Gentlemen of the North/Chapter 5
CHAPTER V
THE RIVER SETS A TRAP
THE girl was much in my mind that night and I began to sympathize with her a bit. Not because she had lost her father, as death must come to all and Red Dearness had lived his life and given sympathy to but few. Nor because she was left without a protector, inasmuch as she had impressed me as being quite competent to care for herself. Chabot's flight before Black Robe's hurtling arrows was a token of this fact. My sympathy was more for her youth's being spent in a lonely land—probably a reflection of self-pity. As I dropped off to sleep my last thoughts were of her red head, glowing like a war beacon on that brown river bank.
Flat Mouth was cleaning a string of catfish when I went to the river bank next morning. His manner was preoccupied when he returned my greeting. I lighted my pipe and stared down the river, thinking of her.
The Pillager wiped his knife on a tuft of grass and rose, saying—
"He will not come back here."
He referred to Black Chabot. There was no need of names between us.
"How do you know that?" I asked.
"A very strong medicine will keep him away," he replied, smiling grimly.
"A red medicine," I suggested.
"White man call it 'afraid.’"
"You have heard how he came and went away?"
"My wabeno medicine tells me much."
"What else has it told you?"
"The father of the medicine woman is dead," he said.
In some such way did news travel up and down the river, often outspeeding a messenger. You might start post-haste for the hills with news and find it ahead of you when you arrived. The natural inference was that Black Robe had brought word of Chabot's attempted assault on the girl, but the Robe had not put in appearance and, unless he travelled during the night, he could scarcely have arrived before I woke up. That he would paddle day and night was hardly probable.
Of course there would be a flare-back, once Chabot reached Grand Portage, but I was not worried over the outcome. Miss Dearness's testimony would offset any charges Chabot could prefer against me. What I had done was for the honour of the N. W. company. The rivalry between my company and the X. Y. was at its height, nearing the point where one must give way, or both go down with a smash; neither of us split hairs in overreaching the opposition.
Still, there were things which could not be permitted. The gentlemen of the North did not bother with the morals of their representatives so long as the returns were good. The leisurely procedure of the H. B. company had changed to a frantic endeavour to suppress us, its most powerful rival. Sir Alexander MacKenzie, once a partner in the N. W. but now head of the X. Y., was very bitter against Simon McTavish.
With all this bad blood almost anything would be overlooked that gave a trade advantage—but a ruffian attacking a white woman—no! Tell headquarters that so-and-so is taking too many Indian women as wives, and the gentlemen would over haul the factor's last statement, note how many black, silver, red and cross foxes his sheet showed, or how many beaver and dressed moose, then gravely reply it was for the good of the company's trade relations with the tribes.
We determined a Northman's reputation in terms of beaver, marten, mink, and wolverines, bolstered up by his trade in black, brown and grizzly bears. But all this only when Indians were concerned. To trouble a white woman, especially when she held the unique position of representing the X. Y. company, was a vicious slap at Sir Alexander and his powerful associates. The N. W.—all question of decency aside—had enough trouble without seeking trade in that way.
So I wasn't worried over the final outcome, although I looked for Chabot to spread wild reports about an Indian uprising, with me turning renegade. This would result in the company's rushing a brigade up the Red and relieving me of command, and, doubtless, in sending me under arrest to Grand Portage or Montreal, where I would ultimately be vindicated.
While at the bank watching the Pillager, two canoes came upstream, containing Bad Ax and White Partridge with their families. White Partridge had kept clear of us since Chabot nearly kicked him to death for stealing a horse. Now Chabot was gone, he was back, anxious to become one of our family. As he had a number of skins I let the past sleep and gave him and the Ax a dram. The Ax had started to hunt moose and red deer on the east side of the Red, but had turned back, he said, as the country was overflowed from the spring freshets. I knew this to be a lie, as the river had dropped rapidly, and because of the trip the Pillager and I had taken to the Red River district.
It does no good to tell an Indian he lies, so I told the two I would give them tobacco and ammunition if they would take their families and paddle up to the Goose and get beaver. As an additional incentive I promised a big keg if they should return with enough skins to wipe out their debts. They were much disgruntled over two points; they wanted the keg at once, and they did not propose to hunt beaver on the Goose at any time, as it was above the Red Lake country, where they were sure of being gobbled up by the Sioux.
I spoke to Flat Mouth, who disappeared. When he proudly returned he was flourishing the four scalps, now nicely stretched on small hoops. With great relish he inflicted his new song upon them, relating our adventures and picturing himself always in the lead and at death grips while I lounged in the rear. The scalps impressed them mightily, and they eagerly offered to trade anything they possessed, even their daughters or wives, in return for some of his war-medicine.
At the risk of spoiling a trade I interrupted the babel to declare there was no need of war-medicine up the river now that the Sioux had gone home, for they would not dare return to the Red until the following spring.
"And before then, tobacco will be passed among all the Chippewas, Crees and Assiniboins. A great war-party will go after the Sioux and dig them out when the leaves begin to turn yellow and drop off the trees," I added for good measure.
Flat Mouth boasted:
"The Sioux are still running like frightened calves. If one is left behind because he is lame, shout the name of Eshkebugecoshe, war-chief of the Pillager Chippewas, and the lame man will run like a fox to get away."
They wavered, and I tipped the scales in favour of the trip by giving them another dram and consenting to furnish a gallon of mixed wine for them to take along, the big keg to await their return with a good hunt. I was anxious for them to go, as the beaver signs were unusually good along the Goose, because none of our Indians had dared tarry there and neither the X. Y. nor the H. B. had cared to risk establishing a post above us.
