Lords of the North

by Agnes C. Laut

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  THE LAST OF LOUIS' ADVENTURES

  I think, perhaps, the reason good enterprises fail so often where evilventures succeed, is that the good man blunders forward, trusting to themerits of his cause, where the evil manipulator proceeds warily as a catover broken glass. And so, altogether apart from his services as guide,I felt Louis Laplante's presence on the river a distinct advantage.

  "The Lord is with us, lad. She shall be delivered! The Lord is with us;but don't you bungle His plans!" ejaculated Father Holland for thetwentieth time; and each time the French trapper looked waggishly overhis shoulder at me and winked.

  "Bungle! Pah!" Louis clapped his paddle athwart the canoe and laughed alow, sly, defiant laugh. "Bungle! Pah! Catch Louis bungle his cards, ha,ha! Trumps! He play trumps--he hold his hand low--careless--nodings init--he keep quiet--nodings worth play in his hand--but his sleeve--ha,ha!" and Louis laughed softly and winked at the full moon.

  "The daughter of L'Aigle, she cuff Louis, she slap his cheek, she callhim lump--lout--slouch! Ha, ha!--Louis no fool--he pare the claws ofL'Aigle to-night!"

  At that, Little Fellow's stolid face took on a vindictive gleam, and hesnapped out something in Indian tongue which set Louis to laughing.Suddenly the Indian's paddle was suspended in mid-air, and Little Fellowbent over the prow, gazing at the moon-tracked water.

  "_Sacredie!_" cried Louis, catching up water that trickled through hisfingers, "'tis dried rabbit thong! They are ahead of us! They havepassed while that Scotch mule was balk! We must catch the Englishman,"and he began hitting out with his paddle at a great rate.

  We had overtaken Mr. Sutherland's canoe within half an hour of Louis'discovery, and Eric wheeled about with a querulous demand.

  "What's wrong? Are they ahead? I thought you said they were behind," andhe turned suspiciously to Laplante.

  "You thought wrong," said Louis, ever facile with subterfuges. "Youthought wrong, Mister High-and-Mighty! Camp here and watch; they comebefore morning!"

  "No lies to me," shouted Eric, becoming uncontrollably excited. "If youmislead us, your life shall----"

  "Pig-head! I no save your wife for back chin! Camp here, I say," andLouis' fitful temper began to show signs of sulking.

  "For goodness' sake, Eric, do what you're told! We've made a bad enoughbusiness of it----"

  "Give the Frenchman a chance! Do what you're told, I say, ye blunderers!Troth, the Lord Himself couldn't bring success to such blunderingidiots," was Father Holland's comment.

  "I'll take na orders frae meddlesome papists," began the Scotchman; butLittle Fellow had forcibly turned the prow of the canoe shoreward. Igave them a shove with my paddle. Frances took the cue, and while herfather was yet scolding raised her paddle and had them close to theriver bank.

  "Get your tent up here," I called to conciliate them. "Then come to thebank and watch for the Indians."

  A bit of clean gravel ran out from the clay cliff.

  "That's the ground," said I, as the other canoe bumped over the pebbles;and I stopped paddling and dangled my hand in the water.

  Something in the dark drifted wet and soft against my fingers.Ordinarily such an incident would not have alarmed me; but instantly ashudder of apprehension ran through my frame. I scarce had courage tolook into the river lest the white face of a woman should appear throughthe watery depths. Clutching the water-soaked tangle, I jerked it up.Something gave with a rip, and my hand was full of shawl fringe.

  "What's that, Rufus?" asked Father Holland. "Don't know." I motionedhim to be silent and held it up in the moonlight. Distinctly it was, orhad been, red fringe.

  "Do you think--" he began, then stopped. Our keel had rubbed bottom andHamilton was springing out of the other canoe.

  "Yes, I do," I replied, choking with dread. "This is too terrible! He'llkill himself! Go up the bank with him! Keep him busy at the tent! LittleFellow and I'll pole for it. The water's shallow there----"

  "What do _you_ think?" said the priest to Laplante.

  "T'ink! I never t'ink! I finds out." But all the same, Louis' assurancewas shaken and he peered searchingly into the river.

  "Aren't you coming? What's your plan?" called Eric.

  "Certainly we are, but get this truck to higher ground, will you?" Ihoisted out the camp trappings. "I want to paddle out for something."

  "What is it?" he asked.

  "Something lost out there. I lost it out of my hand."

  Frances Sutherland, I know, suspected trouble from the alarm which Icould not keep out of my speech; for she pressed to the water's edge.

  "Get the tent ready," I urged.

  "What's the meaning of this mystery?" persisted Hamilton sharply. "Whathave you lost?"

  "Don't press him too closely. Faith, it may be a love token,"interjected Father Holland, as he stepped ashore; but he whispered in myear as he passed, "You're wrong, lad! You're on the wrong track!"

