abruptly, so he added with a laugh, 'Your friends?'

'I could not,' she said simply. 'By forgetting friends you rob yourself

of pleasure; by forgetting enemies you make yourself coward.'

Lamont gazed at the small face eagerly. 'You would seek for revenge,

then?'

'It would be duty,' she returned, with new sternness. 'If it is right to

do good to a friend, it must also be right to punish an enemy. If anyone

should kill my heart with sorrow, I would give life and strength to the

cause of vengeance. I should never turn back.'

A gust of hot wind sighed through the dreary tree. The branches shifted

with sullen movements. But, as she ceased speaking, a brown object

bounded through the rustling leaves and lay on the grass before them,

gazing upward with ghastly mirth.

Lamont started back with white face, and crossed himself hurriedly. But

Menotah only laughed. 'The Wind Spirit is throwing skulls at us. But why

are you frightened?'

He pointed at the symbol of death. 'It is a bad omen,' he said huskily.

'It means approaching evil.'

'To me?' asked Menotah, astounded at this fresh wisdom.

'Or to me--perhaps to both.'

She smiled and shook her small head. 'Ah! but you are wrong; I should

only despise a God, who could only warn me by rolling a skull at my

feet. My heart has always been happy; I know the God would never harm

me.'

'Trouble comes to all at some time in life.'

'No, not to all; never to me. I have been born that I may laugh and be

happy. I must not try to teach you. Yet, when you have made something

with your own hands that you think beautiful, you could never destroy

it, unless you were mad. You would feel you were cutting away a part of

your life. So the God could never destroy my happiness. For he would

have to spoil the work of his own making; and the God is never mad.'

She picked up the skull and ran her bright eyes over the mouldering

symbol. Then, as she perceived, high up on the bony forehead, a small,

rounded fissure, she gave a sad little cry of recognition.

'This is the skull of a white man. But his story was a very sad one.'

'Who was he?' cried Lamont, in surprise.

'I never saw him alive. But when he lay dead, I washed the dry blood

from his face. That was eight years ago, when I was very young. See!

here is the place where the bullet passed.'

'Who was he?' repeated Lamont, in lower tones.

'He came from the Spirits' passing place.[2] His name was Sinclair.'

'Sinclair!' he muttered to himself. 'Pshaw! it's the commonest name of

the Province.' Then to the girl, 'Who shot him?'

'He had an enemy who was a coward. He tracked him down through the

forest as you would follow a moose. One evening Sinclair was resting and

smoking his pipe. Then this other man crept up and shot him through the

bushes.'

Lamont moistened his lips. 'Did he escape?'

Menotah shook her head gladly. 'They caught him, and the warriors tied

him to a tree, then shot at him with arrows. Some day I will show you

that tree. But he was a coward. He cried for mercy when the women tied

his arms.'

'But he was only doing his duty,' argued Lamont, with his careless air.

'You say that vengeance is necessary.'

'But I would never steal upon my enemy and shoot him down. That is the

act of a man who fears to fight. I would meet him face to face. Perhaps

Sinclair had never done this man an injury after all.' Then she laughed

in her happy manner, and set the skull carefully in the cleft of a

stunted kanikanik bush. She turned to him and laid a small hand on his

arm. 'You would not act as he did,' she said.

He looked at the little fingers curved upon his coat sleeve. Then he

placed his hand over and held them. 'Then you do not think me a coward?'

'You!' she said slowly. 'No, you are a brave man, who would fight until

death for any you loved.'

'For you?' he said, bending his head to the soft, waving tresses.

'And even after death; your soul would protect me.'

He drew a little back and laughed scornfully. 'Do you believe in such a

thing?'

She lifted her face, which was animated with belief. 'You may see it; on

the winter's day the shadowy vapour rises to the lips and escapes in

breath. You cannot tell where it goes to. But it is the soul.'

She stopped and glanced half shyly. 'Go on,' he said.

'In the summer we do not need to see it. Then everything is alive and

happy. But in the dreary winter the Spirit shows itself to our eyes.

Then we may know the higher life stirs within us, though the world is

dead. Shall I tell you any more?'

She stood like the child repeating a well-known lesson. Her fingers

twisted within his, and she lowered her eyes. He passed his arm round

the slight figure, and drew her from the shadow of the death tree.

'It is gloomy here; let us go out to the sunshine.'

'Then I must go. I have to bring the old Chief to mourn at the grave.'

Her manner changed quickly as she continued, 'I don't think you believe

in me.'

He laughed outright. 'Have I said so? Don't you think I would keep any

promise I made you?'

They stopped in the dimly-marked forest trail, and he drew her to him.

She looked up quickly, sighed, then passed her right arm impulsively

across to his shoulder. Her long hair, floating unbound, caressed the

hand that held her waist. 'Yes,' she faltered, with a strange little

laugh, 'for you are brave.'

The light darted into her lustrous eyes, and her small mouth twitched.

He placed his hand beneath her chin and raised her graceful head as he

bent his own down. Her quick breathing fanned his face. 'Your promise,'

he whispered. Then the sunlight disappeared.

* * * * *

Later, a strange procession started from the fort. Winton's body lay

uncovered on resinous pine branches, the ends of which were sustained by

the shoulders of McAuliffe and the half-breed. At a short distance

behind walked Lamont, smoking carelessly.

The grave had been dug about fifty paces from the door. Arriving there,

they placed the body upon the grass, while the Factor mopped his

forehead and remarked upon the weather. He was grinning broadly, as a

necessary covering to his real feelings. Subsequently he confided to

Lamont that he had been compelled to recall the most humorous incidents

connected with his past career as a preventive to foolish signs of

grief. Justin stood by stolidly, and spat into the grave.

'Shouldn't wonder if we didn't get an electric storm presently,'

observed the Factor. There was no reply to this attempt at conversation.

'What'll we do now?' he continued, smiling expansively.

Justin grunted, then pointed expressively to the dark hole surrounded by

fresh grass.

'Plant him, eh? well, I guess so. Got any ropes?'

There were none handy, so the half-breed went off to the store for some.

The Factor filled the interval by relating a ludicrous anecdote for his

companion's benefit, and chopping a pipeful of plug. When Justin

returned, ropes were passed round the leafy bier and the body was

lowered by concerted effort.

Then McAuliffe lit his pipe, and knocked his great boots together

clumsily. He looked across at Lamont, leaning against the tree which

shadowed the open grave. 'How are you on the prayer racket?' he blurted

forth.

The young man shook his head and muttered something unintelligible.

'Seems kind of hard to cover the boy up and get off without saying a

word, don't it? Say, Justin, can't you do something that way?'

The half-breed chewed and grunted a negative. Then there was unpleasant

silence, which was finally broken by the rustling of bushes. The old

Chief appeared, leaning on his daughter's arm. They both paused, silent,

at the brink. Menotah's arms were overflowing with delicate, half-opened

buds of the forest rose, and these pink and white blossoms--recalling

faded life pleasures of the past--she commenced to drop softly upon the

body beneath.

'Goldam!' muttered the Factor, 'I wish I knew what to say, and how to

put it.'

Suddenly his reflection was broken by the pure music of a young voice,

which rang sweetly out upon the air. An ignorant soul poured forth a

message to the unknown God. The heathen girl performed an office which

the Christian men shrank from.

Menotah was kneeling, her fair face raised to the clear blue of the sky,

her chin resting lightly upon brown finger tips.

'Great Spirit, listen to the words of a daughter Thou knowest not, and

grant her that for which she prays. The evil one has stolen the life

from this body and has carried it to the cold shadow land. Do not Thou

permit him to harm the body that we loved. If Thou hast the power to

conquer the wicked spirit, take away that body and place him in the wide

fields of summer, where the devils may not live, and where the souls of

the mighty sweep over the flowering grass, like cloud shadows on a

bright day. Perchance Thou art not able to hear my prayer, for I am but

the child of another god. But if Thou canst hear me, I pray Thee hearken

to my words, and grant him happiness for ever in the Land of the Sun.'

McAuliffe scratched his beard nervously; Lamont smiled; Justin commenced

to fill in the grave.

But the old Chief shuffled aside, and muttered slowly, 'It is not well

to call upon the God of the white men. He has conquered our gods in the

fight. Perchance he may now turn the blood to water in our veins.'

* * * * *

Towards evening Justin paddled across to the island to bring off a

miserable figure, who had long been sending forth a loud but ineffectual

appeal for rescue. The half-breed delivered himself of but a single

opinion, and that was when Denton lurched nervously into the birch bark,

half upsetting it. He crossed his wad to the opposite cheek, and

remarked, 'You no good.' Then he wielded his paddle and shot the canoe

swiftly across the river.

The ex-minister had plenty of cool assurance when he knew his body was

in no particular danger. Also his courage was stimulated by hunger, so

he walked to the door of the fort, and at once came upon the Factor and

Lamont, who were seated within. The former raised his head and said

indifferently, 'It's you, Peter, eh?'

'I've come back again, Alfred,' said the other, composedly. 'And--'

'Quit your dirty noise, now. You can swear in churches, if folks are

fools enough to let you, but darn me if you play double face here. If

you begin to talk, I shall start fighting. Then I reckon you'd wish you

were back in your hiding-place. You're a cowardly devil, Peter, if ever

there was one.'

Ominous red streaks appeared on Denton's sallow face. He prepared to

cast back a reply.

'Not a word. I tell you, if you talk back at me, it'll go bad for you.'

He started up and dragged the wretch to the door. Then he pointed to a

dark mound of soil ahead. 'See that? that's where we've just planted

young Winton, who was as much a man as you're a hound. They fixed him

last night when you were skulking in the bush.'

He pulled off Denton's hat and threw it on the ground. 'You're a

murderer, Peter, and darned if I care who hears me say it. If you'd had

the spirit of a woman, young Winton wouldn't have been lying out there.'

Then he took Denton by the shirt collar and pulled him outside. Here he

turned upon him again. 'See here, now, there isn't room for the two of

us in this fort. One's got to get, and I reckon that'll be you.'

Denton's watery eyes grew malevolent. 'You can't turn me out--'

'Quit your row. I don't care where you get, only don't come round here

again. Just take your fixings and lift your feet out.'

'I'm in the service of the Company same as you,' cried Denton, showing

his teeth. 'You've no right--'

'You talk about that, and I'll put my arms round you. I reckon you'd

stand a good show then. You've done an almighty lot to protect the

Company's interests. Anyway, I'm Chief Factor here, so out you go.'

Denton set his back to the door, with white, angry face.

'Your time of reckoning will come,' he muttered, falling into his usual

fanatical mood.

'Yours is here right now,' returned McAuliffe, drily. 'Get, now!'

It did not take the ex-minister more than a few minutes to collect the

few articles he could call his own. Then he reappeared in the office

with his small bundle. Justin was bringing the supper. The other two

were talking and sitting on the dilapidated sofa. Not one took the

slightest notice of him.

But the outcast had no idea of departing without a final word, so when

he was safely on the threshold, he paused to attack his old enemy.

'You've always been a tough sinner, McAuliffe. I reckon you can't keep

it up much longer. Your sins will soon find you out.'

'Yours'll find you out, when they next call round here,' said the

Factor. 'Get outside, now. It makes me tired to look at you.'

The ex-minister stepped over the threshold, but paused to deliver a

final message. 'You are a bad crowd, a terrible bad crowd--I've never

seen a worse. But it's my duty to pray for you. I will pray for you

all.'

A shout of laughter followed his footsteps. Even Justin almost smiled.

'Well, well,' cried McAuliffe, slapping his knee heavily, 'I reckon that

was Peter's last curse.'

[1] Winnipeg--then Upper Fort Garry.

[2] Manitoba. So called from its derivation, _Manitou-toopah_.

CHAPTER II

THE COMING OF DAVE

In the early morning there was excitement at the fort, for the isolated

inhabitants were soon to be placed in contact with the outer world. The

H.B. boat, which, in the summer season, made periodic trips from Selkirk

to the Great Saskatchewan, had entered the river, and was steaming

heavily towards the uneven and broken platform of logs which constituted

a landing stage.

As usual, news of the arrival came through the medium of the

keen-sighted Justin. The excitable Factor clapped a hand over Lamont's

arm, and dragged him forth in shirt and breeches to where the white

waves rushed and bubbled, covered with foam of broken force. Here they

waited for news from the world and sight of other fellow creatures.

Spray dashed up the slimy logs, while a strong river breeze made the

morning chilly. McAuliffe blew into his hands vigorously, always keeping

his gaze on the green screen of firs, round which the boat might any

moment appear.

'Goldam! I reckon the crazy ark's travelled to the bottom,' he cried

lustily.

'The river's running strong. Listen to the roar of the rapids,' said his

companion.

'Justin sighted her at the second bend, and she's not round yet. Us two

could pull the lump of wood along in less time. Goldam! there she is!

That's her old nose coming round.'

The black boat crawled round the bend slowly, with two lines of foam

parting before her keel. Then the watchers distinguished the coarse

features of a man standing in the bows. He held, and occasionally waved

as an entirely unnecessary signal, a small and much torn flag.

The Factor rubbed his hands excitedly. 'It's Dave Spencer, making a fool

of himself as usual. Now we'll have to get to work and pump the news out

of him. Dave's bad on telling things, though it's in his head all the

time. It's like dropping a bucket down a deep well getting anything out

of him.'

He placed a hand to his mouth and shouted, 'Ho, there, Dave!'

The Captain grinned widely, but replied only by a more vigorous wave of

the tattered ensign.

'Thinks a wonderful lot of his breath, don't he?' grumbled the Factor.

'Now, if it had been Angus, he'd have started in to talk 'way back at

the mouth. He don't care if no one hears him. Talks just for the

pleasure of letting his tongue work!'

The boat turned in mid-stream, slightly above the stage, then drew down

cautiously, the captain bawling deep-toned commands, interlarded with

epithets. Presently a rope swung uncoiling through the air. This was

eagerly snatched at by the Factor. Then the boat was made fast and Dave

stepped ashore, mail bag in hand.

McAuliffe gripped him by the arm at once. 'Now, then, Dave, let's have

it!'

'What's the racket?' asked the other composedly, beating his legs. 'I

tell you, Alf, it's ter'ble cold on the water this morning. The wind's a

terror.'

'You derned old oyster!' spluttered the Factor. 'Open up your chin bag,

and put us up to what's been going on.'

'It's wonderful cold for the time of year, sure. How's yourself, Alf?'

'Going to consumption for wanting to pound your head off. See here,

Dave! What's been the latest south?'

'Quite a lot,' said Dave, imperturbably, drawing a big bundle of soiled

newspapers from the buckskin bag.

'Let's hear,' cried McAuliffe, clutching the parcel hungrily.

Dave meditated, while he kicked up splinters from the rotting logs.

'There's old man Roberts. You mind him, Alf?'

The Factor nodded, while Dave continued carelessly, 'He's tumbled off

the perch. All his truck went by auction. I bought up his white

pony--one he used to ride every day, summer or winter. He was a queer

old chap, warn't he, Alf? I'd meet him crawling along the fence of his

half section, wrapped up in all the rags he could lay claws on, if 'twas

winter. His old jaws would be shifting, and the brown juice freezing in

solid chunks on his dirty bunch of beard--'

'Goldam!' shouted McAuliffe. 'Think I care whether old man Roberts's

alive or dead, or gone up like Elijah? What have the _nitchies_ been up

to? Tell us that, Dave.'

'Coming to that. You're in an everlasting twitter, Alf; don't give a

fellow chance to open his lips. Young Munn's dead, too--'

'Well, well, what did he die of?'

'Overdose of lead. Riel's slick shot fixed him at Fish Creek.'

'Bad for his old folks. How goes the Rebellion?'

'There ain't none to speak on--not now, anyway.'

'Not quieted down? You don't say it's over, Dave?'

'That's what. It's the Archbishop's racket. He told 'em not to rise,

and, by the powers, they didn't.'

The Factor gave a long whistle. 'How did the old man do it, Dave? It

must have been a fairly tough job.'

'Bet your neck upon that. He ran through the Province and over the

Territories. He went miles by himself, and told the breeds he'd curse

'em if they jumped with Riel. Times he went horseback; times by canoe;

often on foot. I tell you, Alf, he's straight enough, though he is chief

R.C.'

'It corks me,' said the Factor.

'He's a Christian, sure. The Government's done nothing good for him. Now

he's gone to work and saved them the country. Old Taché and Father

Lacombe are names to swear by right now.'

'It knocks me over,' said McAuliffe, 'catches me right between the eyes.

Tell you, Dave, I never thought there was any good in Catholics before.

Seems queer, too, that fellows who keep little bits of painted images in

cupboards to say prayers to, should be so right down white in the heart.

I'll have a good word for them after this. But how about Riel?'

'He's fairly cornered. There's only one thing for Louis--a gallows and

bit of rope at Regina.'

'The old man won't chip in to get him off?'

'No good; they wouldn't have it. Riel's sworn to fight till he crops.

He'd stay by his word.'

Lamont, standing near, had listened to the conversation with intense

interest, though he had not joined in it himself The close observer

might have noticed a sudden angry gleam in his eyes when the name of the

Archbishop had been pronounced, also the nervous twitchings of his hands

at the mention of the Indian leader's impending fate. When he perceived

Spencer had no further information of definite importance, he walked to

the end of the stage, as if provided with sufficient food for

reflection. Half-breeds were dumping loaded provision barrels upon the

insecure logs, while a couple of Icelanders carried an inanimate figure

between them to the grass space beyond.

To this human bundle the Captain now drew the Factor's attention.

'That's a present I'm going to leave you, Alf,' he said.

'What sort?' demanded McAuliffe, shading his eyes.

'An Icelander. Ter'ble sick, he is. Can't take him on with me in the

boat, for he's turning up fast. You can find some place for him, eh?'

'I reckon Justin can. Wish you wouldn't dump your dying carcases here,

Dave. This place isn't a derned cemetery. I allow, if you'd been here

t'other day, you might have thought it was.'

'What's that?' asked Dave, eagerly. 'What's been going on here, Alf?'

'Lots of things. We've been fighting worse than wild cats.'

Dave was interested. 'You don't say scrapping?'

'It was a terror,' said the Factor. 'The _nitchies_ were hot after our

hides. We had a holy time.'

'What made them rise here, though?'

'Riel sent them up a message; don't know what it was. Anyway, it made

them as crazy as bugs on a hot plate. But, Dave, they fixed young

Winton.'

The other's dull eyes rounded. 'Well, well, that's a lot too bad,' he

exclaimed, hanging on each syllable.

'Sinclair, too. You mind Billy Sinclair of St Andrews, Dave?'

'What! Not him? Never old Billy Sinclair?'

'That's what,' said McAuliffe, not without relish at being the imparter

of startling information.

Dave wagged his head sorrowfully. 'You--don't--say! To think of old

Billy hopping! Why, we've been pards ever since he could bite tobacco.

Married the gal I was more than a little broken on, too. Now she's a

widow with young children. Well, well, well. To think of how Billy used

to walk her out Sunday evenings, while I'd hang round church door and

tell the boys all gals were the same anyway. Here's old Billy gone, with

her a widow, and me still a single man. I reckon that's not my fault,

but gals take some suiting nowadays.'

'Haven't you anything else to tell, Dave?'

'Why, it's you that's got the talking. It makes me dizzy to take it in.

Deaths and murders like a printed newspaper. Young Winton fixed, and

poor Billy gone to the worms. But say, Alf, where's Peter?'

'You don't want to talk to me about him. I'm through with the dam'

cowardly hypocrite. He skulked off in the bush before the fight, and if

it hadn't been for the dead youngster and Lamont over there, I'd

shouldn't have been telling you the truth now.'

'Peter ran off, eh?' chuckled the other. 'What have you done?'

'Fired him out by the neck,' said the Factor, with unction. Then, as a

rapid change of subject, 'You've brought my brandy, Dave?'

'Dozen case of H.B. Good and black, I tell you.'

The Factor beamed. 'We'll have a good night, liquoring up and poker.'

A short figure appeared on the summit of a black rock in the distance,

waving his straw bonnet.

'There's Justin signalling. Hungry, Davey?'

'I'd be a liar if I said no,' replied the Captain.

They turned away together, while Lamont still remained on the wet logs,

despite the Factor's cheery invitation for him to join them. For some

time he stood motionless, regardless of Nature's appeal for breakfast,

troubled, be it said, more by fear for the future than reflection on the

past. Indeed, he was only stirred by hostile interruption.

