CHAPTER V
CIVILIZATION'S VENEER RUBS OFF
My uncle accompanied our flotilla as far as Lachine and occupied a placein my division of canoes. Many were the admonitions he launched out likethunderbolts whenever his craft and mine chanced to glide abreast.
"If you lay hands on that skunk," he had said, the malodorous epithetbeing his designation for Louis Laplante, "If you lay hands on thatskunk, don't be a simpleton. Skin him, Sir, by the Lord, skin him! Lethim play the ostrich act! Keep your own counsel and work him for allyou're worth! Let him play his deceitful game! By Jove! Give the villainrope enough to hang himself! Gain your end! Afterwards forget andforgive if you like; but, by the Lord, remember and don't ignore thefact, that repentance can't turn a skunk into an innocent, pussy cat!"
And so Mr. Jack MacKenzie continued to warn me all the way from Quebecto Montreal, mixing his metaphors as topers mix drinks. But I had longsince learned not to remonstrate against these outbursts of explosiveeloquence--not though all the canons of Laval literati should beoutraged. "What, Sir?" he had roared out when I, in full conceit of newknowledge, had audaciously ventured to pull him up, once in my studentdays. "What, Sir? Don't talk to me of your book-fangled balderdash! Islanguage for the use of man, or man for the use of language?" and hequoted from Hamlet's soliloquy in a way that set me packing my pedantlore in the unused lumber-room of brain lobes. And so, I say, Mr. JackMacKenzie continued to pour instructions into my ear for the venturesomelife on which I had entered. "The lad's a fool, only a fool," he said,still harping on Louis, "and mind you answer the fool according to hisfolly!"
"Most men are fools first, and then knaves, knaves because they havebeen fools," I returned to my uncle, "and I fancy Laplante has graduatedfrom the fool stage by this time, and is a full diploma knave!"
"That's all true," he retorted, "but don't you forget there's alwaysfool enough left in the knave to give you your opportunity, if you'renot a fool. Joint in the armor, lad! Use your cutlass there."
Apart from the peppery discourses of my kinsman, I remember very littleof the trip up the St. Lawrence from Ste. Anne to Lachine with Ericsitting dazed and silent opposite me. We, of course, followed the riverchannel between the Island of Orleans and the north shore; and wheneverour boats drew near the mainland, came whiffs of crisp, frosty air fromthe dank ravines, where snow patches yet lay in the shadow. Then thefleet would sidle towards the island and there would be the fresh,spring odor of damp, uncovered mold, with a vague suggestiveness ofviolets and May-flowers and ferns bursting with a rush through the blackclods. The purple folds of the mountains, with their wavy outlinesfading in the haze of distance, lay on the north as they lie to-day; andeverywhere on the hills were the white cots of _habitant_ hamlets withchapel spires pointing above tree-tops. At the western end of theisland, where boats sheer out into mid-current, came the dull, heavyroar of the cataract and above the north shore rose great, billowyclouds of foam. With a sweep of our paddles, we were opposite a cleft inthe vertical rock and saw the shimmering, fleecy waters of Montmorencyleap over the dizzy precipice churning up from their own whirling depthsand bound out to the river like a panther after prey.
Now the Isle of Orleans was vanishing on our rear and the bold heightsof Point Levis had loomed up to the fore; and now we had poked our prowsto the right and the sluggish, muddy tide of the St. Charles lapped ourcanoes, while a forest of masts and yard-arms and flapping sails arosefrom the harbor of Quebec City. The great walls of modern Quebec did notthen exist; but the rude fortifications, that sloped down from the loftyCitadel on Cape Diamond and engirt the whole city on the hillside,seemed imposing enough to us in those days.