  I leaped back to the canoe, Little Fellow and the Frenchman following,and we paddled to the shallows where I had caught the fringe. I proddedthe soft mud below and trailed the paddle back and forward over the claybottom. Louis did likewise; but in vain. Only soft ooze came up on theblade. Then Little Fellow stripped and dived. Of course it was darkunder water, as it always is dark under the muddy Red, and the Indiancould not feel a thing from which fringe could have ripped. Had my jerkdisturbed whatever it was and sent it rolling down to mid-current? Iasked Father Holland this when I came back.

  "Tush, faint-heart," he muttered, drawing me aside. "'Tis only a trialof your faith."

  I said something about trials of faith which I shall not repeat here,but which the majority of people, who are on the tenter-hooks of suchtrials, have said for themselves.

  "Faith! Pah!" exclaimed Louis, joining our whispered conference, whileEric and Mr. Sutherland were hoisting a tent. "That shawl, it meannodings of things heavenly! It only mean rag stuck in the mud and redsnearabouts here! I have told the Great Bear and his snarl Englishman theIndians not come till morning. They get tent ready and watch! You followLouis, he lead you to camp. The priest--he good for say a littleprayer; the Indian for fight; Louis--for swear; Rufus--to snatch theEnglishwoman, he good at snatching the fair, ha-ha."

  He darted to the shore, calling Little Fellow from the canoe and leavingFather Holland and me to follow as best we could.

  "We'll be back soon, Eric," I shouted. "We're going to get the lie ofthe land. Keep watch here," and I broke into a run to keep up with theFrench trapper and the Indian, who were leading into the woods away fromthe river. I could hear Father Holland puffing behind like a wind-blownracer. Abruptly the priest came to a stop.

  "By all the saints," he ordered. "Go back to the tent!"

  I turned. A white form emerged from the foliage and Frances was besideme.

  "May I not come?" she asked.

  "No--dearest, there will be fighting."

  "No--Lord--no," panted Father Holland coming up to us. "We're notswapping one woman for another. What would Rufus do without ye?"

  "You are going for Miriam?" she questioned, holding my hand. "God speedyou and bring you back safely!"

  "Say rather--bring Miriam," and I unfastened the clinging hand almostroughly.

  "Come on, slugs, sloths, laggards," commanded Laplante impatiently, andwe dashed into the thick of the woods, leaving the white figure aloneagainst the shadowy thicket. She called out something, of which I heardonly two words, "Miriam" and "Rufus"; but I knew those names wereuttered in supplication and they filled my heart with daring hope.Surely, we must succeed--for the Little Statue's prayers were followingme--and I bounded on with a faith as buoyant as the priest's blindtrust. Thus we ran through the moon-shafted woods pursuing the flitting,lithe figures of trapper and Indian, who scarce disturbed a fern leaf,while Father Holland and I floundered through the underbrush likeramping elephants. Then I found myself panting as hard as the priest andclinging to his arm for support; for illness had taken all the braveryout of my muscles, like
champagne uncorked and left in the heat.

  "Brace yourself, lad," said the priest. "The Lord is with us, but don'tyou bungle."

  A long, low whistle came through the dark, a whistle that was such aperfect imitation of the night hawk, no spy might detect it for thesignal of a runner. After the whistle, was the soft, ominous hiss of aserpent in the grass; and we were abreast of Louis Laplante and LittleFellow standing stock still sniffing forward as hounds might scent afoe.

  "She may not be there! She may be drown;" whispered Louis, "but we creepon, quiet like hare, no noise like deer, stiller than mountain cat,hist--what that?"

  The night breeze set the leaves all atremble--clapping their hands, asthe Indians call it--and a whiff of burning bark tainted the air."That's it," said I under my breath.

  The smoke was blowing from wooded flats between us and the river.Cautiously parting interlaced branches and as carefully replacing eachbough to prevent backward snap, we turned down the sloping bank. Isuppose necessity's training in the wilds must produce the same resultin man and beast; and from that fact, faddists of the various "osophies"and "ologies" may draw what conclusions they please; but I affirm thatno panther could creep on its prey with more stealth, caution andcunning than the trapper and Indian on the enemy's camp. I have seenwild creatures approaching a foe set each foot down with noiselesstread; but I have never seen such a combination of instincts, brute andhuman, as Louis and Little Fellow displayed. The Indian felt the groundfor tracks and pitfalls and sticks, that might crackle. Louis, with hiswhole face pricked forward, trusted more to his eyes and ears and thatsense of "feel," which is--contradictory as it may seem--utterlyintangible. Once the Indian picked up a stick freshly broken. This wasexamined by both, and the Indian smelt it and tried his tongue on thebroken edge. Then both fell on all fours, creeping under the branches ofthe thicket and pausing at every pace.

  "Would that I had taken lessons in forest lore before I went among theSioux," I thought to myself. Now I knew what had been incomprehensiblebefore--why all my well-laid plans had been detected.