Aside from such unvisited streams, beaver was not plentiful in the lower Red River department. The scarcity was not be cause the animals had been trapped out, but resulted from some disease that had killed off the valuable creatures by thousands. They seemed immune so long as they remained in swift flowing waters, but the colonies in ponds and stagnant waters were wiped out in numbers sufficient to make a Northman's heart ache. They died while at work cutting down trees, in the entrances to their homes and while constructing their little canals.
My Indian hunters had told me this wholesale extermination was to be found all the way to Hudson Bay. Now that Chabot would surely endeavour to prejudice headquarters against me, I was anxious to build the best of defences—a heavy trade and the exploiting of regions heretofore left practically untouched.
Flat Mouth's medicine and my promises of rum won them to the venture and I had the satisfaction of seeing them on the way with their families, kettles, ammunition and traps.
Taking the Pillager, I crossed over to the east side of the river and shot three black bears, one on the shore, drinking, and two out of an oak, where they had climbed to escape me. Their fur was prime and the skins very acceptable. I mention the incident to show how easily some of the idlers at the post and the hills could pay off their debts and buy plenty of mixed wine if they would take the trouble.
Black Robe, very penitent and very thirsty, came in the next day and left a moose as a peace offering. He had shot the animal in the river while coming up from the Scratching. I read him a lecture on the awful crime of stealing rum from a white man and showed him the three bears, telling him to take his family and go and do likewise. Of course he wanted rum at the start. I advanced some cloth for his woman, gave him a few inches of tobacco, some powder and balls, and informed him that bear pelts were the only medicine that could get rum from me.
In a final effort to touch my heart or arouse my fears, he told me of meeting Tabashaw in the woods back of our Scratching River post and learning some important news from him. Tabashaw, he wished me to understand, need no longer lean on the white man. I encouraged him to proceed, and, hoping for a drink, he explained:
"Tabashaw came down from the hills to the strong timber. He was three days without eating. While singing his new song a man, dressed like a white man, came to him and told him of many things. This man-spirit told Tabashaw he must not ask the sun to help him when he made feasts or new medicines, as he, the man-spirit, the great Kitchimanito, was the father of all life and the only power to help the Chippewas. This great spirit told Tabashaw that the traders did not treat him well, and that he, the great spirit, would give him rum and tobacco and ammunition if he gave his medals back to the traders and have nothing more to do with them. Tabashaw told me all this."
"He is a liar," I scoffed, yet glad to know the old rascal's latest plans for regaining control of the tribe and thereby forcing the traders to grant all his whims.
"Kitchimanito goes everywhere to turn the Indians away from the whites. Tabashaw saw his moccasins worn to pieces by his long travels," persisted Black Robe.
"If you believe him, go to him. Tell him you will not hunt for the traders. If he is not a liar he will give you rum which the man-spirit gave to him," I advised.
The Robe drew a long face and grunted in despair.
"I will take my woman and my children and go and hunt bear," he surrendered.
There were now two long tents of women and children at the post, their active men being away on the hunt. I used these in finishing the planting and in doing odd chores. The day after the Robe crossed the river old Tabashaw arrived. His manner was subdued and he was very humble when he came to me for some new milk.
"Where is the milk the man-spirit was to give you?" I jeered. "And where are the medals you were to give back to us?"
"I had a bad dream," he muttered, turning away.
His manner was strange. He forgot to threaten me. He wandered apart and placed his wabeno drum before him and stared at it gloomily. To draw him out I called him inside the fort and gave him a drink. Even after that his downcast demeanour continued. This was not play-acting. I tried to get him to talk, but he would only say that he had had a bad dream.
The arrival of several hunters, all Chippewas, called me from him. I quickly observed these were sullen and uneasy about something. I traded their skins and gave them rum and sought to set their tongues to wagging, but, like their chief, they remained moody and taciturn. The situation began to get on my nerves. The Indians were children. Ordinarily it was very simple to learn their intentions, despite their expressionless features, but to get behind their thoughts it was necessary to make them talk. So long as the chief and the hunters sat in gloomy silence I could learn nothing, while my imagination pictured all sorts of disagreeable events about to happen.
Anxious to get at the truth, I went after Flat Mouth. I despaired when I observed that even this intelligent and—with me—very frank fellow was sobered almost to the point of dejection. At first he would make no reply to my questions.
"My friend, the great war-chief of the Pillagers, looks sad when four Sioux scalps hang in his tent. And he refuses to tell his white brother, who would drive the shadows away," I complained.
"My brother can not drive the shadows away," he grunted.
"Medicine is strong."
"Was it strong enough to bring the Voice here from the River That Calls?"
I knew I had it. By indirection I had learned what a month of cross-examination would not have told me.
"Flat Mouth is sad because the Voice has gone back to its home on the Qu'Appelle," I boldly stated.
Assuming I knew all about it, he said—
"It has gone back. The woman with the medicine hair sent it back."
Old Tabashaw's gloomy bearing and the depression of the hunters was now easily understood.
"That is why your people are so sad even when they have new milk," I said.
"It was great wabeno medicine while it was with us," he regretted.
"How do the Chippewas feel toward the woman?"
"They are very angry, but they are very afraid of her."
"They would like to have her scalp nailed to a tent pole," I suggested.
"They are afraid to go near her. No one dares harm her."
"No one can harm her," I cried. "She is mighty medicine. She called the Voice here. She has sent it back. She can call it again when she will."
This possibility caused his eyes to glisten.
"I will tell my people, so their hearts will not be hard against her," he said, rising and making for the stockade.