It was late in the afternoon when we passed. The sunlight struck acrossthe St. Charles, brightening the dull, gray stone of walls andcathedrals and convents, turning every window on the west to fire andtransforming a multitude of towers and turrets and minarets toglittering gold. Small wonder, indeed, that all our rough tripmenstopped paddling and with eyes on the spire of Notre Dame des Victoiresmuttered prayers for a prosperous voyage. For some reason or other, Ifound my own hat off. So was Mr. Jack MacKenzie's, so was EricHamilton's. Then the _voyageurs_ fell to work again. The canoes spreadout. We rounded Cape Diamond and the lengthening shadow of the high peakdarkened the river before us. Always the broad St. Lawrence seemed to bewinding from headland to headland among the purple hills, in sunlight amirror between shadowy, forest banks, at night, molten silver in themoon-track. Afternoon slipped into night and night to morning, and eachhour of daylight presented some new panorama of forests and hills andtorrents. Here the river widened into a lake. There the lake narrowed torapids; and so we came to Lachine--La Chine, named in ridicule of thegallant explorer, La Salle, who thought these vast waterways wouldsurely lead him to China.
At Lachine, Mr. Jack MacKenzie, with much brusque bluster to conceal hislongings for the life he was too old to follow and many cynicalinjunctions about "skinning the skunk" and "knocking the head offanything that stood in my way" and "always profiting from the folliesof other men"--"mind, have none yourself,"--parted from us. Here, too,Eric gripped my hand a tense, wordless farewell and left our party forthe Hudson's Bay brigade under Colin Robertson.
It has always been a mystery to me why our rivals sent that brigade toAthabasca by way of Lachine instead of Hudson Bay, which would have beentwo thousand miles nearer. We Nor'-Westers went all the way to and fromMontreal, solely because that was our only point of access to the sea;but the Hudson's Bay people had their own Hudson Bay for a startingplace. Why, in their slavish imitation of the methods, which brought ussuccess, they also adopted our disadvantages, I could never understand.Birch canoes and good tripmen could, of course, as the Hudson's Bay mensay, be most easily obtained in Quebec; but with a good organizer, thesame could have been gathered up two thousand miles nearer York Factory,on Hudson Bay. Indeed, I have often thought the sole purpose of thatexpedition was to get Nor'-Westers' methods by employing discardedNor'-Westers as trappers and _voyageurs_. Colin Robertson, the leader,had himself been a Nor'-Wester; and all the men with him except EricHamilton were renegades, "turn-coat traders," as we called them. But Imust not be unjust; for neither company could possibly exceed the otherin its zeal to entice away old trappers, who would reveal opponents'secrets. Acting on my uncle's advice, I made shift to pick up a fewcrumbs of valuable information. Had the Hudson's Bay known, I supposethey would have called me a spy. That was the name I gave any of themwho might try such tricks with me. The General Assembly of theNorth-West partners was to meet at Fort William, at the head of LakeSuperior. I learned that Robertson's brigade were anxious to slip pastour headquarters at Fort William before the meeting and would set outthat very day. I also heard they had sent forward a messenger to notifythe Hudson's Bay governor at Fort Douglas of their brigade's coming.
Almost before I realized it, we were speeding up the Ottawa, past asecond and third and fourth Ste. Anne's; for she is the _voyageurs'_patron saint and her name dots Canada's map like ink-blots on a boy'scopybook. Wherever a Ste. Anne's is now found, there has the _voyageur_of long ago passed and repassed. In places the surface of the river,gliding to meet us, became oily, almost glassy, as if the wave-currentran too fast to ripple out to the banks. Then little eddies beganwhirling in the corrugated water and our paddlers with labored breathbent hard to their task. By such signs I learned to know when we werestemming the tide of some raging waterfall, or swift rapid. There wouldfollow quick disembarking, hurried portages over land through a tangleof forest, or up slippery, damp rocks, a noisy launching far above thetorrent and swifter progress when the birch canoes touched water again.Such was the tireless pace, which made North-West _voyageurs_ famous.Such was the work the great _Bourgeois_ exacted of their men. A liberalsupply of rum, when stoppages were made, and of bread and meat for eachmeal--better fare than was usually given by the trading companies--didmuch to encourage the tripmen. Each man was doing his utmost toout-distance the bold rivals following by ou
r route. The _Bourgeois_were to meet at Fort William early in June. At all hazards we weredetermined to notify our company of the enemy's invading flotilla; andwithout margin for accidents we had but a month to cross half acontinent.