  A wind rustled through the foliage. That was in our favor; for in spiteof our care the leaves crushed and crinkled beneath us. At intervals aglimmer of light shone from the beach. Louis paused and listened sointently our breathing was distinctly audible. A vague murmur of lowvoices--like the "talking of the trees" in Little Fellow'slanguage--floated up from the river; and in the moonlight I saw Laplantelaugh noiselessly. Trees stood farther apart on the flats and brushwoodgave place to a forest of ferns, that concealed us in their deepfoliage; but the thick growth also hid the enemy, and we knew not atwhat moment we might emerge in full view of the camp. So we stretchedout flat, spying through the fern stalks before we parted the stems todraw ourselves on a single pace. Presently, the murmur separated intodistinct voices, with much low laughing and the bitter jeers that makeup Indian mirth. We could hear the crackling of the fire, and wormedforward like caterpillars.

  There was a glare of light through the ferns, and Louis stopped. We allthree pulled abreast of him. Lying there as a cat watches a mouse, weparted first one and then another of the fronds till the Indianencampment could be clearly seen.

  "Is that the tribe?" I whispered; but Louis gripped my arm in a vicethat forbade speech.

  The camp was not a hundred feet away. Fire blazed in the centre. Poleswere up for wigwams, and already skins had been overlaid, completingseveral lodges. Men lay in lazy attitudes about the fire. Squaws weretaking what was left of the evening meal and slave-women were puttingthings to rights for the night. Sitting apart, with hands tied, wereother slaves, chiefly young women taken in some recent fray and not yettrusted unbound. Among these was one better clad than the others. Herwrists were tied; but her hands managed to conceal her face, which wasbowed low. In her lap was a sleeping child. Was this Miriam? Childrenwere with the other captives; but to my eyes this woman's torn shawlappeared reddish in the fire glow.

  "Let's go boldly up and offer to buy the slaves," I suggested; butLouis' grip tightened forbiddingly and Little Fellow's forefingerpointed towards a big creature, who was ordering the others about. 'Twasa woman of giant, bronzed form, with the bold stride of a conqueringwarrior and a trophy-decked belt about her waist. The fire shone againsther girdle and the stones in the leather strap glowed back blood-red.Father Holland breathed only one word in my ear, "Agates;" and the fireof the red stones flashed like some mystic flame through my being tillbrain and heart were hot with vengeance and my hands burned as if everynerve from palm to finger-tips were a blade point reaching out todestroy that creature of cruelty.

  "Diable's squaw," I gasped out, beside myself with anger and joy. "Letme but within arm's length of her----"

  "Hold quiet," the priest hissed low and angry, gripping my shoulder likea steel winch. "'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord! See that you savethe white woman! Leave the evil-doer to God! The Lord's with us, but Itell you, don't you bungle!"

  "Bungle!" I could have shouted out defiance to the whole band. "Let go!"I ordered, trying to struggle up; for the iron hand still held me. "Letgo, or I'll----"

  But Louis Laplante's palm was forcibly slapped across my mouth and hisother hand he laid significantly on his dagger, giving me onethreatening look. By the firelight I saw his lips mechanically countingthe numbers of the enemy and mechanically I audited his count.

  "Twenty men, thirty squaws and the slaves," said he under his breath.

  An Indian left the fire and approached the captives.

  "See! Watch! Is that woman Miriam?" demanded the priest. "She'll takeher hands from her face now."

  "Of course it is!" I was furious at the restraint and hesitancy; but asI said before, the experienced intriguer proceeds as warily as a cat.

  "You not sure--not for sure--_Mon Dieu_--no," muttered Laplante; and hewas right. With the forest shadows across the captives, it wasimpossible to distinguish the color of their faces. Taking a knife fromhis belt, the Indian cut the cords of all but the woman with her handsacross her face. A girl brought refuse of food; but this woman took nonotice, never moving her hands. Thereupon the young squaw sneered andthe Indian idlers jeered loud in harsh, strident laughter. This rousedthe big squaw. She strode up, Little Fellow all the while withglistening teeth following her motions as a cat's head turns to a mouse.With the flat of her hand she struck the silent woman, who leaped up andran to a wigwam. In speechless fear, the child had scrambled to its feetand backed away from the angry group towards the ferns; but the lightwas fitful and shadowy, and we could recognize neither woman, nor child.

  "I can't stand this any longer," I declared. "I must know if that'sMiriam. Let's draw closer."

  Father Holland and I crawled stealthily to the very border of ferngrowth, Louis and the Indian lying still and muttering over some plan ofaction.

  "Hist," said the priest, "we'll try the child."

  Unlike naked Indian children, the little thing had a loose garmentbanded about its waist; but its feet were bare and its hair as ravenblack as that of any young savage. It stood like some woodland elf inthe maze of heavy sleepiness, at each harsh word from the camp, sidlingshyly closer to our hiding-place. We dragged forward till I could havetouched the child, but feared to startle it.

  Putting his hand out slowly, Father Holland caught the little creature'sarm. It gave a start, jerked back and looked in mute wonderment at ourstrange hiding-place.

  "Pretty boy," crooned the priest in low, coaxing tones, gentlytightening his hold.

  "Is it white?" I whispered.

  "I can't see."

  "Good little man," he went on, slowly folding his hands about it.Drawing quickly back, he lifted the child completely into his arms.