The result of Flat Mouth's interview with his friends was soon apparent. Tabashaw began beating his drum and the hunters found much vivacity in their wine. Scarcely had this improvement taken place when two tents of Crees and two of Assiniboins brought in their hunt. Their arrival was marked with poorly veiled hostility toward the Chippewas, and yet they seemed striving to hide elation. They eyed the Chippewas askance and kept their bows and arrows in their hands and camped by themselves.
This was unusual, as the three tribes ordinarily fraternized when meeting at the posts. The weaker party during a drinking-match usually desires to keep its weapons close at hand, but this precaution is taken to protect them against the effects of the rum, rather than because of any tribal antipathy. To be on their guard when not in liquor had an ugly look.
"What's the matter with you?" I demanded of a Cree. "You act as if you had passed war-tobacco with the Assiniboins against my Chippewas. What do you mean?"
"We are afraid of the Chippewas. Our hearts are warm toward Tabashaw and his people, but their hearts are black against us," he replied.
"Why should you fear the Chippewas?"
"The Voice is back on the River That Calls. The Chippewas are sad and angry at losing their medicine. They will trade no more skins at the X. Y."
"What about your trade?"
"We bring our hunt here. The Medicine Hair told us we could have no new milk. We can get milk here."
"You took your hunt there when you could not get milk," I reminded.
"That was when she had the Voice. Now it is back on the river we come here."
"See that you are very careful what you do, or the Medicine Hair will take the Voice away from you," I warned. "If any of you have not paid your debts to the X. Y., take your furs and do it, or she will be angry."
It seemed that one hunter did owe the X. Y. a debt, and as a result of my talk with the Cree he was made to do up his skins and hold them out of the trade with the N. W. This was scarcely good policy when the rival companies were bending every energy to get the best of each other, but I had passed my word to her. She had meant it when she said I should receive more furs—that she would let the trade come to me because of what I did to Chabot. Royal pay for a slight service, but somehow there was scant consolation in it. It was like having an opponent clearly demonstrate he can defeat you at your own game and then quit playing from weariness or some whim.
Could I have secured the trade with rum, leaving her hands empty despite her taking advantage of the Indians' superstitions, I should have felt much better. However, the trade continued coming in, with very little going to the X. Y., and the bulk of that returning down-river because I refused to buy from a hunter in debt to my rival.
The monotony of refusing, then judiciously dealing out drams; of threatening, then cajoling the hunters, wore on me. My thoughts were too much given to wandering down the river. I gave too much time to picturing the woman. I resented her attitude of aloofness. After all, we were both young and of the same race. Even though we were trade rivals, there was no reason why, as human beings, we should not see each other and enjoy each other's company.
I was decently spoken, having a far better education than many Northmen. I was born and brought up in the East and was familiar with New York and other Atlantic cities, as well as with Montreal and Quebec. The Hudson Bay was a persistent rival; yet there were times when the heads of departments declared a truce and exchanged civilities. I've seen Mr. Henry open a keg of brandy and share it with an H. B. factor, the two of them getting quite merry and performing with much zest on the fife and drum, and we have taken packs down to the Forks for them and have granted and received like favours from the X. Y.
It was while securing furs that we nipped each other often—till blood flowed. All of which means I was uneasy in spirit and ashamed to admit even to myself that I wanted to see that wonderful red hair again.
I tried to believe my mental depression was due to my desire to be employed in the American fur trade, I being born an American. This was a silly deception to attempt, as there was no American company to hire me. To be a Northman one must go to the great Northwest and hire out to one of the three companies I have named.
Months later, I was to learn that a scant two months behind me the door had been opened to American adventurers, when the Stars and Stripes were hoisted over St. Louis on the tenth of March, marking the transfer of the magnificent Louisiana territory to the United States. But many a long trail was to be travelled before I could return East and hear how the flags of Spain, of France and of the United States flew over St. Louis, all within twenty-four hours.
There was no escaping the fact that the girl was in my mind and was bothering me. Then, suddenly, came the chilling fear that she might be gone. I had refrained from going down the river. Her attitude had not been friendly. She wanted to be alone. Very well, I had haughtily told myself, it should be as she wished—then the dread lest she had been relieved.
Once the X. Y. people learned of her father's death, they would lose no time in shifting a man from the Assiniboin to the Scratching to permit her leaving the river before cold weather set in. The idea became fixed in my mind and tormented me. She was buying no skins; there was no excuse for her remaining. If a summer man was not sent out, then Angus could look after the post, and I was booked for the summer and winter—a whole year—without another opportunity of looking on a white woman.
It wasn't love for her that called me, I stoutly told myself; for I knew we could not exchange a half dozen sentences with out quarrelling. But she was a white woman, the only one in the department. She aroused my resentment, and yet I was miserable for wanting to see her.
At last I ceased trying to fool myself and made for the river. I would canoe down to the Scratching, make an errand of looking over our post and at least get a glimpse of her, if she had not already departed from the country. I found the Rat talking earnestly with Flat Mouth, and his presence aggravated my fears. Addressing him in Chippewa to provoke a more voluble flow of language, I asked—
"What is the Red Hair doing?"
"She makes ready to go away," he replied.
My heart gave a jump.
"When does she go down the river?" I carelessly inquired.
"Up, not down," he corrected.
I scowled at him, thinking he was lying to me. He eagerly explained:
"She goes to make discoveries in the Red Lake River country. She thinks to send hunters there."
"She can get no hunters," I sneered.
"She thinks she can get some Crees, some Assiniboins," he retorted.