At nightfall the fourth day from the shrine, after a tiresome nine-miletraverse past the Chaudiere Falls of the Ottawa, glittering camp-fireson the river bank ahead showed where a fresh relay of canoemen awaitedus. They were immediately taken into the different crews andnight-shifts of paddlers put to work. It was quite dark, when the newhands joined us; but in the moonlight, as the chief steersman told offthe men by name, I watched each tawny figure step quickly to his placein the canoes, with that gliding Indian motion, which scarcely rockedthe light craft. There came to my crew Little Fellow, a short, thick-setman, with a grinning, good-natured face, who--despite his size--wouldsolemnly assure people he was equal in force to the sun. With him was LaRobe Noire, of grave aspect and few words, mighty in stature andshoulder power. There were five or six others, whose names in theclangor of voices I did not hear. Of these, one was a tall, lithe,swift-moving man, whose cunning eyes seemed to gleam with the malice ofa serpent. This canoeman silently twisted into sleeping posture directlybehind me.
The signal was given, and we were in mid-stream again. Wrapping myblanket about me, half propped by a bale of stuff and breathing deep ofthe clear air with frequent resinous whiffs from the forest I drowsedoff. The swish of waters rushing past and the roar of torrents, which Ihad seen and heard during the day, still sounded in my ears. The sigh ofthe night-wind through the forest came like the lonely moan of afar-distant sea, and I was sleepily half conscious that cedars, pinesand cliffs were engaged in a mad race past the sides of the canoe. A bedin which one may not stretch at random is not comfortable. Certainly mycramped limbs must have caused bad dreams. A dozen times I could havesworn the Indian behind me had turned into a snake and was winding roundmy chest in tight, smothering coils. Starting up, I would shake theweight off. Once I suddenly opened my eyes to find blanket thrown asideand pistol belt unstrapped. Lying back eased, I was dozing again when Idistinctly felt a hand crawl stealthily round the pack on which I waspillowed and steal towards the dagger handle in the loosened belt. Istruck at it viciously only to bruise my fist on my dagger. Now wideawake, I turned angrily towards the Indian. Not a muscle of the stillfigure had changed from the attitude taken when he came into the canoe.The man was not asleep, but reclined in stolid oblivion of my existence.His head was thrown back and the steely, unflinching eyes were fixed onthe stars.
"It may not have been you, my scowling sachem," said I to myself, "butsnakes have fangs. Henceforth I'll take good care you're not at myback."
I slept no more that night. Next day I asked the fellow his name and hepoured out such a jumbled mouthful of quick-spoken, Indian syllables, Iwas not a whit the wiser. I told him sharply he was to be Tom Jones onmy boat, at which he gave an evil leer.
Without stay we still pushed forward. The arrowy pace was merciless tored men and white; but that was the kind of service the great North-WestCompany always demanded. Some ten miles from the outlet of LakeNipissangue (Nipissing) foul weather threatened delay. The _Bourgeois_were for proceeding at any risk; but as the thunder-clouds grew blackerand the wind more violent, the head steersman lost his temper andgrounded his canoe on the sands at _Point a la Croix_. Springing ashorehe flung down his pole and refused to go on.
"Sacredie!" he screamed, first pointing to the gathering storm and thento the crosses that marked the fate of other foolhardy _voyageurs_,"Allez si vous voulez! Pour moi je n'irai pas; ne voyez pas le danger!"
A hurricane of wind, snapping the great oaks as a chopper breakskindling wood, enforced his words. Canoes were at once beached andtarpaulins drawn over the bales of provisions. The men struggled tohoist a tent; but gusts of wind tossed the canvas above their heads, andbefore the pegs were driven a great wall of rain-drift drenched everyone to the skin. By sundown the storm had gone southeast and weunrighteously consoled ourselves that it would probably disorganize theHudson's Bay brigade as much as it had ours. Plainly, we were there forthe night. _Point a la Croix_ is too dangerous a spot for navigationafter dark. With much patience we kindled the soaked underbrush andfinally got a pile of logs roaring in the woods and gathered round thefire.