A tall figure glided quickly from the bush behind, and crossed the

rock-strewn space. When he saw Lamont he paused, as though he had

unexpectedly come upon the object of his search and doubted how to act.

For the young man's growing intimacy with the fair forest queen of the

Saskatchewan could not escape the naturally keen eyes of her watchers.

The aged Chief but shook his weak head, as he watched the light-hearted

girl dancing along the sunshine with laugh and happy song. Antoine,

gloomy as was his wont, limped from hut to hut, muttering low-voiced

imprecations against all white men, and those around in particular. The

youngest and most formidable--Muskwah, leader of the warriors, who

looked upon the beautiful girl as his own life prize, yet with that

reverential sense of ownership the dreamer might regard some glorious

phantasy of his imagination--only awaited opportunity to strike at the

pride of his rival; for surely the imperious white could never descend

to the poor level of the Indian, nor choose a bride from the tents of

the down-trodden race.

So, shadow-like, he had crept behind the young man to the meeting place,

where the dry bones of the dead creaked in the night wind. There, with

burning eyes and throbbing brain, he had listened to a soft-voiced

conversation, yet one in which eyes and hands were more expressive than

tongue. He had stolen away with madness at the heart, with wild desire

to obtain her who was now slipping beyond reach on the ebb-tide of fate.

He would risk his life to obtain its highest desire.

Lamont turned quickly when he heard a guttural exclamation at his side.

With his usual contemptuous air he regarded the young Indian, who was

unarmed, save for the sheathed hunting knife. 'What do you want?' he

muttered angrily.

Then Muskwah raised a hand to point at the boat, rising and falling on

the heavy river swell.

'The white chief will listen to his servant? For his heart bids him

speak, and there is much to say.'

Lamont had started violently and turned pale, when the words 'white

chief,' spoken in a tongue unpleasantly familiar, smote upon his ear.

Then he repeated his question.

The Indian made a strange answer,--

'Is not this land lonely and vast to the white man? See how the black

boat rides upon the waters. In he you may sail away, along the mighty

river, and out upon the Great Water.[1] So you shall come to the cities

of the plain, and be again among the tents of your own people. Also, you

will leave to the Indian the little he may now call his own. Then the

peaceful air will lie like a bird in the sail, while the men's muscles

will swell with rowing. The boat will leap over laughing waters and flit

home, as the muskawk to its lair when the sun dies. In your own tents

you may find happiness, and a white bride, whose face shall be as the

blush of early morning.

'And I--I also shall know the beauty of life. For I may live beneath the

sunshine of Menotah's smiles.'

[1] Lake Winnipeg.

CHAPTER III

THE RIVALS

Ignoring the presence of his rival, Lamont passed aside and entered the

scrub bush which fringed the odorous forest. But, noiseless and agile as

the overhead chipmunk, Muskwah followed in his track, scarce ever

ceasing from his melodious and heartfelt appeal. Since he played the

part of suppliant, he argued with his opponent without heat, though

passion might not be denied. He invoked the higher sense of right.

Surely only the Indian was fit mate for the Indian. Where would be the

'heart of joy' when the brain had been touched by fancy, the mind spoilt

in imagination? Love was the choicest gift of the _Heelhi-Manitou_, a

thing not to be lightly taken, and never to be cast aside as worthless.

In such manner he pleaded, with all the native picturesque imagery of

word expression and imagination.

At length Lamont turned upon him in anger. 'What about the night of the

fight? Perhaps you don't know that my rifle was once sighted for your

heart. A motion of the finger, and you would have gone to your fantastic

paradise. But I spared you, for you were more of the man than your

followers.'

Not a muscle stirred along Muskwah's stolid countenance. 'The gift which

is unsought is no gift. Mayhap I might even now be happier, had you sent

my soul to join those who fell in death. For with one hand you have held

out life, yet with the other have you taken away its light.'

'So now you follow me with the request that I should give you that which

is as much mine as yours. You seek Menotah's love--'

'Surely!' broke in the Indian, with a fury of passion. 'What other woman

is there who can so stir the heart within a man? Who would not die for

her favour, or fight for her love?'

A sneer crossed Lamont's face, while his eyes grew cold. The

keen-sighted Indian marked the change. 'Let not the white chief mock at

my poor words. It is the heart that speaks, and the tongue must obey the

thought. The white chief knows that my love is for Menotah, that my life

joy lies at the utterance of her voice. He would not take away the sun,

the day shine, and leave only the black night of despair.'

'Wouldn't he?' said Lamont, coolly. 'Why not?'

'Because he is merciful,' cried Muskwah, clasping his sinewy hands.

'Every man may love, yet none may resign the heart already bound.'

Lamont laughed. 'What a sickly sentiment,' he muttered carelessly.

The eyes of the Indian flashed, while his bosom heaved. He raised his

hands, with head erect, in a pose of proud defiance. Then in a soft

monotone he poured forth the emotional phrases of his heart,--

There is yet the great truth, which is spirit sent, behind my weak

words. Listen, white chief, while I teach you the power of love.

When I was a stripling youth around the tents, before I was of age to be

made brave, often would I cast eye of longing on some fair maiden as she

passed. So when her eyes met mine with silent message, the heart would

bound within, and I called it love. Yet it was not so, since the pain

would die down, while the wound would leave no scar. Then many moons

grew round and faded in their light as the young Menotah passed from

childhood to youth. Her beauty opened like the flower bud moistened by

the softness of light, and painted with the coloured breath of morning.

For those the gods love are beautiful, and the seasons bring them gifts.

So was it with Menotah. To her, spring came with heart of joy, and

summer with a smile; fair blush, gift of autumn, and winter last with

health.

'But as I watched her, with wonder that the Spirit could make anything

so beautiful, my whole being fled away as the soul at time of death.

Where the heart had once throbbed lurked a living flame, which burnt by

day and night and grew ever fiercer. So I waited for that fire to burn

out, as it had done before. During the clear day, when the strength rose

high and I tracked the muskawk or snared the wolf, I thought I was once

again master of my life. But as night rose and stillness crept through

the tents, the limbs sank in weariness and the fire returned to burn

away manly strength and courage. With it, also, came the loneliness and

a great longing. So I knew that this was love, the sickness that knows

not healing. I knew that the fire would burn, unless desire were

satisfied, until there should be nothing left to consume, until life

reason should have passed, and loneliness be satisfied in the silence.'

They stood together beneath the softly stirring pine branches, where the

green-tinted sunlight stabbed down in narrow rays. Civilised and

barbarian almost; cultured and the untaught. Yet surrounding Nature

might have hesitated in choosing out the Man.

Lamont slunk away sullenly. 'I have no wish to hear your wild love

songs. The feelings are things to be repressed, not blasted into the

ears of those who do not wish to listen.'

The Indian turned too, and with growing passion caught him by the arm.

'I but follow the teaching of my own mind. A man must obey the love

call, though the world rise to hold him back.'

Muskwah spoke from his own by no means narrow philosophy. The workings

of the world were certainly beyond his understanding; the ways of Nature

he was in close touch with. He was pushing dimly towards one definite

aim in life. The Chief was tottering to his death. When the funeral

smoke had cleared, he might well be chosen head of the tribe. Power he

cared not for, except as a path which might lead to happiness. For none

but the heart which knew not sorrow[1] could be the Chief's bride, and

she, Menotah, would surely give all that a man could wish for.

The Chief had placed his footsteps in the right direction, and, in the

callous Indian sex love, had regarded the young warrior with special

favour. Indeed, he had bidden him plead his own cause, but the lover's

bashfulness could not be overcome. Whenever she passed, he trembled

beneath the bright gaze. But then came the message from Riel and the

subsequent struggle, where Lamont had appeared, surrounded most with the

mystery of a god. Menotah beheld the skill and courage of the handsome

white. Such things are pleasing to women. She had looked upon the one

conquered and rope bound; the other victorious and confident. The latter

had addressed her with the soft voice that maidens love; the former was

ignorant of such love artifice. Moreover, she had cast at the white man

smiling glances, for which the Indian would have dared the fire and

mocked the powers above.

And yet the wide world course lies open to all. Prizes are set in the

open, but they are few and the competitors many. The strongest, most

eloquent, highest in skill, take of the best, while the multitude fight

for the poor consolations remaining.

Muskwah still held Lamont back. His flashing eyes and passioned face

were not to be safely trifled with. 'I love,' he cried blindly. 'Nothing

can heal the wound, or soften that suffering. Were Menotah to strike me

down in death, I should fall blessing her.'

Lamont tried to free his arm, but the Indian's fingers closed it round

like steel springs. 'You are a fighter and hunter. Keep your strength,

and do not waste it in the arms of a woman.'

'The white chief is also a warrior. When the blood runs hot, the heart

may thirst for nothing but war and power. But when the fight is done,

and darkness creeps around, he stretches forth his limbs in the tent and

calls for love.'

Lamont feared lest the impetuous lover should again burst into his

passion song. He made a quick movement, released himself, then stepped

back.

'I am going,' he said coolly. 'But I will first tell you that if you

would win Menotah, you must plead for yourself--and against me.'

The judgment was that of Nature. When the object of a careless affection

is about to pass to another's ownership, desire becomes a passion. It is

only the prize which seems irrevocably lost that remains a thing of

perfect beauty; it is the realisation of an ideal that is an imperfect

happiness.

Lamont had been attracted by Menotah's artless beauty, her joyous

laughter, and caressing ways. Satisfied with the fact that she loved

him, her favours yet failed to stir the fire of his heart into a higher

glow than admiration. But now that an Indian rival breathed opposition,

the smouldering flame leapt up into fierce heat, and Menotah possessed

two lovers.

The ghastly pallor, which in the Indian takes the place of the red anger

flush, altered the dark hue of his features. 'Perhaps the white man

spoke without thought. For why should he leave his own cities, to choose

a bride from the lowly tents of the Cree? For him there is the wide

world to choose from. But I have only this one hope, and it is more to

me than the beauty of the world. I will listen again for an answer.'

'I have spoken,' said Lamont, stubbornly. 'I have no more to say.'

Then the Indian started forward suddenly, with vengeance in his face.

'Yet there is something beside. There is an oath. Swear that you will

never speak to her on the heart's pain. Swear by the Spirit. Swear that

you will not enter into her life.'

Lamont stepped against a straight pine, confident in his strength.

'_Diable s'en mêle!_' he muttered. Then to the Indian, 'Get back to the

encampment, you crazy fool.'

Passion raged along every muscle of the grey-dark face. He cast aside

control over voice and actions. 'Am I to lose Menotah after spending my

life for her? You shall swear.' He came excitedly forward, with arms

outreaching.

Two crows flapped heavily in the tree summits, with dismal croakings.

'Another step this way,' said Lamont, coolly, 'one more step, and the

crows will have you. Your eyes will never see Menotah again.'

Yet he knew this threat was useless, for he understood the Indian

character, which is a thing ruled by momentary flashes of strong

impulse. The mental anarchy of the uncivilised mind is short-lived, yet

overwhelming in consequence. The untrained body leaps from devotion to

animosity, from obedience to open rebellion, in a moment. So with

Muskwah, revenge was just then a higher passion than love.

As the anger-fire smouldered in his dark eyes, the long brown fingers

worked towards the keen-edged knife, and he glided forward with the

quick cunning of the grass snake.

Lamont smiled, while the sure right hand darted to his side. Half

fronting he stood, with the left elbow crooked. But there was no

descending flash of a bright muzzle, no sharp report, no dusky rival

writing in death along the moss.

He was absolutely unarmed! At Justin's sudden entrance with the news of

the boat arrival, the impetuous Factor had pulled him out without

allowing time for complete equipment. Those weapons behind which he was

a lion of courage were lying in the fort. He stood alone, confronted by

a merciless rival, in the lonely forest of the Saskatchewan.

Still here was opportunity for displaying that vaunted courage of the

all-conquering white before one of the defeated. He might stand up

against him and fight with the natural weapons of despair, aided perhaps

by the withered branch snapped from the near pine with strength of

necessity. This Indian should be shown how fearlessly the white man

could face danger or death.

With a shrill cry, Muskwah sprang at him. He staggered back a pace,

blenching from the uplifted knife--then ran, with all the speed of his

limbs, with all the white fear of the pursued.

The display of cowardice was needless, for the Indian rapidly

overtracked him. Lamont turned suddenly, with the horror of feeling the

cold slush of the knife in his back, and dropped to his knees. He was

seized by the shoulders; he clutched his enemy by the body.

So together they fought in the solitude, while the sun revolved up the

heavens, and the summer heat grew towards noon. Purple butterflies

flashed unconcernedly in the greenish light over their heads; the

blood-red kanikanik wands nodded; locusts whirred and hurled themselves

strongly against the sweating bodies of the combatants. The beauty of

Nature environed the hot human passions. On the extreme summit of a

feather-pine, the carrion crows croaked and rocked in the soft breeze.

Muskwah's natural strength, aided by passion, which disregarded life

safety, prevailed at length. His rival lay beneath his hands, pressed

upon the white, flowering moss, his face rigid with increasing fear.

The victor's bosom rose and fell exultantly. 'The Spirit has given you

into my power, and bidden me take revenge. Gaze for the last time on the

world light, white man, before I draw darkness across your eyes with my

knife.'

Lamont glared upward despairingly. The hands that held him trembled with

the mighty flood of restrained anger. A knife quivered in hot white

circles between his eyes and the furious face of his opponent.

All his subtle resource in emergency rose in a mighty effort for

preservation of life. There was still a move to be made; desperate, but

yet of possible success. He must pit his trained mind knowledge and

power of will against the weak determination and brain of inexperience.

He was a splendid actor. So he nerved himself and laughed aloud.

Surprise partially disarmed the victor of his blind anger. Then came the

words which caused his grip to loosen,--

'Pshaw! I will in a word take away strength from your arm. You dare not

kill me.'

Muskwah stared upon the lively face of scorn, his own working in

perplexity. 'Tell me why I should spare you,' he said wonderingly.

The answer came with a slow, cruel deliberation, 'Menotah loves me.'

He felt the finger clutch on his throat unfasten, as an overstrained

necklet. He watched the light of knowledge dawning upon the heavy

features. He had fired his shot, as at invisible foes under cover of

night. Now he must follow up his words and make his advantage sure.

By his murder there would be nothing beyond the mere satisfaction of

revenge. But Menotah would mourn and wear sorrow upon her 'heart of

joy.' The Indian had declared entire devotion, yet he was now thirsting

to perform an act which must surely bring suffering into her life. More,

she might even learn, through the process of chance, whose hand it had

been that had destroyed the life of him she loved.

'Kill me, you destroy your own happiness; spare my life--you may yet win

her who has your love.'

Such arguments dashed against a weak knowledge to the overwhelming of

desperation's anger. To the heart came well-nigh relinquished memories

of self-pride and future hope. The dull brain spoke plainly. By

satisfying longing for vengeance, he would banish into the impossible

all life happiness. By extinguishing the flame of life he destroyed the

light in Menotah's eyes. That which she approved was sacred, even though

a rival. So he lifted his simple head, with the understanding that his

opponent's words had brought _salvation_ to three lives. It was again

the triumph of the tongue.

Muskwah sheathed the long knife. 'Now you shall swear to leave this

land, and return to your own place. Behold the black boat lies upon the

waters, and in her you shall sail away, even as I said. You have stood

at the outer door of life, while I was by your side ready to cast you

into whirling vapour. Down you must have fallen, shadow amid shadows,

while I might have gazed into the nether gloom, then stepped back to the

life world. Will you swear not? Surely you shall return thither again.

Then shall I come back alone. You are teaching me the ways of the world,

white man.'

Sullenly Lamont struggled to a sitting posture. In the dim voice of

hatred he muttered, 'I will swear to depart from this place, and never

more speak of love to Menotah. That is the price I am to pay for life?'

'By the Great Spirit, the Totem of your being, the Light and Darkness,

the River, and your own Gods,' chanted the Indian in his deep

monotone.[2]

So Lamont swore.

[1] Such is the literal translation of 'Menotah.'

[2] To the heathen Indian, an oath such as this is absolutely

infrangible. The converted native quickly comes to treat a sacred

promise with the easy elasticity of other Christians!

CHAPTER IV

WHITE WINS

A distant but threatening thunder murmur broke from the heart of a bank

of sulphurous clouds beating closely over the south. The deep sound

rolled over the water and seemed to bury itself in the trembling ground.

Then a serpent of fire writhed along the fringe of the cloud mass and

disappeared, followed by another sullen roar.

It was a strange evening of wild colour and intense calm. Nothing in

Nature stirred, except the wide stream of tinted waves. Sound there was

absolutely none along the stifling atmosphere. Even mosquitoes were

quiescent, and frogs silent.

Lamont came slowly towards the fort, threading a sinuous course among

the black rock shapes. Every slight noise, such as the swishing aside of

kanikaniks, the scraping of boot against stone, the crisp crackling of

dry grass, became abnormal in that profound quiet. There was something

almost ghastly in this terrific silence which could only precede some

unnatural tumult.

'An electric storm,' he muttered. The whispered words became a shriek,

and echoed back from the dark trees on the opposite bank. On such a

night one might well shrink from even thought; for the silent action of

the mind seemed able to create a derangement in the atmosphere.

But as he approached the fort, there were no lack of disturbing sounds.

The Factor and Dave were sampling black H.B. and playing poker. Such

things were never intended to be performed in silence. The two within

made no attempt to infringe upon the rule of custom.

The solitary man came across the open space, longing for a breath of

air, which might alter, if even for a moment, the statuesque rigidity of

the pines, and break the panorama into shifting life. He rounded a

jagged spar, and suddenly came upon the two horses, pulling at long

tufts of grass that shot upward from damp recesses at the roots of the

rock.

His appearance brought animation to the scene. The grey mare started and

shivered, then sprang aside, her ears back, her mouth fiercely open.

Lamont came nearer, and she twisted her neck to bring the single eye to

bear upon the disturber of peace. When she beheld who it was, she again

wheeled and lashed forth violently with her ragged hoofs. He sprang

aside behind the rock with a startled oath, while Kitty cantered to the

forest with many a frightened snort. The black horse followed.

With a distinct feeling of satisfaction that no witnesses had been

present, Lamont walked to the door of the fort. As he entered,

McAuliffe's deep tones struck jeeringly against his ear,--

'Three solid old women and a brace of bullets, Davey! No, lad, it's no

use your trying to bluff a hair off my whiskers. Fixed you this time,

sure. Jackpot, Davey!'

Five sticky cards dribbled from the Captain's shaking hand. 'You're a

teaser, Alf,' he muttered thickly, speaking down his pipe. 'I'm

water-logged, right enough. So let's ha' a drink.'

McAuliffe's huge hand closed round the bottle neck. You derned old

tree-partridge! You didn't reckon there was a full house this side.

Can't fool me with your measly flushes.'

The black liquor fell with a gurgle and splash into cracked glasses.

Then Lamont came inside and seated himself.

'Come and take the pictures,' invited the Factor, genially. 'I've just

cleaned out Davey here, and spoiling for another draw. Davey can't shake

cards worth shucks.'

'Your opinion ain't up to a monkey's grin,' returned Dave, dogmatically.

'There's too many words and not enough sense for me.'

'It's all too deep for you, lad. That's the blessed fact. Your chip of

brain was only allowed you for a bit of a show. 'Tisn't for use, Davey,

and don't you make any mistake. Maybe there's enough to hold you outside

an asylum, but it's a narrow margin, and wants careful looking after.'

'I ain't no Solomon,' said Dave, after a hearty sip at the ink-like

compound. 'Reckon it's safer to be a fool than a wise man, Alf. A

moonhead can say a slick thing once in a while and be none the worse,

but darned if a clever chap can cut didoes. 'Twouldn't pay him by a

jugful.'

Lamont sat in a corner and absorbed his brandy with slow gulps. A subtle

scheme was simmering in his brain, which the fiery liquor now awoke to

full activity. Presently he rose, then began to clean his deadly rifle.

McAuliffe was in splendid humour. He puffed out his beard, and slapped

his chest comfortably. 'Nothing like a few drops of real stuff,' he

proclaimed generally. ''Bout an hour's time I'll feel like talking

nice.'