I began to believe that she could. All she need do would be to threaten a second theft of the Voice from the Qu'Appelle. I began to feel normal, to look on her as a rival whom I must best in trade.
"Is she going herself?"
"She takes a guide—maybe a family of Crees."
"When does she go?"
"She did not tell me. She talks with no one."
"But you should know if you go with her. Would a deep dram of strong milk make you remember?"
He groaned at his misfortune and replied:
"I do not go with her, so I do not know. She asked me, but it is too near the summer war-path of the Sioux."
"Flat Mouth, chief of the Pillager Chippewas, has scared the Sioux back to their holes," scornfully cried my Indian. Then to my amazement, "I go with the Medicine Hair."
"Did the Rat come to hire you?" I sharply demanded. The Rat drew away, looking very uncomfortable. Flat Mouth readily admitted—
"She knows I am a great warrior."
"She doesn't make any bones of hiring my men, it seems!" And my resentment grew very strong.
"Her hair is great medicine. She calls the Voice. It comes. She tells it to go to sleep. It is gone. I go with her," calmly answered the chief.
This hiring of my man was a most serious affront. It was a trick for which only a woman's logic would find an excuse. A man might do it, but he would provide some shadow of an excuse. She was going about it openly, ignoring my wishes. The worst of all was my inability to restrain the chief. He had said he would go, and there was no stopping him. The devil was in that woman's hair if it were strong enough to bind Flat Mouth to her service.
Hot with the indignity she had put upon me, I walked back to the fort. After the first flush of anger had exhausted itself, I discovered my state of mind was wofully twisted. I was glad, in a sneaking fashion, that she was not on her way to the Forks.
Her cool impudence in securing a guide at the post without even asking my leave somehow hinted at the eternal feminine, a quality I had steadfastly refused to detect in her. It was good to think I might see her again, even if only to reproach her for her insolence; I could not get over the conviction that it was decidedly raw for her to send the Rat to hire my best Indian. I could not forgive her going over my head in that fashion. Did a man wish to borrow the Pillager, he would offer me some skins as a bonus. Being a woman, she quietly appropriated what she desired. It wounded my self-esteem, and yet prolonged meditation brought me to the point where I could appreciate the irony of it and grin a bit.
I had wild thoughts of trying to talk Flat Mouth out of the trip, but retained sense enough to know that such an effort would be about as successful as to attempt conversation with a wounded buffalo bull.
He was the best of his complexion I ever met. At times you would forget he was an Indian. But superstition could drive him every which way. He liked me. He enjoyed many privileges because I both liked and trusted him. We had been friends. Yet, without a word of warning, he was to leave me and guide a rival to one of the few remaining beaver localities, and all because of some red hair.
I grinned more broadly, although sardonically. Her lack of logic grimly amused me now; perhaps because it revealed the woman in her. How fiercely she had upbraided me for following the time-honoured custom of trading rum for pelts—a custom that was followed from Hudson Bay to the Willamett. Then she deliberately stole a man without even a "thank you," or "by your leave."
I sternly told myself she needed taming. I found the Rat and asked him—
"When do you go back to the Scratching?"
"At once, unless I am asked to stop for a dram. It is very dry at the post and I am very thirsty. My throat is like the prairie after the fires have scorched it."
"Come inside! You shall have a dram, and a keg to take back with you," I promised.
"New milk is good," he murmured, his mouth watering. "I will take a dram. Let the keg wait for me here, till after the woman goes up the river."
I assured him the liquor would be held in trust for him. He confessed that she was making life miserable for him and Angus by refusing them liquor.
"After she is gone, the clerk and I will have a big drunk," he gloated.
"Then why do you stay with her? I will make it a big keg for you two. Why not come up here? I will hire both you and Angus. If a man behaves he can have plenty of rum here."
He sadly shook his head and drifted into French as he answered:
"It is to be wished, to be prayed for—the beautiful rum! But I would be cursed. A bad sign would be on me."
"Bah! She has made you believe such foolishness?"
"She says nothing. If I went and told her I was leaving the post, she would say nothing. She does not seem to know I am at the post. Since her father died, her eyes look very far away. I do not want to stay, yet I know it would bring me bad luck to leave her. After she goes up the river I will call for the keg—the big keg."
"You will start down the river at once," I directed. "You will stop at the mouth of the Reed and find Probos. Tell him I say for him to come up here at once. He is not to bring the Indians, He will stay here for a few days."
The Rat readily promised to carry my message, downed his dram and returned to the canoe and set off. I waited till he was out of sight and then attempted to pump Flat Mouth. The chief did not seem to know just when his services would be required. I got the notion he was evading me. I knew it would be useless to press him.
That night I had a stroke of luck. One of the Red Sucker band dropped down the river and brought me five wonderful white buffalo skins, four of them young bulls slain in January below Grandes Fourches, and one, a calf, killed recently. The hair on the bulls was like that of sheep—fleecy and soft and all white. The calfskin was white except for a black spot encircling the right eye. The Chippewas prize these white robes and skins only for what they will bring in trade, but there are other tribes, especially those on the Missouri, which will barter any of their possessions to secure one.
So I called it a stroke of luck, my getting them; for I planned to use them to the great advantage of the N. W. company before I quit the country. The Indian said he had seen no sign of Sioux, that he had talked with my two hunters on the Goose, and that they were taking beaver.
The story of our victory over the Sioux—rather Flat Mouth's victory, for he was being given all the credit—had spread throughout the country with that celerity with which news ever travels in the wilds. It was taken for granted that, after such a rebuff, the Sioux would not travel north on another path until spring. They would be sure to expect the Chippewas, emboldened by the great coup, to venture south and seek a second victory.