  "Is boy sleepy?" he asked.

  "Call him 'Eric,'" I urged.

  "Is Eric sleepy?"

  The child's head fell wearily against the priest's shoulder. Snugglingcloser, he lisped back in perfect English, "Eric's tired."

  At once Father Holland's free hand caught my ar
m as if he feared I mightrush out. For a moment neither of us spoke.

  Then he said, "Give me your coat."

  I ripped off my buckskin-smock. Wrapping the sleeping boy about, thepriest laid him gently among the ferns.

  "Where's the mother?" asked Father Holland with a catching intake ofbreath.

  I pointed to the wigwam. The big squaw had come out, leaving Miriamalone and was engaged in noisy dispute with the men. Louis and LittleFellow had now wriggled abreast of us.

  "Ha, ha, _mon brave_--your time, it come now! You save the white woman!I pay my devoirs to the lady, ha, ha--I owe her much--I pay you bothback with one stroke, one grand stroke. Little Fellow, he watch forspring surprise and help us both! Swoop--snitch--snatch--snap her up!'Tis done--tra-la!" and Louis drew up for all the world like a tigerabout to spring, but the priest drew him down.

  "Listen," commanded the churchman, in the slow, tense way of one whointended to be obeyed. "I'll go back and come up by the beach. I'llbrow-beat them and tongue-whack them for having slaves. They'll offerfight; so'll I. They'll all run down; that's your chance. Wait till theyall go. I'll make them, every one. That's your chance. You rush! Trythat! If it fail, in the name of the Lord, have y'r weapons ready--andthe Lord be with us!"

  "They'll kill you," I protested. "Let me go!"

  "You? What about Frances?"

  "Pah!" said Louis. "I go myself--I trick--I trap--I snare 'em----"

  "Hush to ye, ye braggart," interrupted the priest. "Gillespie is asflabby as dough from an illness. 'Tis here you sit quiet, and help withMiriam as ye'd save y'r soul! Howld down with y'r bouncing nonsense,lad, and the saints be with ye; for it's a fight there'll be, and thereis the fightin' stuff of a soldier in ye! Never turn to me--mind yenever turn to help me, or the curse of the fool be on y'r head--and theLord be with us!"

  "Amen." But I spoke to vacancy. While a rising wind set the branchesoverhead grating noisily, he had risen and darted away. Louis Laplante,contrary to the priest's orders, also rose and disappeared in the woods.Little Fellow still lay by me, but I could not rely on him forintelligent action, and there came over me that sense of aloneness indanger, which I knew so well in the Mandane country. The child'sslightest cry might alarm the camp, and I shivered when he breathedheavily, or turned in his sleep. The Indians might miss the boy andsearch the woods. Instinctively my hand was on my pistol. It was well tobe as near Miriam's tent as possible; and I, too, took advantage of thewind to change my place. I moved back, signalling the Indian to follow,and skirted round the open till I was directly opposite Miriam's wigwam.Why had Louis gone off, and why did he not come back? Had he gone tokeep secret guard over the priest, or to decoy the vigilant Sioux woman?In his intentions I had confidence enough, but not in his judgment. Atthat moment my speculations were interrupted by a loud shout from thebeach. Every Indian in camp started up as if hostiles had uttered theirwar-cry.

  "Hallo, there! Hallo! Hallo!" called the priest. Indians dashed to theriver, while bedraggled squaws and naked children rushed from wigwamsand stood in clamorous groups between the lodges and the water. Thetopmost branches of the trees swayed back and forward in the wind,alternately throwing shafts of moonlight and shadows across the openingof Miriam's wigwam. When the light flooded the tent a solitary,white-faced form appeared in dark, sharp outline. The bare arms weretied at the wrists, and beat aimlessly through the darkness. And therewas a sound of piteous weeping.

  Should I make the final, desperate dash now? "Don't bungle His plans,"came the priest's warning; and I waited. The squaws were very near; andthe angular figure of Diable's wife hung on the rear of the group. Shewas scolding like a termagant in the Sioux tongue, ordering the otherwomen to the fray; but still she kept back, looking over her shouldersuspiciously at Miriam's tent, uncertain whether to go or stay. We hadfailed in every other attempt to rescue Miriam. If the Lord--as thepriest believed--had planned the sufferer's aid, His instruments hadblundered badly. There must be no more feeble-fingering.

  "Thieves! Thieves! Cut-throats!" bawled Father Holland in a storm ofabuse. "Ye rascals," he thundered, cutting the air with his stick andpurposely backing away from the camp to draw the Indians off. Then hisvoice was lost in a chorus of shrill screams.