'Mind old Captain Robinson?' chimed in Dave. 'Lots of whiles I've

started in to talk with him. When he got to reckon he was in for a

brain-squeezer, he'd sort of walk sideways, and say, "Bide here a while,

Dave, while fetch in something from the house." I'd just creep after and

hear the chink of a bottle and glass at work. He always works up his

talk that way. Then he'd be back, with the words fairly dropping off his

tongue like a dog-sweat, "Now, Dave, you're wrong, and I'll tell you

how."

'Then he'd settle right down for the hour. Wonderful fond of his own

noise, was Captain. Never gave anyone else a bit of a show.

'I diddled him once,' chuckled Dave. 'We started in one day, least

Captain did, till I fairly ached for a bit of chin-work. So I just

pulled out a good cigar and handed it over sort of careless, 'though I

didn't care if he took it or not. Captain can't ever refuse a cigar, so

he stretched out for it, all the time talking for what he was worth.

Then I brought out a match, pulled it along my pants, and held it over.

He was a bit anxious and suspicious like, for he seemed to sort of think

he was letting me in. Anyway he stuck his head up and tried to catch a

light without stopping his bandy. 'Twasn't his racket that journey. A

dose of smoke just travelled nice down his throat. Before he could

swallow, I came right in and said, "Now, Captain, I'm going to show you

where you make a mistake." I talked then till I got into a sweat, and my

throat was dry as a hot pea. But I diddled him, sure.'

'You did so,' assented the Factor. 'Captain's a bad listener. He's got

no use for doses of his own poison.'

Outside, the greyness which follows the deep colouring of the sunset was

slowly assuming a darker hue, across which darted every few seconds a

pale blue flash light. McAuliffe lit a greasy lamp with unsteady hands

and replaced the smoked glass. Lamont sat silent, with the weapon lying

across his knees, scarcely taking heed of the conversation going on

beside him, until Dave suddenly struck a note of more immediate

interest.

'No harm come to the gal, Alf?'

'Reckon you mean Menotah. Darn it, Dave, do you think we'd fix a woman?

'Accidents,' suggested Dave. 'She's right enough, eh?'

'Course. I'd spoil the man who harmed her, I reckon.'

'She's a daisy!' said the Captain, fervently. 'Twist her hair up some

crazy way, hang a fine dress around her, and she'd knock the spots off

any at Garry. She's a peach blossom, sure! I don't mind telling you

straight, Alf, I'm thinking of doing the gal a first-class honour. I

tell you, I'm going to make her Mrs Spencer. She's worth the honour, and

don't you forget it, Alf.'

Lamont flashed a contemptuous glance at the insignificant speaker, while

McAuliffe burst into a lusty roar of laughter, and slapped his great

thigh repeatedly.

'Don't see what you're quirking at,' said Dave, sulkily. 'Ain't she good

enough, Alf?'

'She's eighteen carat, 'Twas something else bothering me, Dave. I tell

you, Davey, she's a girl of taste.'

'Well, what's the matter with me?' asked the other surlily.

'A looking glass would tell you straight. There's one t'other room.

You're not so bad, Dave, now I come to think on it. But you don't make

much of a picture to look at.' He doubled up and laughed again, while

the sickly light darted across the window.

Dave sat back with an injured air. 'Gals are too darned particular. Many

a one I've tried to hitch on to, but they've always broken loose and

gone after someone else with dollars, or a different twist to the nose

from mine.'

'Never mind, Davey,' said the Factor, encouragingly. 'There'll be some

old woman waiting on you presently, with a beauty show certificate.'

The Captain swore. 'There's no finding out what they're driving at. One

gal now--Elsie they called her--I felt pretty well sure of. She seemed

to kind of catch on, so I thought 'twas just a case of picking when I

wanted. One Sunday I made up a few nice sentences, with a sort of poetry

jingle. Chose a soft grass spot, I did, tumbled on my knee bones, and

asked her if she'd hold on to me. Well, she thought, 'bout as cool as

though I'd asked her to name her drink, then said she reckoned the

investment wouldn't be profitable enough. That's the way they all go. I

never gave her another chance, bet you, Alf.'

Then they fell back to their poker playing. The night drew on, while the

power of the electric storm grew mightier and more awful. So another two

hours passed.

Inside the fort, the yellow lamp light flickered dully within a

soot-covered glass. Its use was superfluous, as the incessant lightning

kept the room flooded in a wild radiance. Without, the stupendous

silence was appalling--a silence amid the crashing and roar of the

heavens, which but threw the dreadful intervals into more powerful

relief. It was undoubtedly a furious storm, yet not a pine branch

stirred, not a grass stem quivered, not a speck of dust travelled in

airy course; a feather would scarce have found air to float it; the

waters of the Saskatchewan coiled in sluggish circles like oil. Still,

from a thousand points of the copper-coloured sky, lightning streamed

and twisted in furious revelry, before disappearing in a flood of angry

contortions as fresh fire darted into the dead wake. Then that fearful

pause of silence indescribable. After, dull booming of distant

artillery, or waspish whinings of kettledrums.

From the forest limit sped Menotah, with cloak drawn over her hair,

hurrying for the shelter of the fort. She held a rough willow box, which

she anxiously opened when she reached the clearing. The electric light

darted down and converted the contents into a liquid flood of red light.

From side to side the breathless life streamed, crossing and recrossing

in waving threads of gold. This was safe, so she darted across the open,

shrank from a descending flame, which hissed between her body and the

door, then entered boldly, though half dazed and breathing quickly.

Sprawling across the table, his huge head lying upon his hands, she

beheld the Chief Factor, mumbling in incoherent phrases. Opposite, bolt

upright, balanced on an insecure box and sucking at an empty pipe,

appeared Dave Spencer, howling in his coarse voice some unintelligible

song and beating time with an empty bottle which dribbled down his arm.

The girl's bright eyes passed from one to the other, while presently she

began to laugh softly at the two unmeaning comedians.

Lamont, in the corner, with elbows upon knees and face hidden between

his hands, she did not at first perceive. It seemed to him as though he

had suddenly been forced off his own circle of life and been brought

into contact with beings unknown, of different form and custom. His

present environment was unnatural and visionary. Even Dave's mechanical

expletives were insufficient to dispel the illusion. When the girl

appeared, like a visible portion of the surrounding silence, he regarded

her as some fresh vagary of Nature, or creation of the storm. He blinked

his eyes, with the dim idea of seeing her disappear from vision. But

when the cloak fell back and the softly cut features of Menotah were

upraised in the blue light, he reflected,--first, on Sinclair's poor

body, rotting in some thick tangle of bush; then on Muskwah, full of

life, hope and vengeance.

When she laughed, he started at the sound of contrast, and overturned

the cracked glass beside him. Then he rose, crushed the broken

fragments, and came towards the girl with a low-toned question on his

lips, 'Why are you here?'

She looked up gladly. Then he noticed her fingers closing round the

willow box.

'I was in the forest when the fire was cast at my head, so I hastened

here.'

The vagrant thoughts fled off on another tack. He kept his eyes fixed

upon the girl's countenance. She drew back frightened.

'Your eyes are still and cold. Your lips move, yet there is no

word-sound. You did not look at me so--in the forest, when the white

moon peeped over the ledges.'

He cast off the glamour of illusion, and asked again, 'Why have you

come?'

'I told you,' said Menotah, pettishly. 'You did not attend, for you have

been drinking the strong waters--'

'No, I haven't,' interrupted Lamont. 'I have scarcely tasted the stuff.

Why are you out on such a night?'

'The spirits of the dead call us in the storm,' said she fearfully.

'They shriek in the thunder; their hollow eyes stare from the lightning;

their cold breath beats in the rain. It is terrible to stay within, and

hear them fighting. Yet it may be death to venture outside.'

'Why did you?'

She touched the box with light finger tips. 'I kept this buried beneath

a forest tree; but I feared lest a Spirit might snatch it in the storm.'

Lamont laughed. 'Spirits could steal away nothing.'

'They breathe, and the substance vanishes; they touch, and it melts.

Often have I seen the wind carrying a tree uprooted. I have also looked

upon a tent borne on the storm. There is a Spirit in the wind.'

A furious roar of thunder convulsed the dread silence. As it died away,

Dave burst into renewed howlings, and commenced an attack upon the table

with the black bottle.

'You shouldn't have come here.'

'Why not?'

'Two drunken men--and you.' He shrugged his shoulders.

'But when a man drinks much strong water, he is helpless. Besides, you

are here.'

Dave staggered to his irregular feet, dimly conscious that someone was

speaking close at hand, and fell heavily into Lamont's arms.

'Come--have something--to drink, Alfy. Haven't had good drink--with

you--long time.'

Arousing to the fact that his name had been pronounced, McAuliffe

uplifted a strange, shaggy face, to stare helplessly around.

'That 'ud be Dave--old Davey Spencer. Talking through his hat as usual.

No good listening--what he says. He ain't of no account.'

Dave threw his hot arms around Lamont's neck. 'Alfy--you good fellow,'

he slobbered. 'Heard boys run you down--say old Alf McAuliffe wasn't

much good anyway. I've given it 'em straight. Your old pal, Davey, will

stay right by you.'

McAuliffe stuck a bottle to the perpendicular on the sloppy table, and

lectured it with wagging beard,--

'No use at all for chaps that have a lot to say for themselves--no

derned bit of good, they ain't! There's Dave Spencer, now--he's one of

'em. Corks me, he do! I've been talking to him to-night--not a single

sense-bug under his wool. Can't argue worth shucks. Sits sucking a glass

and stares like a derned old owl whenever I talk straight--squirms like

a pesky fish trying to get back to water. It's a terrible waste of time

for fellow like me--lots of brains--to argue with a wooden chunk like

Dave. Don't you forget it now. What I'm saying's the right thing.'

'Damn you, keep off!' shouted Lamont, throwing the unsteady Captain back

against the wall.

'Not going back on friends, Alfy--not on old Davey Spencer? Always drunk

fair with you--never took lager when you had whisky. Just shake,

Alf--show no ill feeling. Then we'll go for a walk and have

something--ter'ble long time 'tween drinks. My treat, Alf.'

'Get a move on, then!' cried the Factor. He rose clumsily. 'Seems to be

a bit of a storm coming around. Don't matter, though. Hook your arm in

mine, Davey.'

But then Lamont caught the speaker and pulled him back to the inner

room.

McAuliffe struggled like a bear. 'There'll be trouble here!' he howled.

'A fellow can do what he darned well likes in a free country!'

'You'll get twisted up by lightning first thing if you go out.'

'We'll try, anyhow,' hiccoughed the Factor, smiling pleasantly.

'Can't spare you,' muttered the other. 'Come along with me. I'll stay

with you, and bring along a stiff eye-opener.'

'You're the stuff!' chuckled McAuliffe. 'I'm right with you. Never mind

Davey; haven't got much an opinion of him. Sort of chap to stand you a

drink, then make you pay for it. We'll go for a stroll presently, eh?

Sun shining nice and bright. I want to pick some pretty flowers for my

gal.'

Lamont laughed cynically, and dumped the great body on the heap of

clothes which stood for a bed. He stood by to check any inclination to

rise, until he was recalled to the office by a sound of scuffling and an

indignant cry. Then he remembered Dave.

Menotah had quickly commenced to ridicule her companion upon his

singular want of graceful motion. The Captain recognised his persecutor,

and smiled broadly with pleasure. 'You're a fine gal, and good-looking

gal,' he declared. 'Come and sit on my knee.'

Which pleasant invitation was scornfully refused. 'I shall stay here,

and you can sit by yourself,' she said. 'What have you been doing

to-night?'

'Thinking of you,' replied Dave, effusively. 'Always doing it--first

thing in morning, last thing at night.'

She regarded his wobbling figure with a laugh. 'It has been too much for

your feet. If you think any more, your legs will give way.'

Dave whined at the imputation. 'I'm all right. See me walk the chalked

line.' Then he commenced to gyrate towards her.

She doubled her little fist. 'If you come any nearer, I shall hit you in

the face.'

The Captain chuckled happily, and made a fresh lurch onward. 'I know you

gals--all the same. Never let a fine-looking man alone. Lots have tried

to catch Dave Spencer--shook 'em off, though, every time. Always

said--going to marry Menotah and settle down comfortable.'

The girl laughed. 'Why,' she cried frankly, 'you are uglier than a

jack-fish, and as stupid as a tree-partridge! Don't you know that?'

The Captain was in a condition only to appreciate compliments. 'You

agree to that quick enough. I know you gals--never let a good chance

slip. Come, give me a kiss.'

Menotah turned to escape, but in doing so stepped upon a fragment of

Lamont's broken glass. She cried sharply, for she was barefooted; but

the next instant Dave had flung two unsteady arms round her, while his

hot tainted breath struck against her cheek.

Yet, before he could put his amorous designs in execution, Lamont was

across the floor, and had seized him angrily by the collar. He dragged

him away, struggling violently, and shouting like a maniac.

'Unfix me. I'll pay you for mauling my carcase. You don't know Dave

Spencer, I guess. Who the devil are you, anyway?'

Menotah nursed her foot upon the lounge, watching her protector with

soft eyes. Dave slobbered along the floor, cursing and groaning, then

turned his dull head round and looked up into Lamont's face. The same

moment Menotah turned up the lamp flame, though scanty light could

penetrate the blackened chimney. Still, the incessant lightning, across

window and half open door, was sufficient by itself.

Suddenly Dave shot a shaking finger upward. 'I know you!' he cried

madly. 'White Chief! Ho, ho! White Chief!'

It might have been the electric light that cast the livid hue across

Lamont's features. Certainly he started wildly, then recollected in

whose presence he stood, and laughed.

'Pshaw!' he muttered, 'if you weren't three sheets in the wind, I'd

stuff you with lead for that.'

The Captain kept his strange dark eyes fixed vindictively. 'I saw you

once,' he shrieked; 'saw you one evening without your paint. White

Chief! I'll hand you over. You will swing along with Riel. You will be

hung!'

The thunder rose from the heart of the great silence, and roared

fearfully. When it died into mutterings, the thick breathing of the

sleeping Factor within was distinctly audible. Lamont kicked the drunken

body, and turned to Menotah with a gesture of contempt.

'Come,' he said, 'I will take you to your home.' She looked at him

pathetically, almost as a wounded stag who expects the death blow. Then

she silently pointed to a scarlet line across the little brown foot.

He fell to his knee and kissed passionately the spot indicated. Then he

drew the silk scarf from his throat and bound up the delicate limb.

While doing so, she bent down and pressed her lips fervently to the

white skin at the back of his neck.

Dave had forgotten his accusation, and, still muttering upon the floor,

was rapidly sinking into a natural stupor. The boat departed in the

early morning, and in her Lamont had sworn to take passage. But much

might be performed before the dawning. McAuliffe lay in a dead sleep;

Justin tended the Icelander in a riverside hut; Denton was safely out of

the way. Good.

'Shall I carry you in my arms, _chérie_?' he asked.

'I can walk now,' she replied. 'We must go before the wind strikes us.'

They stepped from the fort during one of the short, terribly intense

periods of silence. Immediately there rang forth the sullen report of a

muzzle-loader. It came from the opposite shore, and hung over the forest

until dispelled by the thunder.

'It is Muskwah,' said the girl. 'He has hunted the moose since morning,

and now returns. That is his signal. The Chief would marry me to him,'

she concluded indifferently.

They came to the edge of the cliff. The electric fire blazed with

stronger fury, yet not a drop of rain fell from the copper sky to the

parched ground, not a motion of air stole through the solemn pines.

Beneath, the mighty Saskatchewan swelled away, its oil-like water

converted into a sea of fire, overhung by ever-changing blood shadows.

Menotah released his arm with a little cry of fear, as a narrow ribbon

of flame darted along his back and struck across the rock. 'Why have you

the rifle?'

Lamont feigned surprise. 'I forgot,' he said quickly. 'I will cover it

with my coat.' He did so, then turned to the girl again.

'It is not far through the forest, Menotah. I wish you to go to the

encampment by yourself.'

She demurred, but obeyed. He made as though he would return to the fort,

but she gave a little cry, and he turned, to find her standing beside

him with uplifted face. 'You forgot me,' she said pitifully.

'No, _chérie_; I was only afraid of the fire striking you.' He kissed

her many times, then she stepped into the bushes with a backward glance.

So he was alone. The rifle was again uncovered, while he knelt on the

rocky headland, with eyes fixed upon the dark shadows beneath the

opposing bank. Minutes dragged along slowly as he crouched, like a dark

statue, until eyes dimmed with the strained gaze and, in the intervals

of great silence, heart-beats rose in loud pulsations. But it was not

for long he waited. A canoe shot suddenly forth from the dark shadows

beyond. It carried a single occupant, one who headed the frail craft

with dexterous paddle strokes straight for the point. He knelt to his

work; the figure was erect, rejoicing in strength and manhood. It was

the bearing of one who has secured the victory, who sees happiness

before him on the life pathway.

Now he had reached the centre of the great river, and the white paddle

shone like a glass beneath the fire. Then the stern-faced watcher

perceived in the illumination the features, the swelling muscles, the

proud might of the warrior Muskwah. Another stroke, and the canoe half

sprang from the water like a graceful bird, to fall back and dart along,

cutting through the sanguine waters and casting aside two wide lines of

ruddy waves.

'He must not land. The time has come.'

Such words were spoken by an avenging voice from the heart of the storm.

He raised and levelled that murderous rifle; the stock burnt his cheek:

lightning confused the sights; then he settled himself like a rock, as

the forefinger caressed the trigger. The reverberating crack was

swallowed by the revelry above, the gleaming river received in its bosom

the harmless missive.

'Again!' The single word circled from the red mystery of the tempest.

The warrior approached the shore. Should he reach that dark shelter of

the cliff, he must escape beneath the forest shadows, while another life

would pay the penalty of failure.

The rifle came up, with the wild lights playing and leaping along its

narrow length. A bullet darted forth and pierced the brown bark at the

side.

'Again!'

He could see the Indian's frightened face, as he struggled madly towards

the rock-lined shore, the friendly shadows, where he might creep away in

safety; but there was no thought of pity, no compunction at depriving

mortality of its best. Only he passed a hand across his eyes and

straightened himself for a more resolute effort. Then the keen eye

glanced again from sight to sight, while the storm fiend spoke for the

last time,--

'The wind is coming. There will be opportunity only for two more shots.'

Half lifting the gaze from his glowing weapon, he perceived the heads of

the most distant pines on the heaving sky line bend almost double, yet

amid a silence most intense. That fearful calm could have no other

ending. In three minutes the tornado must burst upon them.

An unearthly moaning shuddered over forest and river. At the same moment

the heavens divided into a myriad fiery serpents, writhing and hissing

to every point of the compass. As this avenging host convulsed the livid

sky, a death bullet shrieked from the shore and savagely bit the

warrior's left shoulder.

He dropped with a wild cry; the birch bark overturned, scarlet waters

foamed and twisted like a furnace with the grim struggle. And after came

the common end of all.

In the last interval of stillness, Lamont wiped the sweat from his

forehead, and again covered the rifle. The wind approached. He prepared

to move towards the fort, but the small bush behind trembled with

motion. Then a figure crept forth and caught at his arm with soft

fingers. He cried aloud, when the frightened face and wide-open eyes

appeared in the strange lights.

'Menotah! You here!'

She pointed below to the fire-like river, while her lips moved. At

length words dropped forth. 'Why did you kill him?'

There was time for a hasty reply, though the trees across the water bent

and cracked. Flinging down the weapon, he caught her in his arms and

pressed her to him, until heart beat with heart. Then he whispered

against her ear, 'Because I love you.' Then the wind came.

With a mad fury it drowned the sonorous bursts of thunder. The

Saskatchewan was lashed into white billows of foam; a drifting canoe was

torn into fragments by sharp rocks. Trees groaned and tossed appealingly

heavy plumes to the violent sky; branches and small stones hurtled on

the wings of the tempest.

It was the murderer's storm, and for him alone. As he clasped Menotah,

beneath the raging bush, it poured all its message of retribution around

his head, and shrieked the red words of fate into his ears. His unworthy

love was blood purchased. It was a thing accursed. It would end in

blood.

And, after the wind, came the rain.

CHAPTER V

PACTOLUS

The following morning dawned with clear light in a radiant softness.

Bright sunshine glistened joyfully upon dripping pine needles, drawing

fragrance from the damp ground and dew-lined bushes.