The glare in the sky attracted the lake tribes from their lodges.Indians, half-breeds and shaggy-haired whites--degenerate traders, whohad lost all taste for civilization and retired with their native wivesafter the fashion of the north country--came from the Nipissangueencampments and joined our motley throng. Presently the natives drew offto a fire by themselves, where there would be no white-man's restraint.They had either begged or stolen traders' rum, and after the hard tripfrom Ste. Anne, were eager for one of their mad _boissons_--adrinking-bout interspersed with jigs and fights.
Stretched before our camp, I watched the grotesque figures leaping anddancing between the firelight and the dusky woods like forest demons.With the leaves rustling overhead, the water laving the pebbles on theshore, and the washed pine air stimulating one's blood like anintoxicant, I began wondering how many years of solitary life it wouldtake to wear through civilization's veneer and leave one content in thelodges of forest wilds. Gradually I became aware of my sulky canoeman'spresence on the other side of the camp-fire. The man had not joined therevels of the other _voyageurs_ but sat on his feet, oriental style,gazing as intently at the flames as if spellbound by some fire-spirit.
"What's wrong with that fellow, anyhow?" I asked a veteran trader, whowas taking last pulls at a smoked-out pipe.
"Sick--home-sick," was the laconic reply.
"You'd think he was near enough nature here to feel at home! Where's histribe?"
"It ain't his tribe he wants," explained the trader.
"What, then?" I inquired.
"His wife, he's mad after her," and the trader took the pipe from histeeth.
"Faugh!" I laughed. "The idea of an Indian sentimental and love-sick forsome fat lump of a squaw! Come! Come! Am I to believe that?"
"Don't matter whether you do, or not," returned the trader. "It's afact. His wife's a Sioux chief's daughter. She went north with a gang ofhalf-breeds and hunters last month; and he's been fractious crazy eversince."
"What's his name?" I called, as my informant vanished behind the tentflaps.
Again that mouthful of Indian syllables, unintelligible and unspeakablefor me was tumbled forth. Then I turned to the fantastic figurescarousing around the other camp fire. One form, in particular, I seemedto distinguish from the others. He was gathering the Indians in line forsome native dance and had an easy, rakish sort of grace, quite differentfrom the serpentine motions of the redskins. By a sudden turn, hisprofile was thrown against the fire and I saw that he wore a pointedbeard. He was no Indian; and like a flash came one of those strange,reasonless intuitions, which precede, or proceed from, the slow motionsof the mind. Was this the _avant-courier_ of the Hudson's Bay, delayed,like ourselves, by the storm? I had hardly spelled out my own suspicion,when to the measured beatings of the tom-tom, gradually becoming faster,and with a low, weird, tuneless chant, like the voices of the forest,the Indians began to tread a mazy, winding pace, which my slow eyescould not follow, but which in a strange way brought up memories ofsnaky convolutions about the naked body of some Egyptianserpent-charmer. The drums beat faster. The suppressed voices werebreaking in shrill, wild, exultant strains, and the measured tread hadquickened from a walk to a run and from a swaying run to a swift,labyrinthine pace, which has no name in English, and which I can onlyliken to the wiggling of a green thing under leafy covert. The coilingand circling and winding of the dancers became bewildering, and in thecentre, laughing, shouting, tossing up his arms and gesticulating like amaniac, was the white man with the pointed beard. Then the performersbroke from their places and gave themselves with utter abandon to thewild impulses of wild natures in a wild world; and there was such ascene of uncurbed, animal hilarity as I never
dreamed possible. Savage,furious, almost ferocious like the frisking of a pack of wolves, that atany time may fall upon and destroy a weaker one, the boisterous anticsof these children of the forest fascinated me. Filled with the curiositythat lures many a trader to his undoing, I rose and went across to thethronging, shouting, shadowy figures. A man darted out of the woods fulltilt against me. 'Twas he of the pointed beard, my _suspect_ of theHudson's Bay Company. Quick as thought I thrust out my foot and trippedhim full length on the ground. The light fell on his upturned face. Itwas Louis Laplante, that past-master in the art of diplomatic deception.He snarled out something angrily and came to himself in sitting posture.Then he recognized me.