  The moonlight shone across the wigwam opening. The captive had heard theEnglish tongue, and was listening. But the Sioux squaw had also heardand recognized the voice of a former prisoner. She ran forward a pace,then hesitated, looking back doubtfully. As she turned her head, outfrom the gloom of the thicket with the leap of a lynx, lithe and swift,sprang the crouching form of Louis Laplante. I felt Little Fellow all ina tremor by my side; the tremor not of fear, but of the couchantpanther; and he uttered the most vicious snarl I have ever heard fromhuman throat. Louis alighted neatly and noiselessly, directly behind theSioux woman. She must have felt his presence, for she turned round andround expectantly. Louis, silent and elusive as a shadow, circled abouther, tripping from side to side as she turned her head. But the firebetrayed him. She had wheeled towards the forest as if spying for theunseen presence among the foliage, and Louis deftly dodged behind. Themove put him between the fire and his antagonist, and the full profileof his queer, bending figure was shadowed clear past the woman. Sheturned like some vengeful, malign goddess, and I thought it all up withthe daring trapper; but he doffed his red toque and swept the advancingfury the low bow of a French courtier. Then he drew himself erect andlaughed insolently in the woman's face. His careless assurance allayedher suspicions.

  "Oh, 'tis you!" she growled.

  "'Tis I, fleet-foot, winged messenger, humble slave," laughed Louis,with another grotesque bow; but the rogue had cleverly put himselfbetween the squaw and Miriam's tent.

  I should have rushed to Miriam's rescue long since, instead of watchingthis by-play between trapper and mountain cat; but as the foray waxedhotter with the priest, the young braves had run back to their tents forguns and clubs.

  "Stand off, ye scoundrels," roared the priest, in tones of genuineanger; for the Indians were closing threateningly about him. "Standback, ye knaves, ye sons of Satan," and every soul but Louis Laplanteand the Sioux squaw ran with querulous shouts to the river.

  "Cruel! Cruel! Cruel!" sobbed a voice from the wigwam; and there was astraining to break the thongs which bound her. "Cruel! Cruel! Hast Thouno pity? O my God! Hast Thou no pity? Shall not a sparrow fall to theground without Thy knowledge? Is this Thy pity? O my God!" The voicebroke in a torrent of heart-piercing cries.

  I could endure it no longer.

  "Have at ye, ye villains! Come out like men! Now, me brave bhoys, showthe stuff that's in ye! A fig for y'r valor if ye fail! The curse o' theLord on the coward heart! Back with ye; ye red divils! Out with ye,Rufus! The Lord shall deliver the captive! What, 'an wuld ye dare strikea servant o' the Lord? Let the deliverer appear, I say," he shouted,weaving in commands to us as he dealt stout blows about him and recededdown the river bank. "Take that--and that--and that," I heard him shout,with a rat-tat-too of sharp thuds from the staff accompanying eachword. Then I knew the quarrel on the beach was at its height; and LouisLaplante was still foiling the Sioux's approach to Miriam's wigwam likea deft fencer.

  "Follow me, Little Fellow," I commanded. "Have your knife ready," and Ihad not finished speaking when three shrill whistles came from Louis.'Twas his old-time signal of danger. Above the hubbub at the river theSioux squaw was screaming to the braves.

  Bounding from concealment, I tore off the layer roofing of the wigwam,plunged through the tapering pole frame, shaking the frail lean-to likea house of cards, and was beside Miriam. Again I heard Louis' whistleand again the squaw's angry scream; but Little Fellow had followed on myheels and stood with knife-blade glittering bare at the tent-entrance.

  "Hush," I whispered, slashing my dagger through the thongs around herhands and cutting the rope that held her to the central stake. "We'vefound you at last. Come! Come!" and I caught her up.

  "O my God!" she cried. "At last! At last! Where is the chil
d? They havetaken little Eric!"

  "We have him safe! His father is waiting! Don't hesitate, Miriam!"

  "Run, Little Fellow," I ordered, "Across the camp. Get the child," and Isprang from the wigwam, which crashed to the ground behind me. I hadthought to save skirting the woods by a run across the camping-ground;but when my Indian dashed for the child and the Sioux saw me undefendedwith the white woman in my arms, she made a desperate lunge at Laplanteand called at the top of her voice for the braves.

  Louis, with weapons in hand, still kept between the fury and Miriam; butI think his French chivalry must have been restraining him. Though theSioux offered him many opportunities and was doing her best to sheathe aknife in his heart, he seemed to refrain from using either dagger orpistol. An insolent laugh was on his face. The life-and-death game whichhe was playing was to his daring spirit something novel and amusing.

  "The lady is--perturbed," he laughed, dodging a thrust at his neck; "shefences wide, tra-la," this as the barrel of his pistol parried a driveof her knife; "she hits afar--ho--ho--not so fast, my fury--not sofurious, my fair--zipp, ha--ha--ha--another miss--another miss--thelady's a-miss," for the squaw's weapon struck fire against his own.

  "Look out for the braves, have a care," I shouted; for a dozen youngbucks were running up behind to the woman's aid.

  "Ha--ha---_prenez garde_--my tiger-cat has kittens," he laughed; and helooked over his shoulder.

  That backward look gave the fury her opportunity. In the firelight bluesteel flashed bright. The Frenchman reeled, threw up his arms, andfell. One sharp, deep, broken draw of breath, and with a laugh on hislips, Louis Laplante died as he had lived. Then the tiger-cat leapedover the dead form at Miriam and me.