Probos came in due season and I manufactured excuses to keep him, but it was two days after his arrival that I got up one morning to find Flat Mouth had gone. No one seemed to know when he departed. Old Tabashaw, I suspected, had an inkling of the Pillager's engagement, for he performed on his drum with sullen zeal, as if sending his medicine after some one he feared. He sang, without giving any names, and called on the Great Mystery to revenge the Chippewas.
I knew I held a thread to the puzzle in the ten-gallon keg of high wine I intended to present to the Rat and Angus. De positing the liquor on the bank and seating myself beside it, I waited. An hour of impatience and then the nose of a canoe scraped the willows on the west bank, announcing the arrival of the Rat. From the slack water under the willows he spied on the landing-place before the fort, then scanned the upper reaches of the river and propelled his light craft forward.
"When did she pass the post?" I asked, kicking the keg toward him.
"About the middle of the night," he replied, tenderly setting the wine in his canoe. "The clerk stands on the bank before the fort, his tongue hanging out like a blown bull's, waiting for me to come back."
"You followed her?"
"Not too close. I timed myself to arrive here after sunrise. Ran the canoe into a sunken tree in the night and dared not try to shove off till light came. At the speed she was paddling, I know she must have passed here in the night."
"Flat Mouth has gone. Did he know when she was coming?"
"Yes, she was to sound her call, if she came in the night. He was to be waiting for her."
"Did she bring any Indians with her?"
"She came alone."
I swore and wished I had made it a smaller keg. The rascal had said nothing about Miss Dearness's plans to make a signal to the Pillager.
"I thought he would tell you," he artlessly remarked, sending his canoe into midstream with a deft sweep of the paddle.
"Do you know where they go first?" I called after him.
"To the mouth of Rivière du Lac Rouge where the war road of the Sioux ends. Where the Sioux wait many days when watching the Chippewa hunters to come down the Thief, the Clearwater and the Wild Rice Rivers."
Thanks to the fear my double-barrelled gun had instilled in the Sioux, the woman and her guide would be free from any danger even if they passed the mouth of the Red Lake River and proceeded so far south, even, as the mouth of the Cheyenne.
Now that I knew they were only twelve hours ahead I was undecided as to what I should do. I had called Probos from the Reed, intending to follow them. Now, face to face with the business, I weakened. I had no warrant to follow her. She did not wish my company. She had planned to pass the post in the night so that I might not know of her presence. This was not because of any trade delicacy on her part, as she had not scrupled to hire my best man to guide her. If she wished to avoid me, what an awkward situation I would be in should I follow and find her.
I set Probos to work to arrange a place for the season's hay, some three thousand bundles if we had luck; then I developed great energy in having defective stockade posts of poplar replaced by some of oak. In truth, for nearly an hour I was desperately busy trying to make myself believe I had washed her and her red head out of mind. Could Simon McTavish have dropped in and witnessed my industry, he surely would have appointed me to head an important department.
My artificial zeal died as abruptly as does an Indian's rum-courage. Leaving the work on the stockade to take care of itself, I walked moodily down to the river and thought of that other river, Qu'Appelle—Who Calls—and in my fancy I heard her calling—this woman with the red hair. She had called in passing the post and the Pillager had heard her. I almost wished there were danger from the Sioux, so I could use it as an excuse for setting out after her. Above all else, I did not care to appear foolish in her eyes. I was positive she repelled me. I took great satisfaction in telling myself this, and yet I fidgeted around, seeking a reason for following her.
This attempt to fool myself soon gave way before a satisfactory purpose. I would deceive her. I would go up the river and encounter her, but I would have a legitimate errand and our meeting should appear to be the work of chance.
Once I cast aside all pretences and squarely admitted I would make an errand to take me after her, the way became easy. There were the white robes. I would pack them in my canoe and stalk her until I knew she and her guide had entered the mouth of Red Lake River; then I would turn in after them, pretending I had come down the river, where I had traded for the skins.
Flat Mouth would understand this was some subterfuge of mine but he would never tell her. The scheme tickled my fancy. I would display surprise on overtaking her. I would pretend I thought I was following two of my hunters. Naturally I would exhibit displeasure at her hiring the Pillager. Whether we got along or quarrelled, I would stimulate fear of the Sioux and stay by her down the river.
Procuring the skins and baling them neatly, I put them with my gun in the canoe, together with tobacco and a hook and line—the men were now taking many fish on the line. With a final word to Probos to look after things until I returned, and a stern command that he should give out no liquor, I started on my eccentric journey.
I was much ashamed of myself, for I feared I was weak; somehow, though, I was brazenly contented with the thought that I should soon see her. I passed the mouth of the Park at sunset. A short distance beyond, I came to a dead fire and the bones of several catfish, showing where they had paused to eat. There were two canoes and she was doing her own paddling. I kindled a fire, caught some fish and made my camp there.
Nothing broke the monotony of the river until I reached the Big Salt and began paddling by the long slough which extends from that stream to the Turtle River. I was marvelling at the immense number of wild-fowl in the marsh and was tempted to recharge my gun with light shot and bag a few, when several birds at the river bank rose in the air. I ceased paddling and rested my gun across my knees and closely watched the surface of the tall grass, wondering what had alarmed the fowl.
It was not my approach, for the countless numbers feeding abreast of me had not taken fright. While I was debating the problem, the birds began rising far down toward the Turtle, a vast cloud of them, which gradually spread and covered the entire slough as the fear radiated. The first to take flight seemed to draw others up after them as the sun sucks up the vapours in the early morning. In a minute the heavens were in a furious commotion.