Dave, sulky and forgetful of events closely preceding, partook of a

greasy breakfast prepared by Justin, then slouched outside, where he

might relieve his feelings by swearing at the slowness of his half-breed

assistants. The Factor was abroad yet earlier. Half a bottle of black

H.B. had little subsequent effect upon his vigorous constitution. He ate

with Dave, continually disburdening himself of badly-received jokes at

his companion's expense.

The Captain rose presently with a curt farewell, and blundered finally

from the fort. But McAuliffe was not to be shaken off. He followed,

borrowed a plug of T.& B., then walked along, peeling off thick strips

and reminding Dave of several commissions to be executed prior to a next

meeting. 'Shouldn't have taken so much liquor, Dave. You've got a sore

head this morning, sure.'

The other mumbled an indistinct reply. Then they came down to the

river's edge. Here the boat was lying, bales of furs for English

shipment ready stowed, an Icelander waiting to cast off the last rope.

Dave swore at this latter, then stepped on board. The next minute the

black monster drew slowly away. The Captain took up a stolid position in

the bows, and lifted the torn flag he was grasping in response to

McAuliffe's parting shout. Then the unwieldy craft gurgled round the

bend and disappeared. The Factor turned, to discover Lamont approaching

him from the forest. 'Where you been?' he called, as the young man came

up.

'Around early. Tracked a muskawk, but couldn't get in a shot.'

'That was the old bull's luck. Say, we had a bit of a jamboree last

night, eh?'

'I reckon you did. What with liquor splashing and a tornado howling, it

was a fairly wild night.'

'Don't often get off on a jag,' said the Factor. 'When I do, I'm a

rocket. Bound to go off full rip. Guess you found me a bit of a teaser,

eh?'

'Not so bad as Dave. I've no use for him.'

'He's not much of a chap. Told him that straight lots of times. I

shouldn't have cut such an everlasting dido if he hadn't been monkeying

around. Drank more than I did, too. Dirty mean trick that, for he can

get lots across lake. Quite a little storm rustling most of the while,

eh?'

Lamont smiled feebly. 'Just a bit,' he said slowly.

The Factor looked at him critically. 'Darn it, Lamont, a fellow might

think you'd been on the jag stead of me.'

He was right. The young man's face was colourless and heavy; his eyes

dull and deeply marked with black lines; his appearance thinner and

older. The Factor, on the other hand, represented the perfection of

health. His great face glowed with colour beneath a wide straw bonnet;

his eyes shone; his step was firm and vigorous.

'I'm a bit played out. Up most of the night; out first thing without

grub.'

'That's what,' returned McAuliffe, heartily. 'Come off now; there's a

decent chunk of moose steak lying inside.'

They disappeared within the log fort, while the silence and desolation

grew again.

Through the fresh dampness of the forest came Menotah, with her wonted

happiness and joy of heart. Her hair was unbound as usual; she wore a

tiny pair of beaded and grass-worked mocassins, with dainty leggings of

fringed buckskin. Light notes of joyous music dropped from her smiling

lips as she danced along with scarce a limp or a pause--for the old

Antoine, with the miraculous native art of healing, had rubbed an

ointment upon the wounded foot.

She passed along like a butterfly floating with the wind, threading an

unmarked track for some distance, then glided through torn and rugged

bush, to finally emerge at the edge of a gloomy swamp, where strange

creatures croaked and crawled, where poisonous herbs reared fetid heads

aloft.

Here an unmistakable odour permeated the air. A thick film coated

nauseous puddles of silent water, where circles of bright colour curled

and twisted beneath the bright sunlight. A colossal fortune, open gift

of Nature, lay beneath that lonely wilderness, only awaiting someone to

seize upon it. Yet neither the old Antoine, nor the light-hearted girl,

the two who alone knew of the place, ever had the imagination troubled

with the golden vision of an oil king's dream.

Black rocks pressed closely upon the limit of this slimy expanse, which

spread away to the distance, broken by occasional solemn bushes, or

gaunt stone masses like huge creatures of mythology. Between this cliff

and the precarious edge Menotah picked her light-footed way, until she

came to an open spot fronted by a thick bush clump, which seemed to bar

all further progress.

She stepped across and pulled at a pliant bough. It came back, and she

passed through a dark aperture, the branch closing behind her with

considerable force, like a spring door. Ahead lay another smaller

clearing, with three trees in the centre, growing to form an almost

perfect equilateral triangle. These had been utilised as corner posts

for a small hut constructed out of thick kanikanik rods, overlaid with

white reeds plaited with red wands of the same bush. The roof was

thatched in by layers of leaves and dry grass, the whole being sheltered

by pendulous tresses of the overhanging trinity of pines. At the forest

side a roughly-cut aperture did duty for a window, where a cloth was

stretched across at night, to exclude, as far as possible, the noxious

vapours and the no less unpleasant insects.

Menotah had reached her destination. She stopped and hooted thrice in

soft cadence. Scarce had the low cry passed drearily over the swamp,

when the reed door was pushed back, while a figure, bent and completely

enveloped in a sweeping black cloak, crawled forth slowly. This

apparition the girl regarded with every sign of complacent satisfaction.

'I have come early,' she began in glad tones, 'for last evening I could

not find you. I came to the hut before the storm arose, but it was

empty.'

The figure raised a thin, bearded face, and spoke in a weak voice. 'I

went into the forest--to escape the stench of the swamp for a few hours.

I thought I knew the way, but it gave me trouble to return.'

'You should not have left this place. Some might see you.'

'Don't fear, my girl. I shall lie quiet, till the strength comes. I

sha'n't show my face till the proper time. No one comes here?'

'None can, but old Antoine, for they do not know the path. He comes but

seldom, to gather foul plants and collect creatures from the mud. Then

he makes great medicines and strong poison. Are you not satisfied here?'

The figure shivered, and drew the mantle more closely round his lean

shoulders. 'It is an awful place at night--especially on a quiet night.

Mists rise and hang upon yonder dark pools, while blue lamps shudder

along the marsh.'

Menotah gave a fearful little laugh. 'But you should not venture forth

when the cold moon shines.[1] The _Mutchi-Manitou_ is then abroad, and

his home is in the swamp. He it is who lights those fires, that you may

come to the edge and gaze upon them. Then he would drag you in to feed

upon your blood, while your soul would make another blue lamp. But the

dim shadows are powerless to harm, for they are only poor spirits who

have been sent to the other world without food or light by the way. So

they have lost the right path, and must search through the long night

for it.'

The huddled figure, who already seemed overridden by superstition, bent

still lower in a fit of coughing. Menotah, with her inborn knowledge of

the unseen, had no idea of easing his mind.

'You have not seen that which the Spirit has shown to me,' she

continued, in a half whisper. 'When I was younger, I would sometimes be

very foolish, and would even walk by the edge of the swamp when the moon

was cold and round. I wished to learn some of the mysteries of the

future. So as the night grew older and the south wind blew more

strongly,[2] there rose around me groanings, with louder cries of souls

in torture. Fires darted from side to side, while shadow figures floated

in such numbers that the sky became hidden. Sometimes, when I came by a

black pool, where red patches lay without motion, a blue-veined hand

darted upward, making horrible clutches with bony fingers at the life

air, which the body might not reach from the bondage of death. Then a

ghastly head, with starting eyes and awful features, would be cast up at

my feet, only to roll back into the slime with fearful cries. I could

see the agony in the eyes as the dark water closed around. Also, voices

would call my name, and feet tread beside me as I trembled along.

Invisible hands pulled at me, while hollow eyes rolled and burnt in the

air at my side. Yet I kept to the path and never lost courage. Had I

done so, one of those blue lamps which now frighten you at night would

mark that spot where I had made entry into the other world.'

'You imagined this!' cried the figure. 'It was a dream. I have seen

nothing like that--'

'Because the Spirit has not given you the double vision,' she said

eagerly. 'Some may see more than others can even imagine. These have an

inner pair of eyes with which they may look into the mysteries, to read

the future and the fate of others, though we may never find or learn our

own.'

'Have you the double pair?'

'I cannot tell yet; I am still so young. But I can see very well, and I

know--I know--'

She stopped, then widened her lustrous eyes and gazed on him with a

smile, in which there was certain pride.

'Now I must go,' she said suddenly. 'See how the sun is creeping up from

the low ridge of cloud. Is there anything I should bring you?'

'No. Only keep your tongue as you have managed so far. Then everything

ought to turn out well.'

She stepped back to the leafy wall. 'Last night there was a moose

brought into the camp. I have cut off some nice pieces for you, and will

bring them this evening. Do not lose yourself again.'

She nodded with a radiant smile, the bushes closed behind her flowing

hair as a last bright note of farewell floated back to the stagnant

swamp pools. Then her happy steps turned lightly in the direction of the

dismal death tree, where she was to meet the one to whom she had

dedicated her fresh young heart.

Quickly she came across him, stretched at his ease in the soft green

shade beneath the tinted light. She came to him, full of that love and

trust which is in itself a thing of perfect beauty, yet which so often

proves a serpent to its owner. She knelt by his side, under the

interlacing tangle of boughs, to throw her warm young arms around his

neck in the passion of her innocent devotion. Her tantalising hair waved

round his neck and fondled each feature. It intoxicated the sense, so he

returned her embrace, drew her down beside him, whispering soft words

into her ear, caressing the flushed face with the careless touch of a

man who understands a woman's weakness.

Jealousy had awakened the love flame in his heart. Now the opposer had

been destroyed, and no further obstacle stood in his path. Menotah was

for him. He had but to put forth his hand and receive a bride--surely

she was worth the taking. What mattered the stiff body drifting down an

unknown reach of the Saskatchewan? That could no more interfere between

him and desire. For the time he was sincere. This warmth at the heart

_was_ love; the beautiful being then caressing him with soft fingers had

been the kindling of it.

Nor had she any great consideration for the dead Muskwah. He himself had

explained the truth, when he said that none could think of the moon

while the sun gave light. She breathed within a golden flood of ecstasy,

in which time and season were empty phrases. The warmth and beauty of

that summer day had been created for her alone, while she, in her turn,

had been brought to the world that she might bring joy and satisfaction

to another. Had not the heart been free from sorrow all the days of

life? And now the happiness had been idealised. How magnificent, how

wonderfully coloured, how fantastic and exquisitely enervating was this

supreme intensity of heart joy!

She murmured to him softly, 'You have given me love. I know what it is

now. And the more you give me, more I shall ask for.'

'You shall have it, _chérie_!'

'It is my life now. I should die if I looked for it--and it never came.'

He turned her face up inquiringly and gazed into it.

'Ah! You do not understand that. But, if I thought you had ceased to

love me, it would kill me. You may not live without a heart. We are

given but one, and we cannot part with our best more than once.'

'But when it is returned to you?'

'No; it is a different thing. You then offer that which belongs to

another.'

Lamont looked long into her serious eyes. '_Ma mie_,' he said tenderly,

'all of your age and sex speak so. They mean it, when they give the

thought utterance, yet in a short time they will gladly transfer

affection, and call it again love.'

'I do not understand the world ways. I do not wish to, if such is

custom. Such women cannot possess hearts, or know truth.'

'It is nothing,' he said carelessly. 'Husbands tire of wives, wives

desert husbands. It happens every day.'

'But what comes after that?'

'Often they separate.'

Menotah shuddered, while her face grew very grave. 'When you speak such

words, a cold pain passes over me. It makes me lonely and unhappy. But

tell me more; when the wife is deserted for another woman, what does she

do?'

Lamont shrugged his shoulders and laughed. 'Takes somebody else,' he

said lightly.

Yet he was astonished at her manner of receiving his words. She pushed

him away with a sudden impulse, while her bosom heaved and the bright

eyes flashed.

'Surely she would seek after vengeance? She would punish him?'

'You do not understand the workings of the world, Menotah,' came the

careless answer.

'No--I go higher. For I know the call of Nature. If animals seek to obey

the will of the Spirit, why should men and women do less? I will tell

you what I myself saw last spring. Many herons nested among the river

reeds, and I would watch them often while they fashioned homes and

brought up their young. But one day a female deserted her mate and chose

another. What do you think happened then? The others would not allow

themselves to be thus disgraced; for they were wiser than those men and

women of whom you speak. They waited, until the female bird came to the

encampment, then set upon her, and tore her body in pieces. After that

they turned upon her mate and beat him from the camp. All this I saw

with my own eyes.'

Lamont shifted uneasily, for this style of conversation jarred upon him.

This girl of the forests possessed deep inner feelings, which he felt

she would be better without. There were still things of importance he

must teach her, chief of which was the error of perfect fidelity. To

him, love was the pleasure of an hour; to her, it was the core of life.

It was easy, also delightful, to assure her of the foolishness of

dwelling upon matters which could not concern her. She was willing to be

persuaded, and soon smiled on him again with her customary brightness.

'I have a gift for you,' she said.

'You have given it already. You shall not take yourself back again,' he

replied laughingly.

She patted his mouth with a soft palm and laughed back into his eyes.

'It is something nicer than me,' she said. 'I had it with me in the

storm; now it lies in the hut. There are many beautiful stones, which

were given to my father by the hunter who found them. That was before I

lived.'

He saw she was referring to the willow box. 'What is your gift,

_chérie_?'

'Yellow stones. They are wonderful as sunshine,' she replied.

This was a matter of far greater interest. He drew himself up eagerly to

ask, 'From where did they come?'

'I will tell you how the hunter of our tribe found them long ago. He

travelled far, tracking the moose, and struck in a new direction, until

he came to a strange land, which no man had knowledge of. He went

through much forest, then came out to a country of rocks, where great

red hills overtopped the largest trees; and still he travelled on, down

the rock paths and through the deep clefts. At length he stood upon

lofty cliffs, and looked upon what must once have been a great river,

like our mighty Saskatchewan-god. But then it was dry, while the bed of

sparkling sand, overstrewn with small shells, showed no mark of

footsteps. So he wondered greatly, and let himself down the cliff front,

over rocks the like of which his eyes had never rested on. For they were

white as snow. Then he came upon the ancient river bed and his feet sank

amid the brittle shells. Into the warm sand he worked his hands, then,

behold! bright stones lay there, glittering beneath the sun as though

made of fire. Also he chipped fragments from the white rocks, and saw

wondrous yellow patterns traced upon the heart of the stone. So he came

away with many of the bright creatures in his pemmican bag. When he

returned, after much wandering, he gave them to the Chief.'

Lamont had given this narrative breathless attention. 'Where is that

river bed?'

Menotah laughed. 'Do you wish to walk along the soft sand as well? You

cannot, for none knows where it lies. That hunter has long been dead,

nor could he ever find his way there again. The Spirit brought him to

it, and it was after many weary days of travel. No man could lead you

there. Do you wish to travel through the lone land?'

'I will tell you after I have seen the stones,' was the somewhat

mercenary answer.

'You will meet me to-night, when the moon tips the black rock ledge.

Then I will bring the little box and give it you.'

He agreed; but as he kissed her soft mouth, he thought more upon the

glittering sands, so jealously guarded by Nature, than the upturned face

of sweet beauty and the trusting heart that throbbed so happily against

his breast.

But Menotah had flitted among the trees, and disappeared with a glad

song upon her lips. Scarce had Lamont reached the open, when a shrunken

form approached slowly from the direction of the river. He stopped, and,

leaning against a rock, waited for the old Chief to come up.

The latter had perceived his daughter as she passed at a short distance,

with scantest form of recognition. He groaned and struck his staff upon

the ground in the bitterness of his heart. The white oppressor had taken

from him everything, save only the light of his eyes. And now, even the

heart of his child had been turned against her own. Especially did the

old man hate Lamont, who had dealt destruction in the fight, who, as he

now shrewdly imagined, might have some knowledge regarding the

disappearance of Muskwah. So he would have passed without a word, had

not the young man caught a fold of his blanket and brought him to a

standstill.

Then he turned his bleared eyes and deeply wrinkled countenance to

inject the question, 'Did you see her, who left me as you came up?'

Quickly the other found words. 'Can a man see the sun at noon? Who could

wish for beauty when Menotah stands by?'

'You're right enough,' said Lamont, carelessly. 'She is--'

'What is she to you?' broke in the old Chief violently. 'No longer will

she look upon those of the tribe as equals, no longer does she respect

the needs of her sire. When I call for her, the answer comes, "She is

absent; she has gone to the forest." When I search, failure but mocks my

efforts. What have you done to her? Why have you turned her against her

own people?'

'She is a good deal to me,' said Lamont. 'I am going to make her my

wife.'

The old Chief clasped claw-like hands and trembled to his knees.

'Leave me this, only this,' he wailed pitifully. 'See, I would not bow

myself to the white man for a small matter. But now I will humble myself

for Menotah's sake. The white man has taken everything from me. He stole

my land, driving me back to the forest, which is worthless to him; he

killed the buffalo,[3] and took away our life support. Now, if we rise

to reclaim our own, he takes away our life. White man--give me back my

daughter. Take not away the only gladness of my last days.'

'Get up,' said Lamont, scornfully. 'What are you grovelling about there

for? I am as good a man as any of yours.'

'May the Great Spirit aid me. May he save my child from her fate.'

'I guess your god will listen, if you shout loud enough; but he

certainly can't stop me from making Menotah my bride.'

The aged Chief rose in feeble manner, a strange picture of crushed

humanity. 'What good can come from such a marriage?' he quavered. 'Does

the crow mate with the gull? Nature herself teaches you to take a wife

from your own tribe. Yet, I tell you this, should you treat her wrongly,

an old man's curse shall follow you to death. The earth will hate you,

and the wind shall blow poison through your veins.'

The other laughed cynically. 'Good!' he exclaimed. 'You talk well, old

man; it is a pity you will not live to see my downfall.'

'I do not wish to. I have seen much sorrow, and now look for sleep. It

is the great love for what I may call my own that speaks in me.'

'Well, I have told you--I love her, too.'

'With the white man's constancy. No true fire burns within your heart. I

know the white man's fair promise and the white man's love. You change,

as the day in early summer. At one time all is bright, but even while

you gaze black clouds roll up, the tempest beats. So will the love

sunshine turn to dark forgetfulness before another moon has grown

round.'

The young man smoothed his fair moustache. 'Have you done?' he asked

listlessly.

'The wind will receive my prayers and carry them to the Spirit. He will

act between you and me. White man, for the last time I plead to you.

Give me back my daughter, the warmth of my life, the pleasure of my

failing eyes. This is all I ask.'

Lamont's lips curled into a slow smile. Then he leaned forward, until

his face came near the ancient head. 'You ask for your daughter. Have

you never thought I might be unable to return her to you?'

The old man breathed thickly. 'What is the meaning in your words? I am

aged, and the sense is feeble.'

The smile grew deeper as the words came deliberately. 'Perhaps it is

already too late.'

Then he burst into mocking laughter, and turned towards the fort with

swinging step.

But the Chief lifted two dim eyes upward, while the great sorrow

consumed his ebbing life. Pitifully he cried and wailed to the peaceful

nature encircling him, 'The God has spoken. Be it good or evil, what

matters it? Yet, when he makes known his will, what have men to do but

bow the head?'

[1] 'Stay within when the darkness falls, for the night is bad. The evil

one has his power.'--Cree proverb. The dogma is interesting, as to it

the title 'Manitobah' (now Manitoba) owns derivation.

[2] Spirits may only travel on the south wind.

[3] Though it has frequently been denied, the Hudson's Bay Company are

alone responsible for the extinction of the buffalo.

CHAPTER VI

DENTON'S DESCENT

Abandoned by Lamont, the Factor discharged a few duties in the store,

made a selection of heterogeneous entries in his books, then set forth

for the hut beneath the cliff. Here the Icelander, considerately left by

Dave for 'planting,' was sheltered, watched over by the taciturn and

skilful Justin.

The petty king of the district walked by the outlying scrub for some

distance, then turned sharply and worked his great body with

extraordinary agility down the almost perpendicular cliff. This was a

journey he had often made before, chiefly for the sake of enjoying the

breathless exercise of a somewhat hazardous climb. Presently he came to

the bush-covered roof of the one-roomed hut. Here he veered off again,

dropped from the overhanging ledge, and without ceremony kicked in the

door.

Directly opposite the entrance lay the sick man, stretched upon a pile

of sacking; Justin's stunted form moved to and fro; while, squatting on

the floor, with an open Bible across his knees, and an odour of

hypocrisy emanating from his very garments, appeared no less a personage

than Peter Denton.