"_Mon Dieu!_" he muttered beneath his breath, momentarily surprised intoa betrayal of astonishment. "You, Gillespie?" he called out, at onceregaining himself and assuming his usual nonchalance. "Pardon, mysolemncholy! I took you for a tree."
"Granted, your impudence," said I, ignoring the slight but paying himback in kind. I was determined to follow my uncle's advice and play therascal at his own game. "Help you up?" said I, as pleasantly as I could,extending my hand to give him a lift; and I felt his palm hot and hisarm tremble. Then, I knew that Louis was drunk and this was the fool'sjoint in the knave's armor, on which Mr. Jack MacKenzie bade me use myweapons.
"Tra-la!" he answered with mincing insult. "Tra-la, old tombstone!Good-by, my mausoleum! Au revoir, old death's-head! Adieu, grave skull!"With an absurdly elaborate bow, he reeled back among the dancers.
"Get up, comrade," I urged, rushing into the tent, where the old traderI had questioned about my canoeman was now snoring. "Get up, man," and Ishook him. "There's a Hudson's Bay spy!"
"Spy," he shouted, throwing aside the moose-skin coverlet. "Spy! Who?"
"It's Louis Laplante, of Quebec."
"Louis Laplante!" reiterated the trader. "A Frenchman employed by theHudson's Bay! Laplante, a trapper, with them! The scoundrel!" And heground out oaths that boded ill for Louis.
"Hold on!" I exclaimed, jerking him back. He was for dashing on Laplantewith a cudgel. "He's playing the trapper game with the lake tribes."
"I'll trapper him," vowed the trader. "How do you know he's a spy?"
"I don't _know_, really know," I began, clumsily conscious that I had noproof for my suspicions, "but it strikes me we'd better not examine thissort of suspect at too long range. If we're wrong, we can let him go."
"Bag him, eh?" queried the trader.
"That's it," I assented.
"He's a hard one to bag."
"But he's drunk."
"Drunk, Oh! Drunk is he?" laughed the man. "He'll be drunker," and thetrader began rummaging through bales of stuff with a noise of bottlesknocking together. He was humming in a low tone, like a grimalkinpurring after a full meal of mice--
"Rum for Indians, when they come, Rum for the beggars, when they go, That's the trick my grizzled lads To catch the cash and snare the foe."
"What's your plan?" I asked with a vague feeling the trader had someshady purpose in mind.
"Squeamish? Eh? You'll get over that, boy. I'll trap your trapper andspy your spy, and Nor'-Wester your H. B. C.! You come down to the sandbetween the forest and the beach in about an hour and I'll have news foryou," and he brushed past me with his arms full of something I could notsee in the half-light.
Then, as a trader, began my first compromise with conscience, and theenmity which I thereby aroused afterwards punished me for that night'swork. I knew very well my comrade, with the rough-and-ready methods oftraders, had gone out to do what was not right; and I hung back in thetent, balancing the end against the means, our deeds against Louis'perfidy, and Nor'-Westers' interests against those of the Hudson's Bay.It is not pleasant to recall what was done between the cedars and theshore. I do not attempt to justify our conduct. Does the physicianjustify medical experiments on the criminal, or the sacrificial priestthe driving of the scape-goat into the wilderness? Suffice it to say,when I went down to the shore, Louis Laplante was sitting in the midstof empty drinking-flasks, and the wily, old Nor'-Wester was tempting thesilly boy to take more by drinking his health with fresh bottles. Butwhile Louis Laplante gulped down his rum, becoming drunker and morecommunicative, the tempter threw glass after glass over his shoulder andremained sober. The Nor'-Wester motioned me to keep behind the Frenchmanand I heard his drunken lips mumbling my own name.