Paddling cautiously, I glided along close to the bank, my gaze sweeping the shore at the mouth of the Turtle. The tall reeds a short distance ahead became alive with motion, and, with a twist of the paddle, I was backing into cover.
A canoe darted out, filled with women and children, the former bowing low and paddling frantically. They were closely followed by a second canoe, likewise holding women and children. A few rods behind the second came a third canoe, and in this I recognized Bad Ax and White Partridge.
As they bore downstream, those who were not paddling kept a constant watch to the rear. It was plain that my hunters were afraid of something and, with their families, were fleeing down the river.
The warriors, as was proper, brought up the rear, to stave off death and permit their women and little ones to escape. I have never known this trait to fail of expression in the Indian. He may kill his wife when drunk, or brutally disfigure her, but in event of an enemy attack there is none so cowardly as not to take the fighting position in the rear. I waited until the two canoes of women passed, then drove my craft across the course of the warriors and held up my hand and called out my name.
With a powerful sweep of their paddles they swerved wide to run by me and yelped something I could not understand. Turning my canoe downstream, I laid to the paddle and drove alongside of them until the canoes locked. White Partridge was in the stern. I grabbed his shoulder and forced him to desist paddling until he had explained his flight.
He turned a face on me that was distorted with terror and gasped out "Sioux!" and tried to cast off my hand.
"You saw red deer," I cried. "There are no Sioux on the war road since we killed them at the mouth of the Thief."
"Bad Ax saw them creeping through the woods on the east bank of the Red just below our camp on the Goose," he cried, his teeth chattering.
"He lied to you! He wanted to get back to the post and get rum," I said. "He is a lazy dog."
"We saw their horses" protested Bad Ax over his shoulder. "We counted them. "There were so many." And he opened and closed his left hand until he had indicated thirty. "I had crossed to the east bank after a bear. I came upon them in the woods. They did not see me. I was very near. Some were making new moccasins. Some were sticking willow sticks in the ground and painting their faces. Some were creeping to the river—right toward me!"
The recollection caused him to give a little yelp and redouble his efforts at the paddle. White Partridge took up the tale and said:
"There were ten warriors left with the horses. They left all their horses on the west bank. They will kill everyone on the river."
He now succeeded in jerking himself free of my grip and, with the two paddles working as one, they sped after their families, leaving me to chew over the problem.
It was the canoes of my hunters, hiding in the edge of the marsh, that had frightened the wild-fowl. If any of the Sioux were within miles of the slough they knew by this time that something was moving on the river which might repay them for investigating. I hastened to withdraw from midstream to the shelter of the rushes and reeds.
I had not had time to ask the hunters if they had seen anything of Flat Mouth and the woman. I believed they had not seen them, or else they would have mentioned the fact; or, rather, the Pillager and Miss Dearness would be returning with them.
Then I angrily declared there could be no Sioux. Aside from the startled water-fowl, scared by my hunters, there wasn't a hostile sign to be discovered up or down the river. Bad Ax had heard a noise in the woods, probably that made by the red deer as they passed along in single file over one of their many paths, feeding. His timid imagination had transformed the unseen into Sioux warriors.
White Partridge had wandered from the river to the edge of the plains. He had seen deer at a distance. The stories of the two men had frightened the wits out of their women. Scarcely a week during the spring and fall but what Indians were racing down the river, spreading alarms which amounted to nothing. The shadow was always over them, and the least excuse for a panic was quickly acted upon.
Still, I would have felt easier in my mind if Bad Ax's tally of the warriors on the east bank and the Partridge's count of the horses on the west bank, guarded by ten warriors, had not squared up so nicely. Neither of the men was in a mood which would permit calculation. The number of horses agreed with the number of warriors.
Quitting my shelter, I resumed my journey south with rapid strokes, eager to make the mouth of the Red Lake River. Should there be any truth in the Chippewas' alarm, and had the enemy unaccountably returned to spread along both banks of the river, then the girl was in danger.
Once more I caught an agitation among the reeds and grass on my side of the river. Knowing that all the Goose River Indians had passed me, I drove my canoe into cover for the second time. Once in the swamp growth, I could see but little. A rod in front, flowed the river; as for the rest, I had to depend upon my ears.
Five minutes passed, I estimated, before I heard a flap-flap at the edge of the river where it merges with the rank growth of the slough. With the gun ready to be cocked and discharged, I pulled my knife and waited.
The commotion drew nearer until it was nearly abreast of me. Whatever it was, it was in the clear water but close to the reeds. It turned into the marsh grass in the path left by my canoe and I laughed aloud in relief as I glimpsed the long, gray neck, twisting like a serpent, and the flapping wing.
It was a swan, disabled by mink or some other wild thing, and it was floundering along most awkwardly. I sat very quietly while the bird worked its way nearer the canoe. The grass permitted of only occasional glimpses, and I saw it was likely to blunder full against the canoe. With much splashing it came through the last thin barrier, its head moving from side to side in a curious way.
Like the jab of a red-hot knife-blade I remembered my loud laughter which should have frightened the bird away. Its neck—it was never still. I fastened my gaze on the head and followed it back and forth until I discovered the eyes were dead. It grazed against the boat and at the same moment I drove the butt of my gun down on the feathery mass.
Instantly a brown hand shot up and gripped the side of the canoe with the lithe quickness of a water-snake. Before the canoe could be capsized I had seized the hand and was hanging over the opposite side, my free right hand holding my hunting-knife.