The latter was not anticipating a visit from his natural enemy, though

he was quite prepared to act on emergency. Feigning complete ignorance

of the Factor's presence--somewhat of an exaggeration in the restricted

space--he bent over the book, and drawled forth in his nasal tones a

portion of the Lamentations that happened to come handy. He could have

done nothing, as he knew well enough, to more effectually arouse

McAuliffe's ire. Nor did the latter lose any time in acquainting him of

that fact.

'Quit that noise now, or I'll fire you outside; and darned quick, too.

What are you doing here, anyway?'

The ex-minister droned forth his Jeremiads, swinging his angular body in

regular motions.

'Do you hear? Quit it, or the river will have a drowning job first

thing.'

Then Denton looked up, and closed the book mournfully. 'Did you speak,

Alfred?' he asked smoothly.

'I just whispered,' shouted the Factor. 'You're a peach of a Christian,

ain't you? Who told you to dump your carcase here, eh?'

'You turned me out of the fort without authority. I had to find a place

for myself,' said the ex-minister, who was more afraid of McAuliffe than

in the days previous to the fight.

'This shack's owned by the Company. I tell you that.'

'Well, and I'm one of their officers,' said Denton, sulkily. 'I sent a

letter by this morning's boat to Garry. I've just put them up to how

I've been used by the Chief Factor. The answer may bother you a bit, I

reckon.'

'That'll be a sure thing,' said McAuliffe, rubbing his hands

delightedly. 'But it's no good your going in for fiction. There's too

many at it already. Mind you, lad, my report went along by same mail.

There was some reading in it which would have made you fairly blush. I

recommended you for promotion, hinted at a Victoria Cross, to say

nothing of a pension when you were past lying. You're tough, Peter, and

there's no denying it. I wonder that Bible don't burn a hole in your

pants.'

Justin interposed. 'He no good. Make boy worse,' pointing to the

Icelander.

'He's a waste of breath wherever he is. Fellows like him ain't a bit of

good, until they're planted. Then they do keep a few worms going and

enrich the ground a bit.'

Denton drew himself upright with poor dignity. 'I have my call, and I

obey it. I am here to care for the soul of our sinful brother.'

McAuliffe burst into a lusty roar. ''Scuse me smiling, Peter. Think he

wants you to trouble? Tell you, he'd be a lot more interested if you

looked a bit after your own. How's the fellow, Justin? Going to snuff

out?'

The half-breed gave a loud grunt of dissent, then bent again over the

sick man, who was apparently asleep.

'He's not, eh? Well, you'll do fine, boy, if you drag him back.' He

pulled forth a massive watch and continued, ''Bout time for my grub.

Suppose you fix him up and hustle across to the fort. I've got a hungry

sort of faceache on me just now. So long, Peter; it's made me regular

tired seeing you again. Why don't you croak off, and make some of us

happier?'

Followed by an indistinct reply to this gracious sentiment, the two left

the hut and passed along in the white sunlight, taking the narrow

shingle path which ran between the cliff base and low ebb of the waters.

The taciturn half-breed was kept at a short double by McAuliffe's long

strides, but at the tree-covered headland the latter paused to get a

light for his pipe. There was a cool patch of shade beneath the

overhanging rock, so Justin stopped willingly and rubbed the heat from

his wrinkled forehead. Then he bit deeply into a black plug, while

McAuliffe swore at the pungent sulphur which had found its way up his

nose.

The great river swirled along, with a lazy gurgling beneath the bright

light. Sweeping kanikaniks bent over and lay upon the cool surface,

entangling small driftings that occasionally came down on the stream.

There was something caught in the red strands now, and the half-breed's

keen eyes soon perceived it. He pointed with his usual sonorous grunt.

McAuliffe puffed blue smoke through his moustache. The sunlight was

dazzling, so at first he saw nothing but the red lines crossing and

recrossing foam patches. Then, beyond the small waves which licked the

shingle, he caught sight of a shining surface rising and falling

feather-like, fretting at the restraint. 'Goldam, boy!' he exclaimed,

'it's a paddle.'

Justin grunted and again pointed, this time to a fragment of bark

twisted up among the pendulous strings.

'Looks as if a _nitchi_ had been overset here,' said the Factor.

'There's been a canoe smashed, and it's a sure thing he didn't escape.

He wouldn't have gone off without the paddle. Must have been in the

storm, boy.'

Justin merely expectorated skilfully across the flat of the white blade.

'May have been monkey work going on,' continued McAuliffe. 'I was too

everlastingly raddled to know anything. See here, boy, you were around

best part of the time. Anyone cutting a crooked dido, you reckon?'

The half-breed shook his head slowly. 'Lightning, thunder, wind, rain.'

He waved his hands towards the white rolling cloud masses. 'I in the

hut--all night.'

'Did Peter shift his carcase outside any time?'

The decided shake of the half-breed's head was sufficient to exonerate

the ex-minister.

McAuliffe pulled a deadwood stick from the bush, then brought the paddle

to shore. 'One fellow gains by another's loss. It's a first-class

paddle, boy.'

They continued along the shingle, worked up the cliff, and were already

within sight of the fort, when the old Chief crawled painfully from the

dim forest track and waited for the representative of justice to come

up. With his great hand McAuliffe screened his eyes from the white

stream of light, and presently observed the bent figure.

'Hello, whisky bottle! What're you after?'

The old man replied in his weak tones, 'I wish to speak to the white

father. Now I have found him on the way.'

'That's what. No charge for talking to-day. Pump it out quick, though,

for I'm wanting my grub.' He stopped, but Justin went on to the fort.

Then the Chief came nearer, and stretched out a skinny hand.

'Muskwah answers not when we call. The leader of the young men has

departed from us as the star before the light of day.'

McAuliffe whistled and grew interested. 'What's that? Quit your foolery

about the sun and stars. Tell me straight what you're driving at.'

The young man went forth to hunt in the forest of the north. Then the

Storm Spirit spoke and all trembled at his voice; but in the morning,

when many of the tribe came for water to the river, there were portions

of the canoe lying upon the stones. Then we knew Muskwah had gone to the

unknown; also that there had been treachery in the manner of his death.'

The Factor shook his shaggy head slowly. 'That's bad; I'll have to look

into this. We've no right to shoot down the boys, 'cept in self-defence.

Besides, it's bad for trade.'

The old man feebly pointed with his staff. 'The father remembers the

promise he made to his servants--they should no more be punished for the

fight of rebellion. Also have we sworn not to fight against the white

men. Yet none of my children could have slain the leader of the young

men.'

McAuliffe was much perplexed. 'I'll have to think over it, boy. I'm

derned sure I didn't fix Muskwah. Can show an empty brandy bottle, and

prove an _alibi_.' Then he reflected; Peter wouldn't have owned the

pluck to be round in the storm. That only leaves Lamont, and he's not

likely to have done it. Why should he? He wouldn't want to be practising

long shots, especially on such a night. Besides, a fellow doesn't go

around potting others as though they were tree-partridges, just to see

if he can hit them. Then to the Chief, 'Keep your old eyes awake, boy.

Might have been someone in the camp who had a sort of feeling against

him.'

The other shook his head. 'There is no such man.'

'Look around, anyway, and come to me if you pick up anything.'

He began to move, for a thin line of smoke was ascending invitingly from

the stove pipe which marked the fort kitchen, but the Chief still

detained him with the words, 'I would speak on another matter with the

white father. Que-dane, the half-breed, has stolen the wife of one of my

young men. He is not of us, therefore will not obey my word The

messenger whom I sent he beat with a heavy stick. My children fear him,

for he is a mighty fighter. Will the father command Que-dane to give

back the wife?'

'I'll go round this evening and fix things up with him. Glad of the

chance, too, for he's a crooked lot.'

He walked off as he spoke, still holding Muskwah's paddle, which the

Chief's dim eyes had not perceived. The latter turned back to the

forest, and made his slow way in the direction of the camp.

Denton, in the meantime, left in charge of the sick Icelander, found

himself situated in an entirely agreeable position. Justin had given him

to understand that his patient was not to be disturbed, but the

ex-minister had no idea of allowing a man to remain in comfort, when he

imagined he could easily make him miserable. So, directly the door

closed behind the two, he shut the Bible with unnecessary commotion and

crossed over to his victim's side. Then he squatted upon a log of wood,

aroused the sleeper, and commenced operations with an ominous groan.

'How are you feeling?' he asked, in a voice suggestive itself of a

funeral procession.

Like most northerners, the Icelander could understand English perfectly,

and speak it fairly. When he heard the sepulchral voice, he stirred and

turned his blue eyes upon the speaker.

'You needn't bother to speak,' continued Denton, zealously. 'You are not

half so strong as you were this morning. You're getting worse every

minute.'

The man groaned and tried to speak, but Denton flowed on. 'The pain's

getting duller all the time, isn't it? That's a sure sign of death.'

The Icelander shifted painfully, while his lips parted.

'Don't you know you're dying? You must go; no power can save you.'

Denton spoke in hollow tones, bending over the sick man, and shaking his

cadaverous features impressively at each word.

The Icelander fastened two frightened eyes on the unpleasant face. 'No,

no,' he said.

'But it's yes, yes,' continued Denton, now thoroughly happy. 'There

wouldn't be any chance for a man not half so sick as you. I guess you'll

live through this night. You may perhaps see the sun rise in the

morning, though I tell you it's unlikely. By this time to-morrow you

will be dead--likely enough under the ground. We shall plant you

directly you turn up.'

'No, no,' came again from the patient.

'It's bad to think on, I know. Still, you've got to get accustomed to

the idea. Mind you, the end is very near now. Its terrible to be like

you, only having a few more hours to look for.'

'But Justin say--I live.'

'You didn't see him laugh at me when he did it. He thought he was doing

you a kind turn telling you a lie; he knows you're dying fast. But it's

my duty to tell you the truth; I'm a minister of the Gospel, and I must

prepare you for the end. Do you understand?'

The Icelander lay back, with his mouth open and pale eyes staring.

'I reckon you've been a vile sinner,' resumed the weird voice. 'Now,

you'll be wanting to know whether there's any chance of your being saved

at the last moment. I'll just find out and let you know; but don't raise

your hopes, for I'm getting afraid you're one of the poor lost brothers.

Now, listen to me.'

He sat more upright and upraised a dirty hand. Then he half closed his

eyes and groaned fervently. 'Have you always regularly attended your

chapel and prayer meeting? Have you steadily helped towards your

minister's income?'

The other shook his flaxen head. 'On lake in summer; bush work, winter.

Not been near church.'

Denton's face lengthened in telescopic fashion. 'Have you ever joined

with the immoral company of card players?'

Such a question aroused not unpleasant memories. 'Played poker nights at

camp. Held a royal in diamonds one time. Diddled 'em all. 'Twas a

jackpot, too. I won quite a bit that night.' He smiled, with more of the

content of pride than sorrow of sinning.

'Perhaps you have even gone so far as to take part in lascivious

dancing, or enter some hell of a theatre?'

But the ex-minister had quite defeated his own ends. This probing of

conscience brought nothing but a flood of joyful memories of the past.

In such a pleasurable review the Icelander quickly recovered from his

fear, and replied, with an irreligious chuckle in his voice,--

'Had lots of good dances with the gals--best fun I've ever put in. When

I was in Garry, would always take in the show when there was one. I'd

like to see another, fine. Tell you, some of them gals could kick up!'

He leaned back with the smile of reprobation, and rubbed his hands

weakly.

Denton was distinctly frustrated, but, not being sensitive, he

instituted a fresh attack. 'It is my duty to give such a wretched sinner

as you every chance. Have you ever passed your time--the time for which

you must now give account--in saloons, drinking with those equally

vile?'

This mystified the Icelander, who did not know which way to take it.

'Always drunk fair, it that's what you're driving at. I've never dropped

off a glass behind, then tried to make out I was level up.'

Denton rocked to and fro with deep groans of fanatical horror. 'Poor

brother!' he wailed; 'for, miserable sinner as you are, I must still

call you brother. You must yourself see that your damnation is assured.

Nothing could save you, even it you do now repent--'

'But I don't,' broke in the sinner cheerfully. 'There's no harm in those

things. They're right enough.'

'They are the wiles of your master, Satan. Poor dying brother. How

dreadful it is to look on you! I must tell you where you are going to,

and so complete my duty.' He opened the Bible, moistened a finger, then

whipped over the pages, leaving a dirty impression on each. 'Here it

is!' he cried in solemn triumph. 'The lake that burneth with fire and

brimstone. That's where you're going to. They'll dump you right in, and

won't care how much you howl or jump. It'll frizzle you. You'll jerk

around like a hot pea. A sulphur match up the nose will be nothing to

it.'

But the ex-minister, in his hypocritical zeal, had overshot the mark.

His intended victim merely laughed stupidly in his face, then remarked,

'You've made me tired; I'm off to sleep. So long.'

Denton banged the Bible upon his misshapen knees. 'It will be the sleep

of death,' he cried tragically. 'You may never wake in this world, and

yet you will not listen to a minister of the Word. You will be damned,

poor brother. Do you hear that? You will be damned.'

'Go away. You're a dam' fool to talk such truck. You're a dirty, mean

liar, sure.'

After which, the Icelander turned towards the log wall, pulled the

ragged coverlet above his shoulders, and sank placidly again into

slumber.

CHAPTER VII

AN INCIDENT

The sun had almost reached the tree line along the horizon, when the

Factor, accompanied by Justin, left the fort and switched off to the

trail which led to the bigamist Que-dane's shack. McAuliffe was in

splendid spirits, for the prospect of a tough wrestling bout--the

stalwart half-breed was unlikely to obey command without

persuasion--suited him to the finger tips. He could use thews and

muscles to good advantage, even though the eye and hand steadily refused

to work together whenever there was any shooting to be done. By his side

trotted Justin, dog-like, his jaws working as usual, and a secret

satisfaction lurking at his heart. For, an hour or so earlier, he had

forcibly ejected Peter Denton from the riverside hut. The Icelander's

condition on his return had inspired suspicion, and upon questioning, he

discovered who was the guilty cause of the man's prostration. Thereupon

he had furnished himself with a cudgel and bestowed attention upon the

ex-minister, who, with his unfailing discretion in time of danger, had

promptly evacuated his former position, and wandered forth to seek other

shelter.

Justin had sufficiently trespassed upon taciturnity to jerk forth this

incident for the benefit of the Factor, who but expressed sorrow that

Denton had escaped the 'pounding' he was legally entitled to. 'I'd have

gone to work and kneaded him up if I'd been around,' he said, then

inquired who was tending the sick man.

'Rosalie--she look after him.' This lady was wife to a friendly Indian,

who could be trusted.

They proceeded for some time in silence. Strangely enough it was Justin

who re-opened conversation with the question, 'You going to fight

Que-dane?'

'Bet your life,' returned McAuliffe, promptly. 'Going to give him a

first-class hiding. You'll see some fun, boy.'

A feeble interest spread over the other's dusky countenance. A light

crept into his small eyes. 'He great big man, and strong. No man beat

him yet.'

The Factor laughed loudly. 'Don't trouble about that, boy. Tell you I

shall knock the spots off him in short order. He's never had a fellow

around him who could wrestle before.'

'What you beat him with?'

'Goldam. I never thought of that.' He stopped in the centre of the rough

trail and scratched the thick hair at the back of his head for

inspiration.

'Say, boy, who lives in the shack yonder?'

'Old wife--by herself.'

'That's good. Hustle over there; scare the old woman into lending you

her axe. If she don't want, I'll forgive you if you steal it.'

The half-breed was very nearly astonished. 'Surely,' he exclaimed, 'you

not going to kill the man with the axe?'

'My racket, boy. You hump along and fetch it.'

Justin obeyed, and presently returned with the implement, followed at a

distance by the inquisitive old wife herself. He came upon his master

standing in a thicket of young oaks, which had sprung up in a small fire

clearing. The Factor grabbed at the axe and severed three saplings at

the roots, then rapidly trimmed them down to a four foot length. This

accomplished, he took each stick--they were about three inches in

diameter--placed his big foot on the large end, and twisted violently,

until they were like ropes. Then he grimly handed them to Justin, the

two continued their journey, and later halted before the closed tent of

Que-dane, bigamist and robber.

McAuliffe pulled aside the hanging flap, and immediately came upon his

quarry within. Indeed, he had taken him red-handed, for the half-breed

was seated on the ground in the centre, between his two wives, clothed

in nothing more pretentious than a small breech-clout. He had just been

oiling his body. The limbs shone like dull copper, emitting an odour

evidently not displeasing to a waving cloud of mosquitoes, which hovered

around and filled the hot tent with their thin note of defiance.

The malefactor, who was not entirely surprised at the visit, stared

heavily at the Factor, while the two wives followed his example. The

stolen one appeared perfectly contented with her wrongful owner; the

lawful wife seemed to be untroubled by any qualm of jealousy; but

McAuliffe had no compunction about destroying the peace of this domestic

circle.

'Guess I've caught you all right,' he said, with unction.

Que-dane had no doubt whatever, and began to look a little troubled. He

feared the Factor more than any man in the district. So he merely made

an awkward movement nearer his legal wife, and discreetly remained mute.

'Come out of it now,' continued the visitor; 'I'm going to talk to you.'

The half-breed did not appear anxious for the conversation, so he added

deafness to other defects, and refused to budge.

The Factor frowned capaciously. 'Well, come out you' he ordered,

apostrophising the wives, who obeyed with alacrity.

Then McAuliffe rolled up his shirt sleeves--coat he had none--and

continued, 'If you won't come when you're called, darned if I won't have

to make you.'

He sprang inside the tent, and, knowing the advantage of getting 'first

hands,' closed upon Que-dane as he rose from the ground to repel the

assailant.

But McAuliffe quickly discovered that he was not to down his opponent at

a first onslaught. The half-breed was chiefly himself, and the

well-oiled flesh was as difficult to clutch as an eel's body. There was

no purchase for the hands, which glided and slipped along the greasy

surface in ineffectual fashion. Having the advantage of first catch, the

Factor succeeded with his great strength on forcing Que-dane to his

knees. But here the profit ended, for the other, with cool deliberation,

dived at his opponent's ankles, bringing him down heavily, to the stolid

perturbation of Justin, who began to reflect whether, after all, his

master would emerge from the struggle with untarnished reputation.

But the Factor, as he himself would have expressed it, was 'wonderful

tough.' In spite of years and bulk, the sturdy old northerner received

no material damage from his fall, for he was up again in a breath, as

full of energy as before.

After more dodging around the narrow space, McAuliffe came in again,

this time getting two arms, like a couple of iron bands, round the

greasy body of his antagonist. They linked behind, while the pressure

soon became sufficient to remind the half-breed that breathing was a

chief necessity for existence. So he replied by hurling himself forward

with careless violence, succeeding by this manoeuvre in breaking the

Factor's grip.

A fresh struggle for supremacy was long and fierce. Que-dane's naked

flesh was marked with scarlet lines and patches, where catching fingers

had dug in vain; McAuliffe's face glowed with sweat and oil drippings

from the half-breed's body. Still they fought and swayed across the

narrow space, while the evening shadows began to creep along the ground,

and mosquitoes blinded their eyesight.

The round ended abruptly and disastrously for the Factor. He was thrown

with considerable force. His body was pressed firmly against the caked

mud floor, held down by Que-dane's lubricated limbs. The right arm was

free, but bent beneath his body. The position was serious. 'Wouldn't

surprise me to hear I was fixed,' he muttered to himself. 'Darn it,

every _nitchi_ in the place will start to kick me if I am.'

The two squaws were watching the contest, without displaying the

smallest show of interest. Justin had been hovering round the writhing

figures, continually expectorating in firework fashion. Now he presented

the hammer side of the axe, with a suggestion that he should with it

gently tap the victor's skull.

'Git away, boy,' shouted McAuliffe, suddenly. 'Gold am! haven't been

trying yet.'

He saw his opportunity. As he finished speech, the tent shook with a

convulsive effort. This was followed by a furious howl of disappointed

rage--the first sound Que-dane had given utterance to.