  What happened next I can no more set down consecutively than I candistinguish the parts in a confused picture with a red-eyed furystriking at me, naked Indians brandishing war-clubs, flashes of powdersmoke, a circle of gesticulating, screeching dark faces in thebackground, my Indian fighting like a very fiend, and a pale-faced womanwith a little curly-headed boy at her feet standing against the woods.

  "Run, _Monsieur_; I keep bad Indians off," urged Little Fellow."Run--save white squaw and papoose--run, _Monsieur_."

  Now, whatever may be said to the contrary, however brave two men may be,they cannot stand off a horde of armed savages. I let go my wholepistol-charge, which sent the red demons to a distance and intendeddashing for the woods, when the Sioux woman put her hand in her pocketand hurled a flint head at Little Fellow. The brave Indian sprang asideand the thing fell to the ground. With it fell a crumpled sheet ofpaper. I heard rather than saw Little Fellow's crouching leap. Two formsrolled over and over in the camp ashes; and with Miriam on my shoulderand the child under the other arm, I had dashed into the thicket of theupper ground.

  Overhead tossed the trees in a swelling wind, and up from the shorerushed the din of wrangling tongues, screaming and swearing in a clamorof savage wrath. The wind grew more boisterous as I ran. Behind theIndian cries died faintly away; but still with a strength not my own,always keeping the river in view, and often mistaking the pointedbranches, which tore clothing and flesh from head to feet, for the handsof enemies--I fled as if wolves had been pursuing.

  Again and again sobbed Miriam--"O, my God! At last! At last! Thanks beto God! At last! At last!"

  We were on a hillock above our camp. Putting Miriam down, I gave her myhand and carried the child. When I related our long, futile search andtold her that Eric was waiting, agitation overcame her, and I said nomore till we were within a few feet of the tents.

  "Please wait." I left her a short distance from the camp that I might goand forewarn Eric.

  Frances Sutherland met me in the way and read the news which I could notspeak.

  "Have you--oh--have you?" she asked. "Who is that?" and she pointed tothe child in my arms.

  "Where's Hamilton? Where's your father?" I demanded, trembling fromexhaustion and all undone.

  "Mr. Hamilton is in his tent priming a gun. Father is watching theriver. And oh, Rufus! is it really so?" she cried, catching, sight ofMiriam's stooped, ragged figure. Then she darted past me. Both her armsencircled Miriam, and the two began weeping on each other's shouldersafter the fashion of women.

  I heard a cough inside Hamilton's tent. Going forward, I lifted thecanvas flap and found Eric sitting gloomily on a pile of robes.

  "Eric," I cried, in as steady a voice as I command, which indeed, wasshaking sadly, and I held the child back that Hamilton might not see,"Eric, old man, I think at last we've run the knaves down."

  "Hullo!" he exclaimed with a start, not knowing what I had said. "Areyou men back? Did you find out anything?"

  "Why--yes," said I: "we found this," and I signalled Frances to bringMiriam.

  This was no way to prepare a man for a shock that might unhinge reason;but my mind had become a vacuum and the warm breath of the childnestling about my neck brought a mist before my eyes.

  "What did you say you had found?" asked Hamilton, looking up from hisgun to the tent-way; for the morning light already smote through thedark.

  "This," I said, lifting the canvas a second time and drawing Miriamforward.

  I could but place the child in her arms. She glided in. The flap fell.There was the smothered outcry of one soul--rent by pain.

  "Miriam--Miriam--my God--Miriam!" "Come away," whispered a choky voiceby my side, and Frances linked her arm through mine.

  Then the tent was filled and the night air palpitated with sounds ofanguished weeping. And with tears raining from my eyes, I hastened awayfrom what was too sacred for any ear but a pitying God's. That had cometo my life which taught me the depths of Hamilton's suffering.

  "Dearest," said I, "now we understand both the pain and the joy ofloving," and I kissed her white brow.

  CHAPTER XXIX

  THE PRIEST JOURNEYS TO A FAR COUNTRY

  Again the guest-chamber of the Sutherland home was occupied.

  How came it that a Catholic priest lay under a Protestant roof? Howcomes it that the new west ever ruthlessly strips reality naked of creedand prejudice and caste, ever breaks down the barrier relics of amouldering past, ever forces recognition of men as individuals withindividual rights, apart from sect and class and unmerited prerogatives?The Catholic priest was wounded. The Protestant home was near. Manhoodin Protestant garb recognized manhood in Roman cassock. Necessitycommanded. Prejudice obeyed as it ever obeys in that vast land ofuntrameled freedom. So Father Holland was cared for in the Protestanthome with a tenderness which Mr. Sutherland would have repudiated. Formy part, I have always thanked God for that leveling influence of thewest. It pulls the fools from high places and awards only onecrown--merit.

  It was Little Fellow who had brought Father Holland, wounded andinsensible, from the Sioux camp.

  "What of Louis Laplante's body, Little Fellow?" I asked, as soon as Ihad seen all the others set out for the settlement with Father Hollandlying unconscious in the bottom of the canoe.