The body of the swan toppled to one side, revealing the head of a Sioux hideous with war-paint. As our eyes met, his left hand came up with an axe and he opened his lips to sound his yell of discovery. But, as the body of the swan fell and uncovered him, I pulled on his hand, propelling myself toward him before he could use the axe, and drove my knife through his neck.
For a moment he stood there, his lips parted for the yell and only bloody froth coming through them. He sought to strike with the axe and hit the gunwale a feeble blow. I released him with a shove and with both hands thrown above his head he settled back into the muddy water and sank from sight.
I crouched low in the canoe, expecting that the sound of our struggle would bring more of the enemy. The slough seemed calm enough; the water-fowl were returning to feed; the river just ahead of me flowed on serenely. My nerves grew quiet and I sensed the stench of a dead buffalo stranded somewhere near by. The stench grew intolerable and I edged my canoe forward through the last fringe of grass and glanced up and down the river. Above my position, a moose was climbing the eastern bank, having swum across. Dipping softly, I crept upstream.
Before coming to the mouth of the Turtle I turned toward the east bank and crossed at my best speed, darting like an arrow under the low-hanging willow boughs. I reconnoitred from this position and found the river's banks quiet enough.
Not satisfied, I left the canoe and crawled up the bank and advanced some distance south, seeking signs of the Sioux. At almost every rod I aroused red deer from among the willows. At last I realized that the Sioux, if in that neighbourhood, would do the same and thus give me warning of their approach.
Returning to my canoe, confident no menace was stalking me on the east bank, I paddled up the river, giving almost all my attention to the west bank. I camped that night a few miles below the mouth of Red Lake River and was nearly devoured by mosquitoes. I dared not make a smudge and could only pull my white robes over my head and endure it.
Two hours before sunrise I was afloat again, gliding up the silent river and giving my attention to the beaches, which were beginning to appear as the water lowered. There were no signs in the muck, that I could find, that would indicate the passage of a war party from bank to bank. On arriving at the mouth of the Red Lake River, as wide as the Red at that point, I swerved inshore and remained quiet for an hour before daring to proceed.
Once above the mouth, I beached my canoe on the east bank and had not stolen along three rods before I came to signs which substantiated Bad Ax's story. Fully a score of savages had crossed the river at this point, with no return trail showing.
Moving inland, I managed to follow the trail through a grove of strong timber and much prickly ash until it led me back to the Red Lake River only a short distance above its junction with the Red.
This was a favourite hiding-place for Sioux war parties. It was famous for sturgeon, many being found during the winter. Red deer, bear, moose, and buffalo abounded, while the wild-fowl could never be counted. From this spot the Sioux could watch for hunters coming down from the Red Lake country, or from the Goose and other upper tributaries of the Red.
Within a quarter of a mile from where I struck the river I came upon some huts of elm bark, such as the Sioux build when on the war-path. These huts were a season old and must have accommodated fully a hundred men. I looked them over carefully and failed to find any fresh signs. I noted many poles used in stretching beaver, showing they had combined business with pleasure.
Except for the Indian I had killed at the edge of the slough and the tracks in the mud, I had found nothing to indicate there was a Sioux in the country. If I had not met Bad Ax and White Partridge by accident, I should have walked or paddled right into their arms. Even now they might be watching me from any point.
Skirting the huts and warily keeping to cover, I followed up the Red Lake River and observed that I no longer scared up red deer. A few miles behind me, and on the same bank, the woods were full of them. The coming of the enemy had driven them away.
A short distance above the huts I came upon some little sticks, painted with vermilion. These were fresh signs and such as Sioux war parties left wherever they paused to renew their war paint. I counted the sticks and they tallied with the tracks in the mud. A score of the devils were on my side of the river, and it was a miracle that Bad Ax could have discovered them and retreated without being seen and slain.
A more disturbing thought was that Miss Dearness and Flat Mouth were in that immediate vicinity. It looked mighty bad for the girl. If already caught, a quick death was the kindest fate I could wish for her. The thought of her glorious hair flapping at a Sioux bridle made a madman of me for the time being. I forgot to be cautious and prowled through the woods with red lights always flashing before my eyes.
The undergrowth directly ahead of me gave way before in cautious steps; my head cleared suddenly. I drew aside from the deer path and stood close by the river, intending to discharge one barrel of my gun and drop under the bank to seek a hole among the roots of one of the giant elms, where I could reload. The slight noises were repeated, and I now caught the sound of laboured breathing. I was puzzled that a Sioux should display exhaustion. The berry bushes swayed and parted. I raised my gun, and caught a glimpse of dishevelled red hair. I lowered my gun and Miss Dearness staggered toward me, one hand pressed to her side, her blue eyes contracted with pain.
She did not see me until almost upon me. Her gaze widened in surprise, questioned, and then lighted with hope. She could not speak. I sprang to her side, passed my left arm around her waist and felt her splendid arm thrown about my neck. Her hot breath was in my face as I bowed my head and whispered—
"They're on your trail."
She nodded and swallowed convulsively, not from fear but from exhaustion.
"Have they got Flat Mouth?" I murmured.
She lifted her head to listen; I did likewise. Off to one side rang out the scalp cry of the Pillager Chippewa. She smiled wearily and choked—
"Leading them off my trail."
"Don't try to talk," I whispered. "I have a canoe back on the river. We must reach it. If we can get out into the open we may stand them oft."
"—after me?" was all I caught of her low query.
"But they haven't got you yet," I comforted.
She frowned and laboriously corrected—
"No; you came—after me?"
"Of course," I answered, inclined to be impatient at time wasted on what was perfectly obvious.