Skill had come to the front with valour beaten. The half-breed's hair,

which was long and thick, had been plaited by the hands of an obedient

wife into a single tail, which fell in a straight black line down his

back. When Justin approached with his axe and suggestion, Que-dane half

turned, apprehensive of attack from behind. Then McAuliffe made his

effort. He forced his body slightly above ground, freed the right arm,

then, before the half-breed could turn again upon him, seized the

pigtail in his great fingers. With a rapid motion he wound it round the

owner's neck, and, with a fresh effort, brought him prisoner to the

ground at his side. The next second they rolled over once more, then the

Factor assumed the more comfortable position. He knelt upon the

captive's chest, and triumphantly called to Justin for one of the oak

saplings.

'Told you so, boy. I was only fooling first part. Tell you, it's no

trick at all to diddle this chap.'

With deep-throated chuckles, Justin selected one of the twisted sticks

and handed it over, while the wives gravely seated themselves to watch

further proceedings. These were interesting chiefly to Que-dane, for the

Factor at once commenced to bring the stinging fibres across his naked

flesh with measured strokes of a muscular right arm. While administering

justice, he lectured. 'This'll teach you. It'll be a kind of hint for

you not to monkey around after other fellows' wives. Do you catch on,

Que-dane?'

The half-breed struggled furiously, howled fiercely, and poured

imprecations upon the head of the chastiser. But he could not release

himself, and the Factor flogged on, until the tough sapling flew to

pieces in his hand.

The wives began to chatter and laugh widely, when the fragments were

discarded, and Justin imperturbably handed over the second torturing

implement. This was a spectacle of delight not presented to the eyes

every day.

Dull reverberations echoed out into the still solemnity of the evening.

Indeed, the flagellation was continued with such unfailing energy that

even Justin gave an exclamation of dismay.

'Surely I you kill the boy.'

'It'll do him good,' panted McAuliffe. 'Goldam! it'll show him I'm going

to be boss around here.'

'See! he jump like a frog,' said the half-breed, more interested than

merciful.

'He'll jump like a derned locust before I'm through with him. Pass over

t'other stick, boy. This one's getting sort of used up.'

Justin obeyed, but wagged his head. 'You kill him. He not jump any more.

He lie quiet now.'

It was as he said. Que-dane had ceased struggling and profaning. Now he

lay along the ground, limp and motionless.

'He's right enough. Only shamming a bit.' Then he ceased his muscular

exercise, and bent over the prostrate figure. 'See, here, Que-dane, are

you going around wife stealing again?'

There was no answer nor motion, while Justin shook his head again.

'You're right, boy. I've chloroformed him, so he's missed the lecture I

was going to let him have. It'll be a wonderful good lesson, I reckon.'

'You beat too hard,' said Justin, bending over the bruised body, and

touching the injuries with dark, deft fingers.

McAuliffe stretched his limbs luxuriously. 'Pshaw! don't trouble about

that, boy. You get to work and take the woman back to her husband. Tell

him he's got me to thank for seeing her again. I'm going down to the

river to wash some of this dirt and oil off my hide. Give me the axe;

I'll leave it with the old wife as I come along.'

Justin gave a grunt of compliance, then walked over to the rescued woman

and pulled her up by the arm. Accustomed to obedience she followed him,

but whether she was anxious to return, or willing to stay, did not

appear. None could have told. Such a thought, likely enough, did not

trouble her own brain.

The two disappeared along the forest trail as the moon came up over the

ledges. McAuliffe prepared to descend to the river, but first he paid

attention to the half-breed's lawful wife.

'There's a job for you,' he said, looking over the bowl of his pipe, and

raising a sulphur match, which spluttered with blue light in the

darkness. 'Guess 'bout best thing it can do, is to look after what's

left of your darned thief of a husband.'

CHAPTER VIII

THE PIERIAN SPRING

That same evening, the old Antoine, after listening to the Chiefs last

tale of sorrow, sought Menotah in forest and by river, forgetful of age

and weakness. At nightfall he came upon her, tripping lightly along the

path, with song on her smiling lips and the usual joy at Tier heart. He

stopped and drew her--anxious to please, though unwilling to obey--aside

to his own tree-environed hut.

Here, with the dramatic force and fantastic word-painting of his race,

amid the long blackening shadows, he disclosed his heart. He spoke of

the mysterious death of Muskwah, on the stricken mind of her father, and

finally appealed to her, by all she held sacred, to return to the people

who were her own, to break from the perfidious white, who would soothe

the mind with flattery, while with deceit he broke the trusting heart.

The Ancient spoke without previous reasoning, for he had sufficient

knowledge to understand that opposition must ever increase

determination. At that hour he entertained but one central thought,

namely the freeing of Menotah from the life bondage she was accepting.

Here was the single bright spot in a dark heart, the only elevating

attribute of an embittered nature, his love for the happy girl, who had

sprung among them, as he himself had often expressed it, 'like a

solitary flower waving in the heart of the rock waste.'

With her customary careless air, Menotah listened to the Old man's

eloquence, hands clasped behind her back, radiant eyes wandering from

point to point of interest. When he paused, before a fresh effort, she

drew a little away and said quietly, 'I am sorry Muskwah is dead.'

So in truth she was, though with the kind of sorrow that breeds joy. For

Lamont had assured her how necessary had been his removal. She

understood that the Indian had sworn to take her lover's life; that if

one was left the other must go. It was far better to lose Muskwah than

her handsome white. So she was resigned, and looked upon the murder as

part of the dark lot of necessity.

But when she spoke there was no emotion of the voice, nor tear in the

eye. This was so evidently a lip sorrow that Antoine's anger ebbed forth

in reproach.

'You say there is grief at your heart, child, yet you will give no sign.

The man was your lover, and now is dead. In the camp there are maidens,

whom he was never wont to favour more than with the passing glance. But

these beat their breasts for the sorrow of his end. You, for whom he

would have dared all, stand unmoved, and speak of your grief in tones

that well might express joy.'

Menotah's soft brow doubled in a frown. 'You are over-ready with words,

old Father. Remember, T have cast aside childhood, and may therefore

know my own mind. He, who has gone to the shadows, was no lover of

mine.'

'You lie, girl,' cried the Ancient, smiting a feeble palm upon his

staff. 'Has not the old Chief, your father, told me of his favour

towards Muskwah? More, the young man himself has spoken of his warm

hope. Many a time did he tell of his love, beneath the still evening,

when he sought me for counsel.'

'Did the Chief also tell you that I looked upon Muskwah with eyes of

love? Did the young man come ever with the tidings that I had promised

to be his bride? You would ask me riddles, old Father. Now must you also

be ready with answers.'

''Tis not so. You are but a girl, and one made to obey. Since your

father chose, with the wisdom of age, a husband for you, it was your

duty to receive him, and thank the Spirit that he had sent you so

perfect a man. You know not, child, the peril that lies in self-choice.'

Menotah stepped forward with all her lithe grace. She raised her

beautiful features to the coloured air of evening, while the cheeks

warmed in a glow of anger. Then she parted her proud lips for reply.

'I have not your learning, old Father, for I am but a girl, yet one who

would wish to know. But I am the equal of those who call themselves men.

You are wiser? I can draw you from your knowledge path with a glance.

You are stronger? I can disarm you with smile or frown. I can outwit you

in your slow movements. Now you would hold out to me advice. I scorn it,

though I have listened for the sake of the love you bore me once. But

when you cast blame at me, I will throw back your words and tell you

that I have planned out my own life path, that I will follow it to the

end, in spite of you and all. Do you heed, old Father? Once you taught

me the power of ready speech. Now it is the master who is put to

silence.'

The Ancient tottered to the door of the hut, then paused, leaning in

helpless fashion upon his staff. His shrunken form seemed more dwarfed

than ever, the wrinkled face more deeply lined. There was suffering in

every slow movement.

Weakly he quavered forth, 'I am old, so old that I have lost count of

the years in the past. Now my age is mocked by those who were crawling

children when I was already weak with time. Is it to be sorrow to the

end, nothing but sorrow, until my body is brought to the fire, and

memory fades away?'

The girl was touched by her old mentor's genuine misery. 'Surely,' she

said in soft accents, 'none may pity those who sorrow when there is need

to rejoice. Old Father, I would not cause you suffering.'

The dull ears were quick to note the change in voice. All that was good

in his withered heart poured from him, like a death gasp, in a last

pitiful entreaty,--

'Have I not always loved you, daughter, child of the laughing heart?

Even now would I have shown you hatred, for loving one of the hated

race, but I could not. Love is stronger than mind, greater than Nature,

for it conquers both, and binds them down in chains. It must live and

burn, nor may it be quenched at desire. Child, fair child, by such

love--the only gift an old man can give--I pray you, be guided by my

counsel. Come back to your people, and forget the past. All will stretch

forth arms of love, to clasp you close. There will be joy in the

encampment, with a song at every heart. For the tribe will not lose the

sunshine, its morning and evening light. See! I am an aged man, and I

beg this of you.

'Well can I look upon the days when you were but a crowing child. Then I

would raise you in my arms and clasp you to my shoulder, while you would

lift your baby head to smile into my face. Then I first felt the love

fire stealing silently from your holding limbs to my old heart. So in

the white winter I would clutch you to my heart, to warm the body which

had never known the power of love. Also, when you were older, with

uncertain steps you would walk at my side, while I would point out tree

and rock by name, that I might list in to the music of your voice raised

to imitate the sounds.

'Yet seasons came and went, each finding you beauteous, and leaving you

more perfect. But one day, when I gazed on you in the sunlight, I knew

you were formed to a woman, a being enriched with what loveliness and

grace the Spirit may give. Jealously I watched you, flitting lightly, as

the wind-borne flower blossom, from forest to river, always with the

pure joy smile and the same heart gladness. Then I knew we had truly

given you the name of Menotah--the heart that knows not sorrow.

'Then the white company came to our land. I feared, for I saw your

beauty; also I knew the black hearts of those who had robbed us of our

own. Yet now that which I have feared and fought against has befallen

you.

'Menotah, daughter of love, light of my age, listen once again to the

weak old Father. Grant me that for which I ask. See! I will come to my

knees; I will kiss your hands. Never have I humbled myself to any

before. Child! give me back my love, and hear my words.'

Tears of heart grief coursed drearily along the cheek wrinkles. His

clenched hands shook, while the senile body trembled with emotion. The

words fell without meaning against his ears. Sad thoughts were at his

heart, and the tongue gave utterance, but whether the two agreed he

might not tell.

He had cause for sorrow; for he spoke truth, when he said the girl

before him was the only being he could love. Now the great affection,

enshrined in a weak body, was held a thing without worth; it was to be

laughed at and cast aside. A single satisfaction remained, and that a

sad one. Future might bring change, she might yet learn that the love

she now discarded was a thing unchanging, which would burn at the time

of need with the steady flame of constancy. After the reckless passion

of youth, this would be the final haven of shelter, the last rock on

which the broken soul might pause and rest a while, before continuing

the pitiless march of despair.

'Girl, I have done. Forget an old man's tears. Yet bear in memory one

thing: when his aid is needed, he will be found, with hand

outreached--to save, or to avenge.'

The last word fell forth in a sharp whisper. Then he leaned in

exhaustion against the log wall, while there was silence save for his

deep breathing. Menotah stood near, a resolute determination upon her

paler face, defiance in every proud pose of her body. Presently she

spoke,--

'Better had you saved breath and strength by silence, old Father. Must I

again say that I have my will, that none shall turn me from following

the desire of my mind?'

'I but spoke the innermost thought, child. Perchance it has given you

pain.'

The Ancient was humbled in his weariness.

'It was as casting a handful of feathers to the wind,' said the

rebellious girl. 'Even the memory has now faded.'

He raised his head half fiercely. 'It will return. A time lies in the

future when the echo of my words will deafen your hearing. You will come

back to me then. Yes, you shall return, and pray for my aid.'

'I shall not need it. There will be one to protect me, stronger than

you.'

He shivered as her words touched him. 'But I look forward, child. I gaze

into the black shadow beyond. My eyes are clear in spite of age, while

yours are blinded with mistaken trust.'

He cast off his weakness and faced her. The blanket crawled from his

lean shoulders and rustled to the ground. The eyes shone wildly, with

that strange, prophetic instinct of the uncivilised mind.

'I tell you, girl, that time _shall_ come. Even now it is not far

distant. Then you will seek me out, you will creep to me with a prayer

on your white lips. You shall come as a suppliant to me, seeking

vengeance on the head of him you now proudly call your life support.'

Night had now fallen; the forest had grown black and weird; shivering

spindles of the northern lights crept tremulously, with whispering

movements, backward and forward across a blue-white sky.

Menotah stepped back in all her happiness. Then her bright laugh rang

forth, drowning, for the minute, soft moanings of the night breeze in

the tree tops.

'Laugh, girl; yes, laugh. It gives me joy to hear your happiness once

again. In the coming sorrow I shall never listen to that sound which has

so often brought warmth to my weak heart.'

She laughed again, while the pines shook and muttered. 'You shall hear

my laughter while you walk in life,' she cried merrily, 'unless you

would stop your ears to it. Old Father, I shall leave you to your sleep.

You are speaking on strange things to-night.'

She picked the blanket from the ground, and arranged it, with soft,

womanly attention, round his body. Then she took his arm and led him to

the door.

'It is a truth,' he quavered. 'Surely as to-morrow's sun will kiss

yonder trees, shall you cry for vengeance on the betrayer.'

With a slight shudder--the night air was chill--Menotah stepped back

from the hut. 'You cannot kill my heart with your bodings, old Father,'

she said sternly. 'To-morrow, perhaps, you will speak in a different

manner.'

But, at the moment of departure, a tall figure, enveloped in a long

cloak, came quickly from the shadowy trees in ghostly fashion. It might

have been man or woman. As this apparition reached the clearing round

the hut, Menotah beheld it and cried aloud with startled surprise.

The old Antoine came to the door at the sound. But when his eyes fell

upon the cloaked figure, a mighty fear of the unknown overwhelmed him.

'To the water, child!' he cried shrilly. 'Tis the _Mutchi-Manitou_. He

comes from the swamp to seize you. To the water! His power is only upon

land.'

But she showed no such fear. She merely caught the black cloak, and

said, 'You should not be here. Why have you come?'

'You haven't been near me all day,' said the figure. 'I am out of food,

and hungry.'

She drew this apparition back to the forest with eager hands. 'I will

come when the moon shines, and laugh at the spirits of the dead. But

there is someone within the hut.'

The figure stepped away silently, while Antoine came feebly forward.

'What is this, child?' he asked, yet with tone of suspicion.

Menotah turned to him in her liveliest manner, and again drew him back

to shelter. 'We two have looked on much to-night, old Father. We have

seen and spoken with the evil one himself.'

Then her joyous laughter rose again and circled in the night.

CHAPTER IX

THE LAUGH THAT DIED

That short season, which northerners compliment by title of summer, had

almost come to its last day of warmth. There were wonderful colours by

day, with clouds of floating gossamers at night. Occasionally the wind

veered, then brought along from the Arctic shores icy blasts, which

angrily bit with foretaste of approaching winter.

The last boat of the season, leaving that year later than usual, lay

along the log stage ready for departure, with its fur and feather

freight. Soon after sunrise on the coming morning she would leave the

Saskatchewan, to escape the ice fields which would rapidly form along

her wake. For the sharp cold of that evening was sufficient to drive

anxiety into the pilot's heart. Already the greater part of the trees,

that shed the green mantle in winter, had parted with summer beauty; the

long grass shivered in dry white stems; birds of bright colour had

escaped to the more hospitable south, leaving in their place clouds of

dainty snow-birds, that broke the silence of the cold air by the sharp

hissing of constant short flights. Earlier in the day a slight frost

flurry had suddenly fallen, which the dry wind had drifted in pools of

fairy crystals beneath the sheltering rocks, and in thin, white line

along the rugged fringe of the desolate forest.

Little matter of importance had occurred since the day Antoine had made

ineffectual appeal to Menotah in the bush-trailed hut. The girl had left

the people of her life to dwell with her nominal husband in a small

forest shanty some distance from the fort. Here, during those few short

weeks of dying summer, she found continuation of that perfect

heart-whole happiness she had lived upon always. This was all she wished

for, with the addition of love, and she was granted both. Never had she

so entirely proved her right to the name of 'heart that knows not

sorrow,' as she flitted along from morning to night, a bright ray of

pure joy, with the face of laughter and fresh mind of confiding love.

For a short time Lamont was altogether satisfied that he would never

wish for change. His young girl--she was wife in the sight of heaven and

earth, for what is a ceremony when hearts respond?--fascinated him with

her childish ways and caressing affection, her enticing laughter and

joyous bursts of song. During those days the withered Antoine always

heard, as he snuffled daily alongside of the hut, the clear music of her

perpetual joy. She was like unfading sunshine as she lavished worship of

limb and tongue upon her heart's god, so it may readily be conceived how

Lamont fell for the time beneath the glamour of attraction, until he

came to feel that he might contentedly live thus for ever, away in the

summer forest, with the bright, beautiful girl, laying aside all

association, forgetting the call of civilisation. But, to a man of his

temperament, this, could be nothing beyond a dream, from which he must

awake gradually, yet surely. There are other seasons than summer, and

there are times when the flower is scentless, the tree no longer green.

So the rapturous heart-warmth in his body faded with the cold approach

of Nature's winter, and as the days grew shorter, the north wind keener,

desire became re-awakened, the roving spirit of adventure called to him

from distant lands. At length the surrounding desolation, growing more

intense as autumn lengthened, became wearisome. Following on this he

discovered for the first time a restraint on his movements. Then came

the passionate longing for change, that indefinite and empty resource of

the vacillating mind. He longed desperately for southern connections,

actuated not unentirely by a curiosity to learn the actual fate of Riel

and his followers, with whom he felt a sympathetic interest. There was

but one more boat--a final chance for escape. If he allowed it to slip,

he would be chained down to the lonely regions for many months during

the intense cold of the Arctic winter. Days and weeks of monotony in

such a spot! The very thought was intolerable. This hopeless prospect

settled, without a shade of remorse, the wavering balance of his

determination.

But there was an ulterior motive. The 'yellow stones' given him by his

fair bride were, as he quickly discovered, singularly pure, though

small, nuggets of gold. Such a chance of great wealth as was here

afforded should not be allowed to merge through lack of application. So

he had resolved to collect a few companions, return to the north

immediately the spring winds opened the waters, and institute a search

for the ancient river bed, where Nature seemed to have so lavishly

scattered her treasures.

Nor was he alone in such determination. As may have been observed, Peter

Denton was more of the knave than fool. This gentleman of uncertain

antecedents, about the time of the punishment of Que-dane, found his

position too uncomfortable for toleration. The very Indians despised him

for cowardice; Justin openly reviled him on chance meetings; the Factor

swore at him with unnecessary unction; as a final degradation, he had

narrowly escaped a thrashing at the hands of the Icelander, when the

latter, contrary to all the expectations of Dave, attained the stage of

convalescence. So he became more than anxious to place himself within

the bounds of civilisation. But he had no intention of returning empty

handed. Sneaking round the hut one night, he beheld, through the window,

Lamont closely examining the box of glittering stones. With undivided

interest he watched further, while the unsuspicious owner returned the

treasure to a hole in a corner of the earth floor. Then he crept away,

with an idea simmering in his brain of negotiating a small _coup d'état_

before leaving.

Herein he was favoured of fortune. Of course the hut was always open to

an invader, though generally occupied. But, by careful watching, he

found his opportunity. When the others were assembled on the stage to

welcome the boat, he crept into the hut, unearthed the small box, then

absconded rapidly. The next day he took canoe to the mouth, caught the

boat as she passed, and journeyed south, with joy at his avaricious

heart.

This was a fortnight back, so he was safe away. Now, on the drear

September evening, when the shadows closed round quickly, the last boat

of the year rocked and grated against the rotten logs, while Captain

Angus smoked strong plug and quaffed draughts of black brandy with

McAuliffe in the fort.

But human passion and action only ebbed into full play after fall of

night. Then, within the reed-covered hut by the petroleum swamp,

Menotah, her head and shoulders wrapped by a blanket of many folds, was

talking with a dark figure half enveloped in a long cloak. Around them

reigned an almost perfect silence; so peaceful that it was quite

possible to hear the rustling of crisp leaves as they lightly floated

across stagnant pools, to note the formation of crystal ice spears as

they lengthened over some shallow water patch, slowly converting liquid

into solid.

From the low roof swung a lantern, casting strange shadows around the

open space, faintly illumining Menotah's happy face, and at times the

rugged features of her companion.