"Rufush--prig--stuck-up prig--serve him tam right!Hamilton's--sh--sh--prig too--sho's his wife. Serve 'em all tam right!"
"Ask him where she is," I whispered over his head.
"Where's the gal?" demanded the trader, shoving more liquor over toLouis.
"Shioux squaw--Devil's wife--how you say it in English? Lah GrawndDeeahble," and he mouthed over our mispronunciation of his own tongue"Joke, isn't it?" he went on. "That wax-face prig--slave to ShiouxSquaw. Rufush--a fool. Stuffed him to hish--neck. Made him believeshmall-pox was Hamilton's wife. I mean, Hamilton's wife was shmall-pox.Calf bellowed with fright--ran home--came back--'tamme,' I say, 'therehe come again' 'shmall-pox in that grave,' say I. Joke--ain't it?" andhe stopped to drain off another pint of rum.
"Biggest joke out of jail," said the Nor'-Wester dryly, with meaningwhich Louis did not grasp.
"Ask him where she is," I whispered, "quick! He's going to sleep." ForLouis wiped his beard on his sleeve and lay back hopelessly drunk.
"Here you, waken up," commanded the Nor'-Wester, kicking him and shakinghim roughly. "Where's the gal?"
"Shioux--_Pays d'En Haut_," drawled the youth. "Take off your boots!Don't wear boots. _Pays d'En Haut_--moccasins--softer," and he rolledover in a sodden sleep, which defied all our efforts to shake him intoconsciousness.
"Is that true?" asked the Nor'-Wester, standing above the drunk man andspeaking across to me. "Is that true about the Indian kidnapping awoman?"
"True--too terribly true," I whispered back.
"I'd like to boot him into the next world," said the trader, lookingdown at Louis in a manner that might have alarmed that youth for hissafety. "I've bagged H. B. dispatches anyway," he added withsatisfaction.
"What'll we do with him?" I asked aimlessly. "If he had anything to dowith the stealing of Hamilton's wife----"
"He hadn't," interrupted the trader. "'Twas Diable did that, so Laplantesays."
"Then what shall we do with him?"
"Do--with--him," slowly repeated the Nor'-Wester in a low, vibratingvoice. "Do--with--him?" and again I felt a vague shudder of apprehensionat this silent, uncompromising man's purpose.
The camp fires were dead. Not a sound came from the men in the woods andthere was a gray light on the water with a vague stirring of birdsthrough the foliage overhead. Now I would not have any man judge us bythe canons of civilization. Under the ancient rule of the fur companiesover the wilds of the north, 'twas bullets and blades put the fear ofthe Lord in evil hearts. As we stooped to gather up the tell-taleflasks, the drunken knave, who had lightly allowed an innocent whitewoman to go into Indian captivity, lay with bared chest not a hand'slength from a knife he had thrown down. Did the Nor'-Wester and Ihesitate, and look from the man to the dagger, and from the dagger tothe man; or is this an evil dream from a black past? Miriam, theguiltless, was suffering at his hands; should not he, the guilty, sufferat ours? Surely Sisera was not more unmistakably delivered into thepower of his enemies by the Lord than this man; and Sisera wasdiscomfited by Barak and Jael. Heber's wife--says the Book--drove a tentnail--through the temples--of the sleeping man--and slew him! Day waswhen I thought the Old Volume recorded too many deeds of bloodshed inthe wilderness for the instruction of our refined generation; but I,too, have since lived in the wilderness and learned that soft speech isnot the weapon of strong men overmastering savagery.
I know the trader and I were thinking the same thoughts and reading eachother's thoughts; for we stood silent above the drunk man, neithermoving, neither uttering a word.
"Well?" I finally questioned in a whisper.