She caught at her throat with her free hand and I saw she was nearly choked with thirst. At the risk of being overtaken, I relinquished my hold about her waist and slipped down the bank, bringing back my hat filled with water. Her eyes lighted with thankfulness. She swallowed some and poured the rest over her face. I made to go for more but she took my arm and warned—
"No time."
Encouraging her to lean on me, I began the retreat. The path was narrow and encroached upon by the bushes. Two could not walk it abreast without betraying themselves. I gave her my gun and, picking her up, ran for it. Concealment was impossible, as our feet had left tracks any Sioux would read at a glance, and more than once we had advertised ourselves by rustling the bushes. Either the enemy was not within hearing or else he was already pressing after us. She murmured a protest at my reckless pace and, as I set her on her feet to get my second wind, I briefly explained that it made no difference.
"Then let me walk," she said.
"Faster my way," I said, taking her up in my arms.
This time I did not stop until back within sound of the Red River's voice. Then I let her walk behind me while I advanced to the bank and hunted for my canoe. We had come out almost upon it.
I jumped down the bank and, turning, caught her as she came after me.
"The Indian? He was very brave—led them away—but not all of them," she gasped.
The bank reached above my head. Stepping on a rock, I secured a view of our back trail for a short distance.
A lithe figure, bounding along with the elasticity and silence of a loup-cervier, suddenly popped into the foreground. He was the first of her trailers. The upper half of his face was painted red and looked like a mask of blood through which the small black eyes glittered ferociously. Shoving my gun through the dead grass, I gave him the right barrel and he went down with no time to sound his death howl.
Shoving off the canoe, I lifted her into it and gave her the paddle, directing—
"Downstream while I reload!"
"The Indian?"
"He must take care of himself—downstream!"
"No, across!"
She pointed to several Sioux now breaking cover on the bank below us. As I beheld them, they gained the river's edge and stood ready to swim out should we attempt to descend.
"Across it must be!" I agreed, kneeling in the stern and reloading.
The Indians below us began shooting arrows, which flew wild, as the wind was strong from the south.
I held my fire until one of the Sioux waded waist-deep into the river and prepared to aim a gun. The weapon was a London Fusil, a number of which had trickled into the Sioux country through the hands of traders, and I have seen a savage do very efficient work with one. I gave him a barrel and he went under, taking his gun with him. The others scrambled for cover.
The girl now sounded the bell-like call which the Chippewas believed she had stolen from the Qu'Appelle and had given back. As the last note died away, the Chippewa scalp-yell rang out from the bank above us and a slim figure burst from the timber, taking to the river in a head-dive.
"The Pillager!" I yelled.
A volley of arrows hissed from the woods behind us, and one ripped a hole in the stern, through which the river began to gurgle most menacingly. More warriors had arrived and several were holding knives between their teeth, intending to swim after us. The group below also reappeared. The pursuit was to be pressed in force.
I could easily have bagged two of them, but I must keep one shot in reserve. I contented myself with catching the first man to slide down the bank. At the same moment a dark hand came out of the water and gripped the canoe. I raised the gun to smash the fingers, but the girl poked me with the paddle, crying—
"The Chippewa!"
Sure enough, it was Flat Mouth. He grinned up into my face sardonically and endeavoured to give his yell of triumph, but a mouthful of water stopped him.
"We're sinking!" I told him.
He struck off for the opposite bank, swimming abreast of us and watching our progress with much concern.
I crowded my knee against the hole and reloaded. My last shot had driven the Sioux to cover, but now they were popping up all along the bank. Below and above us several had taken to the water, thinking to head us off while our attention was held by the fire of those directly behind us.
Flat Mouth threw himself half out of the water and raised his fiendish howl of triumph. There was no mistaking the fact that he had made his kill, for a ghastly bunch of fresh hair was caught through the rawhide lacing of his skin shirt.
Arrows and an occasional ball followed us. Above and below bobbed the heads of the swimmers. Our approach to the west bank was very slow and the canoe grew sluggish. I tried to bail with my hat but nearly lost my gun overboard. The craft settled slowly but steadily. I glanced forward and decided we could ground her nose before she filled.
Flat Mouth gave a bark of warning and dived. The situation above, below and behind us remained about the same. I turned toward the west bank and the girl gave a little muffled cry, yet held steadily on. Ten or a dozen of the enemy were crouching in the grass at the top of the bank ready to receive us. These were the Indians left to guard the horses.
"I want to thank you for what you've done for me," the girl called over her shoulder.
"Don't thank me until I've pulled you out of this," I growled, raising my gun.
"You said back there you came after me. Did you, or was it just chance?"
"I came after you, to help you," I replied, staring at the top of the bank.
"Your sense of duty—I'm sorry," she sighed.
"I didn't know you were in any danger when I started. I came because I couldn't help it. It looks bad for us. I'll be honest with you—with myself."
There's never any understanding a woman; which is not surprising, as she does not understand herself. Logically she should have been twice as sorry on learning I had followed her without suspecting I was running into danger. Instead she quietly called over her shoulder—
"Now I'm glad. Don't let them take me alive."
"Of course not." That was why I had taken pains to reserve one barrel of my gun.
The canoe now was very low in the water. She paddled gently and we crept closer to the bank. Then, with a muscular swing, she sent us into the mud with the water up to our waists. The Indians on the bank jumped from cover. I blew a hole through the leader. Flat Mouth came out of the water as if shot by a gun, was half-way up the bank, had cut a fellow's throat and was yanking off the squirming skunk's hair quicker than you could skin a partridge.