'But what are you going to do?' she asked. 'I tell you, the boat sails

very early in the morning. If you do not go on her, you must stay here

all the winter. Are you well enough to go?'

'I'm strong enough. Pshaw, girl! I'm as good as ever I was.'

'But shall you go?' she asked again.

'I'll think. Can't fix your mind to these sort of things at one jump. I

reckon you know what I'm making at?'

Menotah looked at him strangely, as a shudder passed over her. Perhaps

it was the biting wind, for she drew round her blanket more closely. 'I

cannot understand you. Why won't you explain to me, as you said you

would?'

The other laughed hoarsely. 'What's the good of it to you?'

She made an impatient movement. 'Well, I want to know. Perhaps I am

curious; I believe most women are. Why did I find you as I did that

night? Who is it you are going to kill? Why have you made me hide you

and keep quiet myself?'

'Keep it back a while longer, and I'll tell you the whole thing.'

'But I want to know now. I have helped you right along, though you would

tell me nothing. You said no woman's tongue could be trusted. As if I

could not have kept quiet!'

'There was a risk, anyway,' replied the figure shortly; and then, 'Is

the Chief alive yet?'

She shook her head, while a faint shadow of sadness crossed her bright

brow. 'Ah! he has breath, but nothing besides. He has shaken off

strength, and is fading fast to the shadow land. Perchance he will not

see the sun of another day.'

As she finished speaking, the dull braying of a distant horn floated

along the icy wind, to hang in throbbing echoes above the swamp.

They stared at each other in the dripping light of the lamp.

'The boat horn!' exclaimed Menotah.

The dark figure bent and bit his fingers. That heavy sound recalled to

memory many things; chiefly a home and connections in the 'Spirits'

Province.' He too was reminded of the bleak prospect which lay behind

any further delay. So he merely put the question, 'You're sure the boat

leaves in the morning?'

'Yes; Angus told me. I have never known her to leave in the night except

once. They were afraid of the ice.'

'It's cold enough now to scare them.' He drew a deep breath and beat his

hands together. Then he muttered, 'I mustn't lose sight of him again.'

'What are you talking about?' said Menotah, with a short laugh.

The other started. 'You heard, eh? No matter, girl; it's all my racket.'

She shook her small head with a puzzled air. This man was certainly an

enigma, with his strange conduct and general silence. He wished to be

avenged on someone who had done him a great wrong. Before the departure

of each boat he had never failed to ask her for the names of those going

in her. Even then, unsatisfied by her declaration, he would steal

secretly to the point, and, crouched behind the willow scrub, would scan

the black monster as she passed. The keen-eyed girl had watched him

closely, and learnt much, though not the one matter which was alone of

vital importance.

Such thoughts as these she now put into words. But the response obtained

was merely, 'Nobody saw me moving about, except you?'

'And old Antoine,' she added; 'you know the evening you came upon us

both? It was just after Muskwah's death.'

The remark, made carelessly, had an invigorating effect upon her

companion. A look of utter incredulity passed across his worn face. 'You

don't tell me he's dead?' he cried.

'Of course,' she returned, somewhat unfeelingly 'Surely I told you

that?'

'Never,' he said violently. 'Tell me now.'

She shrank back a little. 'After all, I am wrong. I remember I did not

wish you to know. But he was killed during that great storm of the last

moon. His body was swept away along the great river. Nobody knows

anything further.'

'Except you, I reckon,' said the figure bluntly.

She had spoken the lie unfalteringly, but at this covert accusation her

cheek went white, and the one guilty thought of the mind stabbed her

with remembrance. She stepped forward with her lithe motion and pulled

the cloak from his spare shoulders. 'What do you mean by that?' she

cried. 'Why should I know anything? Do you dare accuse me of killing

Muskwah?'

He drew away from her angry hand. 'Pshaw, girl! there's more fire in you

than I thought for. 'Course I thought you'd know more about him than

others.'

'But why?' she persisted, in the same passionate voice.

'Well, he was your husband, and I suppose you liked him in a sort of

way.'

Her face broke up at once, and she laughed outright. 'He wasn't my

husband, and never would have been. The Chief wanted me to take him, but

I--well, I was satisfied with someone else.'

She glowed afresh with the thought of her present perfect happiness.

'You're strange creatures, you girls,' said her companion, with a half

smile. 'Muskwah was a fine enough looking fellow in my fancy. Which of

the gang did you pick out, anyway?'

Menotah's clear laughter rang forth joyously in the pure heart rapture.

The sorrowless waves of sound circled above in the frost-gleaming air,

and beat far around into the forest, over the crisp ground, above the

nauseous marsh. But it was for the last time. Neither the figure before

her, nor old Antoine; nor even the cold winds that sighed round her head

to lift the dark tresses in sport, heard that laugh again.

'Why!' she exclaimed, panting for her pure breath, 'it was not an Indian

at all.'

A presentiment of sombre fact flashed across the listener's brain. His

shrouding cloak whispered to the ground as he sprang upright and seized

the girl's shoulder. His fingers dug into the soft flesh, until she

would have cried aloud. But fear in his eyes froze up the power of

speech.

'Good God! don't say it's _him_--not him. What's the name, girl? Who is

it?'

His voice was deep and hoarse. The words were forced from his tongue in

jerky syllables, barely intelligible. She moved her red lips--scarce

knowing if she spoke. Yet a sound proceeded therefrom in a whisper,

forming a word, a single name, which caused the figure to clench his

fists and swear furiously. Then she almost fell upon him. 'What do you

mean?' she cried pitifully. 'Tell me what you mean.'

The forbidding exterior concealed a kindly heart. He looked upon the

delicate, upturned face, the small nose, moist eyes, quivering mouth,

all framed within the dark wreath of hair. He saw the slight figure,

already ripening into the rounded lines of maternity. He thought of the

meaning of treachery to that perfect piece of humanity. There might yet

be opportunity for saving the heart from death.

'It's nothing, girl,' he said in surly manner. 'I was a bit astonished

for a moment.'

'No, no,' she cried, 'it was not that. I cannot be deceived so easily. I

saw fear in your face, and there was pity. Ah, yes, there was pity for

me; I could see it. Why--tell me why? I have always been so happy. You

cannot pity me now. Why should you?'

'It's all right,' he said, with slight knowledge of comforting. 'It's

all a mistake of mine, anyway. Don't you bother yourself.'

'I can't believe you. I am trying to, but it is no use. There was that

pity upon your face. Ah, tell me. Tell me all--all--all.'

Her voice died into a wail of distress, as she fell on her knees and

grasped his hand. This pitiless work had been performed unintentionally;

the warmth and young life had been in a moment swept away by a mere

suspicion of truth. Without the hut, blasts of north wind blew colder,

with flurries of snow, while thin ice sheets formed slowly upon each

black swamp pool.

'Where's he now?' came the abrupt question.

'I do not know. I have not seen him since noon.'

'The last boat leaves first thing in the morning.'

The echo of his words had scarcely died away, before a deep sound came

vibrating along the wind from the direction of the river. Here was

direct contradiction to his statement.

'To-night!' screamed Menotah, springing to the doorway. 'It is the

second horn.'

The figure joined her. He was calm, though the face was vengeful. The

long cloak had been cast aside, and he was now fastening a buckskin coat

round his body.

'Make for the point,' he said shortly. 'Go for all you're worth. I'll

meet you there. We may catch her as she passes.'

'It is a long way, and the paths are slippery with frost.'

They escaped from the labyrinth surrounding the swamp, and, when in the

open, Menotah sped along with the agility of a deer. She easily

outstripped the man, who followed at his best pace, the felt hat pulled

closely over his forehead, as though he were still fearful of detection.

* * * * *

'So long, Angus. Sorry you're not staying the night. I'll have to finish

off the bottle with my own neck now. The frost's getting sharp all

right. I guess it isn't safe to stay.'

'We'll soon be clear of the river, anyway. The current's strong, with

wind the right way.'

'That's so. Well, good biz, Angus.'

'S'long, Alf. Keep right till I see you in the summer.'

The last rope was thrown over, a dark sail hoisted, then the boat swept

down, like a huge bird, towards the tree-covered point.

Here, concealed behind a sparse kanikanik bluff, a passenger awaited the

boat. He was angry and dissatisfied enough. As minutes dragged past, he

uttered many an invective against the absent personage, who had robbed

him of the small treasure on which he had in great part depended for

future enterprise. When the horn brayed discordantly forth, he slung the

rifle carefully across his back, then crept forth to gaze along the wide

reach of the river. Presently the black monster appeared. He stamped

upon the rock to warm his half-frozen feet, then let himself carefully

down the steep incline. A minute later he stood upon the shingle, at the

spot where Muskwah had encountered his fate. The boat bore down over the

cold waters, the steersman responded to his signals. With a distinct

feeling of relief he found himself floating rapidly away from an

inhospitable region.

Menotah did not proceed directly to the point. She turned very slightly

aside to visit the hut, their rude home, which yet was for her filled

and over-shadowed with the most blissful memories of life. There, she

felt instinctively, might be found decisive answer to that torturing

fear which now began to gnaw at the innocent heart of love. She must

know at once whether the mysterious figure had erred, or whether he had

spoken with the conviction that knowledge brings.

Never, not when the heart was at its lightest, had she sped through the

forest with such hasty flight. Her sobbing breath--distress of mind and

body--came and went in short hot stabs, as she burst from the last

bushes upon the clearing. The hut was black and silent. There were no

warm rays streaming from the half-open door. The only sound within was

the melancholy chirping of a discursive frog.

Her shadow flitted across the threshold, then she sprang to the opposite

corner, to dig away the loose dust soil with her trembling, slender

fingers. The box of yellow stones. By this time she knew he would not

depart without them, for he had lately explained to her their value.

Search was short and unrewarded. Then, when she perceived pursuit to be

vain, she began more fully to comprehend the meaning of that look of

pity which had so bewildered her trusting mind. His rifle, that usually

leaned in the angle of the wall--why was it gone? He would not be

hunting that night. Many other small articles, now remembered and looked

for with sharp tension of memory--where were they? Above all, why did he

stay out so late? Where was he?'

'Gone!' moaned the north wind, as it crept wailing into the hut. 'Gone!'

cried her shuddering heart. 'Gone!' whispered each dull, inanimate

object of her surrounding.

'Forsaken! Abandoned! Betrayed!'

So shrieked every waving tree, each lashing bush, the separate patches

of white grass, awesome in the night. Her tired and bruised feet sped

along once again. The eyes, burning and tortured, stared frightfully

upon the black, distant headland, where the last pitiable hope of life

joy yet reposed.

On and on, through the growing rigours of the night, while the heart

that knew not sorrow slowly broke and died.

* * * * *

After the boat had drifted away, McAuliffe lit up his pipe and made his

way back to the fort over the crisp, frost-spangled grass. An otter cap

had taken the place of summer's straw bonnet; thick woollen gloves

wadded his great hands; above the breeches he wore Arctic socks, secured

at the knee with gaudy little tassels. Standing by the water had made

him chilly, so he reflected cheerfully upon the black bottle which

awaited him behind the blot of yellow light ahead.

'Goldam! the cold's a terror,' he remarked to himself. 'And I'm stiff as

a frozen-in gold eye. Why, Kit, my girl! Where have you sprung from?

Where's your pard, eh?'

He patted the grey mare, as she emerged from the bush with a soft

whinny. 'You'd be a lot better fixed in your stable, night like this.

Not much of a place, eh, old woman? Too strong on the ventilation

question, I guess. Better than fooling around here, though.'

He pulled off a glove and rubbed the frost from her soft nostrils Then

he noticed she was trembling and breathing strangely. Her white breath

floated along the cold wind like steam clouds. Repeatedly she turned her

head to sniff into the darkness behind.

'Something up,' mused the Factor. 'Kitty's scared, or she wouldn't play

the old fool like this. I reckon there's someone there behind.'

The mare backed violently, almost throwing him down. 'Goldam! you're no

chicken on my toes, I tell you, Kit. What's wrong with you, anyway?' He

craned his neck forward, and presently muttered, 'Heard a sort of sound

then. Kitty's derned cute. She don't rocket around for nothing.'

The breath released by the utterance of such words had scarce floated

away, before the bushes parted with sudden movement. The following

second a figure ran forth by the mare's side, and disappeared instantly

in the darkness. McAuliffe had peered beneath the animal's neck, and, as

the auroral lights shot for an instant into brilliancy, his eyes fell,

for a breath only, upon that face, that figure. Then he shambled to his

knees and embraced a frost-coated rock with hoarse exclamations, while

the mare cantered briskly across the open space, snorting fiercely.

'I've got 'em,' moaned the Factor, rocking himself backward and forward

in the strange, ghost-like light. 'I've been warned of 'em, and now

they've come. O Lord! O Lord! I never prayed in my life, and it's too

late now. Besides, I wouldn't know what to say. Now I'll have to go away

and be locked up in an asylum presently, while the little blue and green

devils hop and tumble around all the time. I drank square with Angus

right along, and never mixed. There was only brandy, anyway. Now I've

got 'em. I'm an old moonhead from this night forward. O Lord! O Lord!'

* * * * *

'He won't come back again,' the dark figure was saying, half kindly,

half angrily.

The two stood upon the wind-swept headland. The boat had long since

vanished into the night. Below rushed the mighty river, type of

eternity's unceasing course. Above, the aurora flashed red shafts, while

a soft moaning filled the sky.

She was sobbing fearfully. 'He has only gone for a short time. He

desires something--for me, perhaps. Then he will return to me.'

The other placed a rough hand on her arm. 'It's no good, girl. You've

just got to look square at a nasty truth. We all have to at times. He's

gone by this last boat. He couldn't get back if he wanted to.'

Her head was bent, the face concealed in small fingers. 'But he loved

me,' she wailed.

Her companion laughed hoarsely. 'He said so. Lamont was always clever

with his tongue. But he can't love, girl. He hasn't got the heart for

it.'

She looked at him with sore, tearful eyes. 'You know him, then?'

He stared in surprise. 'Well, I should say so! You know I've been

hanging round here for the chance of fixing a certain man. I reckon you

can guess his name now.'

'I shall hate you,' cried this strange girl; 'hate you, if you speak

so.'

'There's no reaching? the bottom of a woman's heart,' he said

carelessly. 'You must do what you like.'

'Oh, this is terrible, terrible,' cried Menotah, frantically. 'I have

been saving you all this time from death, that you might murder the man

I loved more than my life. But you have not yet succeeded, and now I

know. How can I think wrong of him? He loves me; he told me so. He

always said so.'

'That's a tale all girls will believe easily enough. But he's betrayed

wiser folks than young women before this night.'

She had stopped weeping, and now looked at him with cold, fierce eyes.

'If I had let you die, he would have been safe.'

'The country is his enemy,' he said significantly, 'but I have his

secret. He might have laughed all right if I'd snuffed out.'

In the same hard voice she continued, 'If I could kill you now, that

secret would die with your life. Then he might be safe.'

The remark was so unexpected, that he was some time before replying.

Then he said, 'You're a fool, girl, if you can't see the difference

between friend and enemy. You've done lots for me, and I'll stay by you

now.'

'How can I tell whether there be such thing as truth or right?' she

burst forth. 'If he has deceived me, you may do the same. You, too, are

a white man. If I had the power, I would kill you now!'

'Pshaw! you're crazy, girl. Doesn't matter to me whether you trust me or

not We've both got the same enemy, that's all.'

She shuddered dreadfully. 'He is my enemy,' she said slowly. 'Oh! no,

no!--not my enemy! Yours--not mine!'

The figure came up to her, and turned her pale face to the flashing

lights of the north. 'You can't love him yet, girl?'

'I gave him my heart,' she moaned, tearing herself away from him. 'You

cannot love against inclination, neither may you hate at will. I would

hate him, but I'm too weak--I cannot.' A moment's pause, then she cried

at him again, 'Why should I hate him--because he is your enemy? Tell me,

how has he wronged me--tell me that?'

It was difficult indeed to convince that innocent trusting heart of a

man's treachery and faithlessness.

'All right,' he said again, with the same touch of pity in his voice.

'Listen here a few minutes while I tell you.'

Then he stood by her side and narrated a tale of black treachery, of

darkest cowardice. A man had committed the crime, which might not be

forgiven. He had fled from deserved retribution, knowing there was one

man who held the damnatory secret. Then he had encountered that man, and

determined to silence him for ever.

But when he again became silent and wiped the cold frost dews from his

face, the girl bent like a crushed flower, knowing that the joy of life

was gone--that the dark shadow of grief had settled eternally across her

path. Amid the sighing of the wind and the sharp passion of her own

sense came the clear memory of her own words:--_'If anyone should kill

my heart with sorrow, I would give life and strength to the cause of

vengeance. I should never turn back.'_

The man at her side was astounded at the entire change that had passed,

like the devastating breath of the cyclone, over the girl. A plain,

blunt man, and inartistic, he could not know that pure happiness is one

of the principal factors of human beauty, that its dissolution should be

attended by such startling alteration, both of face and form. Menotah

was a different being, of new appearance and manners. The bright light

had faded from the lustrous eyes, now forbidding and snake-like. The

unrestrained laugh had left the mouth, which was now set in a hard line

of purpose. From her sunken cheeks had departed the rich health colour,

from her hanging head that haughty pose of conscious perfection. Within,

the heart was dead--cold--unresponsive. No longer did it pulsate with

mingled delicious emotions of devotion and trust. It was now controlled

only by an unrelenting design--by the inexorable duty of the future.

There was no further use for the attributes of beauty. They had been

once utilised for the purpose of attraction. They had succeeded--fatally

so. Now their work was over, and they might well be laid aside.

She was calm now, and the voice was steady when she spoke. 'We will take

each our own path,' she said. 'I have a husband to find, you an enemy. I

shall be before you. He is mine. I have his word for it' (Her eyes

flashed fiercely.) 'He shall be my victim!'

'Let it alone, girl,' said the other, in a voice meant to be kind. 'A

man can best do a man's work.'

But she turned at him again, with the fury that was part of her new

nature.

'What do you know of vengeance? I know a man's honour, a man's method.

He will shoot from behind a tree, stab with a knife into his foe's back,

then go away satisfied. No one but the wronged can punish the wronger.

You call death the worse, but there are many things more bitter than the

destruction of life. If you cannot believe that, look upon me and

consider what I was. You men are weak after all when it comes to the

point of vengeance. We women apply what we lack in muscular strength to

the passion of the heart. We do not fail at the great moment.'

'It's no good crossing you--that's a sure thing,' said the figure.

'Still, I shall have the chances--'

'I can make mine,' she interrupted. 'A man may give up disheartened

after first failure; a woman will return with fresh energy to the attack

after a hundred reverses. Listen to what I say; judge me if I fall away

from my oath. This man has betrayed me; he has broken my life, my

happiness; he has abandoned me as the scorn of my people; he has cast me

aside like a broken weapon. Mayhap he is now laughing at my broken

heart.

'Therefore I swear by the Great Spirit, by the Light and the Darkness,

by the River--even by the Great God of the white men--that I will have

my vengeance, that he shall suffer for my sorrow!'

So they passed together, from the sullen gleaming of the Saskatchewan,

to where the fires glowed red in the encampment.

* * * * *

Later, on that same dark night of sorrow, the aged Chief lay in his

miserable hut, dying. By his side stood Antoine, more withered and

time-stricken than even his fast fading companion. Behind, at a short

interval, appeared the heavy countenance of Menotah.

Outside, within the ruddy circle of the smoke fires, squaws squatted in

statuesque positions, softly beating at drums to keep aloof the evil

spirits. Also, many dark shadows of warriors crossed and recrossed,

muttering incantations to the weird cadence of the music, as they passed

round the enclosure with arms waving wildly above their heads. The

strangely coloured scene was unnaturally impressive.

The tale of Menotah's grief was known, even to the dying Chief. For he

had heard a muttered conversation at his side, and had prayed Antoine to

tell him all. The news, expected though it was, convulsed his feeble

frame with a last passionate fury. He drew himself frantically upright,

and stretched out a claw-like hand.

'Why did we not slay him? That would but have called down the wrath of

others. Better their vengeance than my daughter's despair. Antoine, why

did you not poison him with strong drugs?'

The Ancient stood motionless, though his lips trembled as he mattered

fierce words of execration. He had looked for this end from the first

days of opening passion. He had besought the girl he loved to learn the

lesson of hating the perfidious white, even as he did. Words had been

useless; no prayers might avail against the will of the stubborn heart.