  "The white man, I buried in the earth as the white men do--deep in theclay to the roots of the willow, so I buried the Frenchman," answeredthe Indian. "And the squaw, I weighted with stones at her feet; for theytrod on the captives. And with stones I weighted her throat, which wasmarked like the deer's when the mountain cat springs. With the stones ather throat and her feet, the squaw, I rolled into the water."

  "What, Little Fellow," I cried, remembering how I had seen him roll overand over through the camp-fire, with his hands locked on the Siouxwoman's throat, "did you kill the daughter of L'Aigle?"

  "Non, _Monsieur_; Little Fellow no bad Indian. But the squaw threw aflint and the flint was poison, and my hands were on her throat, and thesquaw fell into the ashes, and when Little Fellow arose she was dead.Did she not slay La Robe Noire? Did she not slay the white man beforeMonsieur's eyes? Did she not bind the white woman? Did she not drag meover the ground like a dead stag? So my fingers caught hard in herthroat, and when I arose she lay dead in the ashes.
So I fled and hidtill the tribe left. So I shoved her into the water and pushed herunder, and she sank like a heavy rock. Then I found the priest."

  I had no reproaches to offer Little Fellow. He had only obeyed thesavage instincts of a savage race, exacting satisfaction after his ownfashion.

  "The squaw threw a flint. The flint was poison. Also the squaw threwthis at Little Fellow, white man's paper with signs which are magic,"and the Indian handed me the sheet, which had fallen from the woman'spocket as she hurled her last weapon.

  Without fear of the magic so terrifying to him, I took the dirty,crumpled missive and unfolded it. The superscription of Quebec citadelwas at the top. With overwhelming revulsion came memory of poor LouisLaplante lying at the camp-fire in the gorge tossing a crumpled piece ofpaper wide of the flames, where the Sioux squaw surreptitiously pickedit up. The paper was foul and tattered almost beyond legibility; butthrough the stains I deciphered in delicate penciling these words:

  "In memory of last night's carouse in Lower Town, (one favor deserves another, you know, and I got you free of that scrape), spike the gun of my friend the enemy. If R-f-s G--p--e, E. H--l-t-n, J--k MacK, or any of that prig gang come prying round your camp for news, put them on the wrong track. I owe the whole ---- ---- set a score. Pay it for me, and we'll call the loan square."

  No name was signed; but the scene in the Quebec club three years before,when Eric had come to blows with Colonel Adderly, explained not only theauthorship but Louis' treachery. 'Tis the misfortune of errant rogueslike poor Louis that to get out of one scrape ever involves them in aworse. Now I understood the tumult of contradictory emotions that hadwrought upon him when I had saved his life and he had resolved to undothe wrong to Miriam.

  Little Fellow put the small canoe to rights, and I had soon joined theothers at the Sutherland homestead. But for two days the priest lay asone dead, neither moaning nor speaking. On the morning of the third,though he neither opened his eyes nor gave sign of recognition, he askedfor bread. Then my heart gave a great bound of hope--for surely a mandesiring food is recovering!--and I sent Frances Sutherland to him andwent out among the trees above the river.

  That sense of resilient relief which a man feels on discharging animpossible task, or throwing off too heavy a burden, came over me.Miriam was rescued, the priest restored, and I dowered with God's bestgift--the love of a noble, fair woman. Hard duty's compulsion no longerspurred me; but my thoughts still drove in a wild whirl. There was aglassy reflection of a faded moon on the water, and daybreak camerustling through the trees which nodded and swayed overhead. Atwittering of winged things arose in the branches, first only thecadence of a robin's call, an oriole's flute-whistle, the stirringwren's mellow note. Then, suddenly, out burst from the leafed sprays achorus of song that might have rivaled angels' melodies. The robin'scall was a gust of triumph. The oriole's strain lilted exultant and athousand throats gushed out golden notes.

  "Now God be praised for love and beauty and goodness--and above all--forFrances--for Frances," were the words that every bird seemed to besinging; though, indeed, the interpretation was only my heart'sresponse. I know not how it was, but I found myself with hat off andbowed head, feeling a gratitude which words could not frame--for thesplendor of the universe and the glory of God.

  "Rufus," called a voice more musical to my ear than any bird song; andFrances was at my side with a troubled face. "He's conscious andtalking, but I can't understand what he means. Neither can Miriam andEric. I wish you would come in."

  I found the priest pale as the pillows against which he leaned, withglistening eyes gazing fixedly high above the lintel of the door.Miriam, with her snow-white hair and sad-lined face, was fanning the airbefore him. At the other side stood Eric with the boy in his arms. Mr.Sutherland and I entered the room abreast. For a moment his wistful gazefell on the group about the bed. First he looked at Eric and the child,then at Miriam, and from Miriam to me, then back to the child. Themeaning of it all dawned, gleamed and broke in full knowledge upon him;and his face shone as one transfigured.

  "The Lord was with us," he muttered, stroking Miriam's white hair."Praise be to God! Now I can die in peace----"

  "No, you can't, Father," I cried impetuously.