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br /> "Well," said he, and he knelt down and picked up the knife. "'Twouldserve him right." He was speaking in the low, gentle, purring voice hehad used in the tent. "'Twould serve him jolly right," and he knelt overLouis hesitating.
My eyes followed his slow, deliberate motions with horror. Terror seemedto rob me of the power of speech. I felt my blood freeze with the fearof some impending crime. There was the faintest perceptible flutteringof leaves; and we both started up as if we had been assassins, glancingfearfully into the gloom of the forest. All the woods seemed alive withhorrified eyes and whisperings.
"Stop!" I gasped, "This is madness, the madness of the murderer. Whatwould you do?" And I was trying to knock the knife out of his hand,when among the shadowy green of the foliage, an open space suddenlyresolved itself into a human face and there looked out upon us gleamingeyes like those of a crouching panther.
"Squeamish fool!" muttered the Nor'-Wester, raising his arm.
"Stop!" I implored. "We are watched. See!" and I pointed to the face,that as suddenly vanished into blackness.
We both leaped into the thicket, pistol in hand, to wreak punishment onthe interloper. There was only an indistinct sound as of somethingreceding into the darkness.
"Don't fire," said I, "'twill alarm the camp."
At imminent risk to our own lives, we poked sticks through the thicketand felt for our unseen enemy, but found nothing.
"Let's go back and peg him out on the sand, where the Hudson's Bay willsee him when they come this way," suggested the Nor'-Wester, referringto Laplante.
"Yes, or hand-cuff him and take him along prisoner," I added, thinkingLouis might have more information.
But when we stepped back to the beach, there was no Louis Laplante.
"He was too drunk to go himself," said I, aghast at the certainty, whichnow came home to me, that we had been watched.
"I wash my hands of the whole affair," declared the trader, in a stateof high indignation, and he strode off to his tent, I, following, withuncomfortable reflections trooping into my mind. Compunctions rankled inself-respect. How near we had been to a brutal murder, to crime whichmakes men shun the perpetrators. Civilization's veneer was rubbing offat an alarming rate. This thought stuck, but for obvious reasons was notpursued. Also I had learned that the worst and best of outlawseasily justify their acts at the time they commit them; butafterwards--afterwards is a different matter, for the thing is pastundoing.
I heard the trader snorting out inarticulate disgust as he tumbled intohis tent; but I stood above the embers of the camp fire thinking. AgainI felt with a creepiness, that set all my flesh quaking, felt, ratherthan saw, those maddening, tiger eyes of the dark foliage watching me.Looking up, I found my morose canoeman on the other side of the fire,leaning so close to a tree, he was barely visible in the shadows.Thinking himself unseen by me, he wore such an insolent, amused,malicious expression, I knew in an instant, who the interloper had been,and who had carried Louis off. Before I realized that such an actentails life-long enmity with an Indian, I had bounded over the fire andstruck him with all my strength full in the face. At that, instead ofknifing me as an Indian ordinarily would, he broke into hyena shrieks oflaughter. He, who has heard that sound, need hear it only once to havethe echo ring forever in his ears; and I have heard it oft and know itwell.
"Spy! Sneak!" I muttered, rushing upon him. But he sprang back into theforest and vanished. In dodging me, he let fall his fowling-piece, whichwent off with a bang into the fire.
"Hulloo! What's wrong out there?" bawled the trader's voice from thetent.
"Nothing--false alarm!" I called reassuringly. Then there caught my eyeswhat startled me out of all presence of mind. There, reflecting theglare of the firelight was the Indian's fowling-piece, richly mounted inburnished silver and chased in the rare design of Eric Hamilton's familycrest. The morose canoeman was Le Grand Diable.
* * * * *
A few hours later, I was in the thick of a confused re-embarking. LeGrand Diable took a place in another boat; and a fresh hand was assignedto my canoe. Of that I was glad; I could sleep sounder and he, safer.The _Bourgeois_ complained that too much rum had been given out.
"Keep a stiffer hand on your men, boy, or they'll ride over your head,"one of the chief traders remarked to me.
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