'Trouble not, my father,' said Menotah. 'I have knowledge now, and can

avenge myself.'

A dull light crawled into Antoine's eyes as he raised his head and noted

her expressionless face. 'You speak like a daughter of the tribe,

child--as one that I have taught. 'Tis well. You must live for

vengeance. Before this night I told you thus. Behold it is true.'

'Vengeance! Vengeance!' came in thick utterance from the now prostrate

figure.

'You shall look from the hunting lands, old friend, and behold your

daughter avenging herself upon enemies. The sight will gladden your

heart, as you sweep over the fields, and slay the buffalo with hand that

misses not its aim.'

'I shall see her ... you, also, aiding her.'

'Surely. Then, when the work is over, we shall hasten to join you in the

sun country of joy. There sorrow will be lost in success.'

'Is there light?' asked the dying wreck, struggling to raise his head.

'There are the red fires below, and the cold ghost lights in the sky.

The light is sufficient.'

'I see no longer ... the blood is ice in my veins ... to-morrow you will

give my body to the flames ... I shall go forth with my weapons along

the way of shadows ... young again, with eternal strength.'

'Far from the white man, and beyond the reach of his cruelty.'

The Chief groaned, while the deep breathing grew more difficult. The

fires crackled sharply, while the drum rattling rose louder on the night

air.

'Daughter,' he gasped, 'come to my side ... put your hand upon mine and

swear.'

Silently she obeyed. The blue fingers closed hungrily round the warm

rounded hand of his child. For a space he lay silent, fighting for life

breath.

'Menotah, my child-love, my age-light, I shall see you again in the joy

land whither the Spirit calls me.... You must swear, by that you hold in

honour, you must take the great oath, never to pause on the path of

vengeance ... until you avenge your wrongs on the life of the vile

white.... Good Antoine will aid you.... Strike, child, and pity not. Let

his blood be spilt for your lost honour.'

The effort had been too great. He lay, throbbing with death agony, while

a thin stream of blood trickled from the mouth and coursed slowly along

a deep furrow of the chin.

'He passes,' muttered Antoine, hoarsely. 'It is time. On such a night

was he born. So does he die, amid the north wind and biting cold. Swear,

child, lest he die cursing you.'

A hollow exclamation ascended from the withered form. 'Swear!'

Then she placed the right hand on her father's head, and raising the

other aloft, with stern voice and unflinching determination, took the

oath which might not be broken.

The final flicker of strength darted into the exhausted frame, that

sudden flash of energy which heralds the silence. 'Antoine,' he

whispered, 'raise me to the light. So will I die cursing the white man.'

The Ancient raised the emaciated form in his shaking arms. For a few

seconds, faint, yet intensely bitter words of condemnation and hatred

fell from the blood-stained lips, before life faded away into the

unseen. Menotah, still holding the hand, felt the shudder of the

departing soul, and caught the distant echo of a voice--forced, as it

seemed, from the cold body, after the passing of the Spirit, 'I go,

daughter ... it is dark.'

The dreary death chant and low groaning of the women beat upon the

night.

Half contemptuously Menotah turned from the still form, with passion

unexpressed. Antoine lifted his slow, watering eyes from the withered

remains, to gloat upon her hopeless aspect.

'You grieve not, daughter?'

'I have done with such things as joy or grief,' she said savagely. 'My

destiny calls, and I leave the emotions for the sport of fools.'

The Ancient shivered, for the cold bit into his stiff limbs, 'You speak

as he would wish to hear. You shall have your desire, child. I have said

it.'

Half mad, she turned to the open door and called to the dusky-featured

ones squatting at the fires,--

'Shout louder, women. Howl until the voice breaks the wind and scatters

the ghost lights.[1] Beat your breasts for the sorrow that lies within

the camp. Louder, I tell you. Cry louder.'

Antoine laughed hoarsely. 'Ay, shout! He hears you not. Perchance the

god has an ear open to our cries.'

The uncouth strain of savage melody swelled fitfully upward in long,

suffering cadence, then fell, dying away in shuddering murmurs, to

ascend again more loudly, yet more bitterly.

Menotah clenched her small hands and bit the pale lips in the agony of

the yet living heart. Then Antoine was at her side, nervously plucking

at the blanket that trailed from her shoulder.

'Hearken, daughter. To-morrow we must burn the old Chief, and send him

forth upon a long journey. Then there is duty--'

'You may forget,' she broke in coldly, 'but I--'

'Peace, child, let me have speech. You were ever over ready with your

words. I am aged, and strength is not mine. I must be satisfied with

controlling the striking weapon. So I can only aid by cursing your

enemy, and by praying to the God.'

'May your god-hunting be successful,' she said scornfully.

'The God of the white men has the greater power,' he continued unmoved.

'He has conquered ours, and bidden the enemy rule over us. Therefore,

daughter, I would for the time follow that God.'

'You, who always hated the white, become one of them! What plan is

this?'

'Then I should be one of His followers, and He would hear my prayers.

Now I have other gods, so He could not listen to me. I would beseech Him

each day, to grant us vengeance upon the white man.'

'Will you sport with the lightning?' she said calmly.

'I care not. I will take canoe, before the ice binds the river, and

paddle for six days. Then I shall find one of their doctors. I have

heard the wanderers tell of him. They call him Father Bertrand. He must

tell me what I am to do, to join the followers of the white God.'

She turned from him wearily, longing vaguely for silence and isolation.

'Pray to whom you will; all gods are the same. They laugh at sorrow, and

they heed not.'

'You shall see, child. I have greater wisdom than you. But now we must

take our part in mourning for the dead.'

He took her cold, resistless hand, and together they stepped within the

ruddy glow. Then he raised his sh king hands and cried aloud,--

'Mourn, warriors! The Chief, who led you to battle, who kept you in

peace, who gave you wise counsel, your father, your ruler, is dead. Cry

aloud to the Spirit, and sing your songs of grief.

'Mourn, women! The Chief, who loved you, who protected you, who smiled

upon you with favours, your father, your husband, is dead. Scream your

lamentations, tear your hair, dig the sharp nails into breasts, and cry

aloud in your grief.'

The unearthly melody surged upward in a tumultuous wave of sound, until

the auroral lights flickered like flames in the blast. The air became

thick and silvery with frost crystals, while sharp cold settled along

the ground. This was a night of frost, of death--of fearful and

unutterable despair.

[1] The shout of the human voice repels and scatters the auroral lights.

Hence many Indian legends.

PART III

THE HEART'S PEACE

CHAPTER I

LAMONT

A radiant flood of light poured from the white moon upon the rippling

waters of the Red River. A grove of black oaks along the bank waved

silently in the clear night; frogs chirped merrily from the fenced in

fields, where fireflies sparkled and flashed before a long dark

background of foliage. Along that portion of the shelving bank, where a

young man and a dark-haired girl walked closely together, might be

perceived on looking back the twinkling lights of Fort Garry, from whose

stone walls the shadow of war had now lifted for ever. Nearer, outside

the actual fort, a grey stunted tower shot upward from the thick of an

oak bluff. Here rested in their last quiet many of the brave English and

Canadian boys who had fallen in the late Rebellion.

Winter and spring had passed since the desertion of Menotah. That time

had wrought change to the western and northern country, a change, sad

perhaps, yet necessary from the standpoint of civilisation. The last

traces of vengeful fire in the breasts of those who had joined the

insurrection had been stamped out, the final agreement had been made,

the white again triumphed. Louis Riel had swung upon the gallows at

Regina, before the eyes of many on that dreary, treeless plain, that no

traveller who has once seen can forget. There was no leader, no keen

spirit left. So the survivors gladly snatched at that, only thing they

could now ask for--pardon.

Yet the question of justice, from the position of the conquered, may be

still worth considering. One of the half-breeds most zealous to the

cause spoke thus in the echoing valley[1] before his priest,--

'Why did I fight, my Father? I, who have the blood of the white men in

me. It was for that reason that I fought, and that I killed. The white

man came into a country which was not his, which had belonged to others

for many hundreds of years, and he saw that the country was good, and

full of animals. Also he perceived that the women were beautiful. So he

said, I will make this place my home, and call my friends to come here

also. These men came, and brought with them guns and fire-water. Then

they took the women, first one and then another, and had children by

them. So was I born, and I have brothers and sisters of many different

mothers. Yet the father was the same. But what could the Indians do

against the white man's guns? They said, give us back our wives and our

daughters, also our land and our buffalo. But the white man only

laughed, and gave them fire-water, which ate away their manhood and

their courage. So they said at length, we will rise up and reclaim our

own. We have now nothing to lose, for the white man has taken all from

us, except life. Let him take that also, or give us back that which

makes it happy. That is why I fought, my Father.'

It is a strange fact in modern times, and one so far unrecognised, that

the Rebellion should have been crushed by the power of the Roman

Catholic Church. Standing merely upon the path of duty, Archbishop

Taché, with his band of gallant priests, amongst whom Father Lecompte

must stand predominant, succeeded in quenching the flame of human

passion entirely by means of that extraordinary devotion entertained by

these ignorant children of the Rebellion for their kindly teachers.

Actuated the Archbishop certainly was by a high sense of duty, yet it

was also right that he should subsequently look for that reward which

the Government had promised, as some slight return for the salvation of

a country. It is notorious that such reward was never paid. It is, or

should be, universally known that there was but one care which

distressed 'the man of the great heart,' as his 'children'

affectionately named him, upon the deathbed at peaceful St Boniface,[2]

still a care heavy enough to almost break that generous heart The

Government had steadily refused to redeem their promise, or to grant to

Manitoban Catholics that separate school system which is their right and

their due, which above all has been solemnly assured them. Still, it may

not yet be too late to perform a tardy justice, which, on the side of

the Government, is a duty.

Now the days of the bloody scalping knife have sunk into history. The

nondescript individual, who to-day answers to the title of Red Indian,

is a very different being from the noble prairie trackers of the olden

days, before the introduction of whisky and vice. Up in northern

districts, far from the damning pollution of traders and treasure

seekers, may still be found at long intervals the haughty heathen

warrior with his paint and feathers of liberty. But in all other parts

the immorality of the white man has done its work too successfully. Is

proof required? Then listen. It may be doubted whether there is at the

present time a single full-blooded Indian alive on the Canadian

prairies!

Should such types of humanity--Longfellow's 'Hiawatha' accurately

depicts them--be utterly extinguished? Look at the Menotah, the Muskwah,

of this work. These are true life studies, which may hardly be found

to-day, never until civilisation, with all its attending evils, has been

left far from sight. Is the taciturn, morose half-breed, heavy in

feature, abnormally dull in intellect, an efficient substitute for such?

At that particular spot on the Great Saskatchewan where the scene of

this narrative is for the most part laid, any at this day might well

blush at owning affinity with white men. That once noble race, the

origin of which is beyond all conjecture, who possess secrets, powers

and occult arts beyond all our discoveries, must be blotted out during

the lives of most. Riel made an effort to save it, not an unselfish

effort, still he did his best. Where he failed, none may succeed.

But to return to narrative.

One of the two figures on the Red River bank to the north of the fort

was Lamont. His companion was a young girl of French extraction, named

Marie Larivière. She spoke the English with a pretty accent, and hung to

the arm of the handsome young man with clinging tenderness.

The gates of Garry were now thrown open wide. Any might go forth upon

the surrounding prairies or enter the young city. All danger of

hostility was past, and the land was at peace.

'But talking about being constant,' the girl was saying; 'it is such an

easy thing when the one we love is present.'

'And rather too much the opposite when he's away, eh, my Marie?' said

Lamont, with the lover's softness.

'Well,' she said, with dainty hesitation, 'one naturally looks for that

which custom has made us long for.'

'But when I was away, you found others to take my place, didn't you?' he

asked, gazing eagerly at her small face, with the dark crisp curls

nodding over the forehead.

'It's not a fair question, Hugh. You may be jealous if you like, but

still I have something against you. That long mysterious journey north;

you can't give me a reason for that.'

'Business, _chérie_. I thought of you all that time.'

She laughed. 'You were quite satisfied with thought only. Come, tell me

the truth. Was there not some hidden attraction there? I have heard that

the Cree girls are beautiful--some of them. Was it one of them?'

He joined carelessly in her mirth. 'Who is jealous now? Are you afraid

of an Indian rival, my Marie? But who are these?'

Two other figures came along the trail in the white light. One was tall

and stooping, the other short and brisk of step. They were talking

together in French. So still was the night, their voices might be heard

before they were themselves visible.

The couples advanced and met. Then Lamont gave a quick exclamation--more

it seemed of fear than surprise--and pulled off his hat. 'The

Archbishop!'

He it was, enjoying the cool of the evening. The tall priest by his side

was Father Lecompte, the man of his right hand. This latter looked

careworn and very ill.

It was, in truth, a kindly face that turned towards the young couple as

they passed--smooth, clean-shaven, with a pair of soft eyes, crested by

wavy hair. At that time it bore a tired, anxious expression, result of

recent incessant toil. The privations he had suffered for the country of

his adoption had been great. Through heat and cold, by river, prairie

and forest, he had travelled; on horse, on foot, by boat, for many days

and weeks. Often without food, always lacking rest, until the great work

was accomplished, and he had won. A truly noble-hearted man that.'

'God bless you, my children,' he said, in the quiet, thrilling voice

which all knew so well, as he smiled upon them.

'I couldn't speak,' said Marie, breathlessly. 'It is strange that one

should be overawed by such a good man. I couldn't thank him, or

anything.'

'He was the last I expected to meet along here. I didn't know he had

returned.'

'Doesn't Father Lecompte look ill? You know he accompanied the

Archbishop on his travels, and it has broken his health.'

There was a silent pause, while they came slowly towards the brilliant

lights of the inner fort. Then she said musingly, 'So Riel is dead.'

'What made you think of him?' he asked quickly.

She raised a hand to point towards the grey tower, into the shadow of

which they now entered.

He thought of the dead that lay around, and shuddered. Then there came

back to him the recent execution at Regina; the dark figure, champion of

a hopeless cause; the lines of mounted police; the cosmopolitan crowd;

the dreary plain. He thought also on a certain figure in that crowd, one

who had watched the mournful and dramatic scene with almost a wild

interest. It was only a disreputable loafer, with ragged garments and

dirt-begrimed features. It was, in short, a man with identity fearfully

concealed.

'Come,' he said suddenly, drawing her gently on, 'let me take you home.

It is late, and to-morrow will be busy.'

After seeing his _fiancée_ to her home, Lamont set out along the

irregular street, which followed the meandering of the river, towards

his lodgings. The brightly illumined window of a saloon attracted his

attention, and allured him to enter for a chat with the proprietor on

latest matters of local interest. So he came into the smoky bar, where

the usual throng of deadbeats--broken-down English gentlemen for the

most part--were talking or shouting, according to the amount of liquor

imbibed. Some of the figures that loomed through the thick cloud of

smoke were decidedly unsteady. Very prominent among this latter class

was a certain individual of cadaverous complexion and yellow moustache,

at the sight of whom Lamont started with a short oath of gratification.

The man was unquestionably Peter Denton.

He quickly nodded to the bar-tender, who knew him, then passed to a side

room, where those who placarded themselves in the outer world as

exclusive devotees to the cause of temperance were wont to be served in

strict privacy. Here the wielder of the cocktail flasks soon joined him,

with the usual salutation, 'How goes it?'

'Who's the chap over there, that one with the sandy hair?' asked Lamont,

pointing towards the bar through the drifting smoke.

'That? Just a crazy sort of ranting fellow. Ter'ble drunken lot he is,

too.'

The other laughed in his self-satisfied manner. 'See here,' he said,

catching at the bar-tender's shirt sleeve, 'I've been after him since

last fall. He made off with some shiners of mine. Guess they're stowed

at his lodgings, if he hasn't got away with them all.'

'You don't say,' said the man, making an accurate shot through the fog

at a distant spittoon. 'He looks a crooked tool, right enough. Still,

I've not heard much talk against him, and long as he can pay for liquor,

it's not my biz to speak. What'll I do?'

'Load him up. I'll stand the racket.'

'I tell you, he can take a fancy quantity. What's the plan?'

'When he's too raddled to know me, I'll offer to see him home.'

'Then search round the shanty for the dosh?'

'That's what.'

The bar-tender chuckled. 'That'd stand some beating. I'll go and fix him

up with a drop of drugged spirit. You'll wait here, eh?'

The scheme could not fail to succeed. Denton was 'ready' for his enemy

in less than quarter of an hour. Some trouble was experienced in getting

him to the street, but once there he was quite prepared to accompany his

newly found companion. Leaning heavily upon his arm, he staggered, with

the unfailing instinct of the drunken man, towards his home, which was

nothing more pretentious than a dirty little shack in a sheltered spot

without the fort.

Once inside, Lamont went promptly to work without loss of time. There

were but two inodorous rooms, the innermost of which contained a truckle

bed. Upon this he dumped the garrulous Denton, then left him, singing

cheerfully a hymn of doubtful wording for self-edification. Afterwards

he lit a broken lamp and made search for his missing property.

First impressions conveyed the idea that, if the gold had been secreted

in this place, it would not be difficult to come across it. For, beyond

a bed and box in the one room, table, two chairs, cupboard and crazy

bookcase, which hung gingerly to the loose plaster, in the outer, there

was literally no addition to the original building. Carpets and curtains

were luxuries unknown; coarse paper had been fastened across the lower

portion of dirty window frames; a rickety stove was propped against the

wall by means of a couple of bricks. Lamont searched everywhere, in each

nook and dirt-encrusted cranny, by the greasy light of the lamp, which

dropped faint yellow rays along each sordid article. Then he dragged the

proprietor from the bed, pulled off the coverlet, searched mattress and

floor beneath. He ransacked the shreds of rusty clothing, tapped the

crumbling plaster, examined every part of the flooring. But there were

no traces to be discovered of Menotah's first and only material gift.

Denton must have parted with the whole under pinch of want.

Lamont turned up the flickering flame--the oil was failing--then kicked

the drunken wretch on the floor. The ex-minister responded with an

unsteady homily on the joys of humility. Then Lamont reflected.

He felt certain that this was the culprit who deserved punishment at his

hands. That would be a simple matter. All he had to do was to dash the

dying lamp to the floor, then depart. This crazy shanty of dry wood

would be in ashes within the hour, and the drunken body of its owner

cremated.

So he stood for the moment undecided, then smiled slowly and shook his

head. Nerve was wanting, even for such a little thing as that. Perhaps

he was getting weak. It might be that there were already sufficient

unpleasant shadows haunting the past. An addition to such might well

prove beyond tolerance.

Denton's tongue had ceased its unmeaning flow of words, as its owner

slowly sank into the deep slumber of inebriation. Lamont went into the

other room, placed the lamp on the table, then seated himself, still

following up the new line of thought recently suggested. To-morrow he

would be married to a girl he believed he sincerely loved. Then he would

settle down to a changed life, and restart with a new set of morals. The

past, as a thing gone, was to be forgotten. He would now become a

respectable citizen of the new western metropolis.

Then his eyes wandered carelessly round the darkened room, as he leaned

forward to turn up the flickering flame from its dull red smouldering.

Light darted through the heavily smoked glass, and he found himself

gazing upon Denton's large Bible, which stood on the bookcase shelf. His

lips curled into a contemptuous smile. Then he went across the dry,

creaking boards and pulled down the worn book. To his surprise the

balance was uneven, while a hollow rattling came from within. All

attempts to open it failed, as the leaves appeared to be firmly bound

together. But when he came to look at it more closely in the dim light,

he realised that what had once been a book was now a box. There could be

no doubt on the matter, for a small keyhole was visible immediately

beneath one of the boards.

He placed this imitation between his knees and burst the lids apart. A

quantity of paper, with a small buckskin bag, fell out upon the floor.

The next instant he held in his hands his recovered treasure, or rather

the larger portion only of the original gift. Denton had evidently laid

them aside as a private bank from which he could draw from time to time.

Examining the case, he saw that it had once been a Bible, but that a

hole had been cut in the centre of each leaf, the remainder at infinite

labour having; been fastened together securely.

There was nothing to keep him after this discovery. Leaving the book on

the floor, in close proximity to its sleeping owner, he pocketed the

bag, then stepped out on the beaten trail and made for his lodgings. On

this occasion he reached them without incident.

[1] Qu'appelle. (Who calls?)

[2] See prefatory note.