  "Ye irriverent ruffian," he murmured with a flash of old mirth and agentle pressure of my hand. "Ye irriverent ruffian. Peace! Peace! I diein peace," and again the wistful eyes gazed above the door.

  "Rufus," he whispered softly, "where are they taking me?"

  "Taking you?" I asked in surprise; but Frances Sutherland's finger wason her lips, and I stopped myself before saying more.

  "Troth, yes, lad, where are they taking me? The northern tribes haveheard not a word of the love of the Lord; and I must journey to a far,far country."

  At that the boy set up some meaningless child prattle. The priest heardhim and listened.

  "Father," asked the child in the language of Indians when referring to apriest, "Father, if the good white father goes to a far, far away,who'll go to northern tribes?" "And a little child shall lead them,"murmured the priest, thinking he, himself, had been addressed andfeeling out blindly for the boy. Eric placed the child on the bed, andFather Holland's wasted hands ran through the lad's tangled curls.

  "A little child shall lead them," he whispered. "Lord, now lettest ThouThy servant depart in peace, for mine eyes have seen Thy salvation. Alight to lighten the Gentiles--and a little child shall lead them."

  Then I first noticed the filmy glaze, as of glass, spreading slowlyacross the priest's white face. Blue lines were on his temples and hislips were drawn. A cold chill struck to my heart, like icy steel. Toowell I read the signs and knew the summons; and what can love, orgratitude, do in the presence of that summons? Miriam's face was hiddenin her hands and she was weeping silently.

  "The northern tribes know not the Lord and I go to a far country; but alittle child shall lead them!" repeated the priest.

  "Indeed, Sir, he shall be dedicated to God," sobbed Miriam. "I shalltrain him to serve God among the northern tribes. Do not worry! God willraise up a servant----"

  But her words were not heeded by the priest.

  "Rufus, lad," he said, gazing afar as before, "Lift me up," and I tookhim in my arms.

  "My sight is not so good as it was," he whispered. "There's a dimnessbefore my face, lad! Can _you_ see anything up there?" he asked,staring longingly forward.

  "Faith, now, what might they all be doing with stars for diadems? Whatfor might the angels o' Heaven be doin' going up and down betwane theblue sky and the green earth? Faith, lad, 'tis daft ye are, a-changin'of me clothes! Lave the black gown, lad! 'Tis the badge of poverty andHe was poor and knew not where to lay His head of a weary night! Lavethe black gown, I say! What for wu'd a powr Irish priest be doin'a-wearin' of radiant white? Where are they takin' me, Rufus? Not toonear the light, lad! I ask but to kneel at the Master's feet an' kissthe hem of His robe!"

  There was silence in the room, but for the subdued sobbing of Miriam.Frances had caught the priest's wrists in both her hands, and had buriedher face on the white coverlet. With his back to the bed, Mr. Sutherlandstood by the window and I knew by the heaving of his angular shouldersthat flood-gates of grief had opened. There was silence; but for thehard, sharp, quick, short breathings of the priest. A crested birdhopped to the window-sill with a chirp, then darted off through thequivering air with a glint of sunlight from his flashing wings. I heardthe rustle of morning wind and felt the priest's face growing coldagainst my cheek.

  "I must work the Master's work," he whispered, in shortbroken breaths, "while it is day--for the night cometh--whenno man--can work.--Don't hold me back, lad--for I must go--to afar, far country--It's cold, cold, Rufus--the way is--rugged--my feetare slipping--slipping--give a hand--lad!--Praise to God--there's aresting-place--somewhere!--Farewell--boy--be brave--farewell--I may notcome back soon--but I must--journey--to--a----far----far----"

  There was a little gasp for breath
. His head felt forward and Francessobbed out, "He is gone! He is gone!"

  And the warmth of pulsing life in the form against my shoulder gaveplace to the rigid cold of motionless death.

  "May the Lord God of Israel receive the soul of His righteous servant,"cried Mr. Sutherland in awesome tones.

  With streaming eyes he came forward and helped me to lay the priestback.

  Then we all passed out from that chamber, made sacred by an invisiblepresence.

  * * * * *

  VALEDICTORY.

  'Twas twenty years after Father Holland's death that a keen-eyed,dark-skinned, young priest came from Montreal on his way to Athabasca.

  This was Miriam's son.

  To-day it is he, the missionary famous in the north land, who passingback and forward between his lonely mission in the Athabasca and theheadquarters of his order, comes to us and occupies the guest-chamber inour little, old-fashioned, vine-grown cottage.

  The retaking of Fort Douglas virtually closed the bitter war betweenHudson's Bay and Nor'-Westers. To both companies the conflict had provedruinous. Each was as anxious as the other for the terms of peace bywhich the great fur-trading rivals were united a few years after themassacre of Seven Oaks.

  So ended the despotic rule of gentlemen adventurers in the far north.The massacre turned the attention of Britain to this unknown land andthe daring heroism of explorers has given place to the patientnation-building of multitudes who follow the pioneer. Such is the recordof a day that is done.