CHAPTER XXIV
THE BATTLE
Bob MacNair's sled seemed scarcely to touch the hard surface of thesnow. The great _malemutes_ ran low and true over the well-definedtrail. He had selected the dogs with an eye to speed and endurance atthe time he had headed northward with Corporal Ripley after his releasefrom the Fort Saskatchewan jail.
The shouts of the following Indians died away. Familiar landmarksleaped past, and save for an occasional word of encouragement MacNairlet the dogs set their own pace. For, consumed as he was by anxietyfor what might lie at the end of the trail, he knew that the hominginstinct of the wolf-dogs would carry them more miles and in betterheart than the sting of his long gut-lash.
At daylight the man halted for a half-hour, fed his dogs, and boiledtea, which he drank in great gulps, hot and black, from the rim of thepot. At noon one of the dogs showed signs of distress, and MacNair cuthim loose, leaving him to follow as best as he could. When darknessfell only three dogs remained in harness, and these showed plainly theeffects of the long trail-strain. While behind, somewhere upon thewide stretch of the Yellow Knife, the other four limped painfully inthe wake of their stronger team-mates.
An hour passed, during which the pace slackened perceptibly, and thenwith only ten miles to go, two more dogs laid down. Pausing only tocut them free from the harness, MacNair continued the trail on foot.The hard-packed surface of the snow made the rackets unnecessary, andthe man struck into a long, swinging trot--the stride of an Indianrunner.
Mile after mile slipped by as the huge muscles of him, tireless asbands of steel, flexed and sprung with the regularity of clockworks.The rising moon was just topping the eastern pines as he dashed up thesteep bank of the clearing. For a moment he halted as his glance sweptthe familiar outlines of the log buildings, standing black andclean-cut and sombre in the light of the rising moon.
MacNair drew a deep breath, and the next moment the long wolf-cryboomed out over the silent snow. As if by magic, the clearing spranginto life. Lights shone from the barrack windows and from the windowsof the cabins beyond; doors banged. The white snow of the clearing wasdotted with swift-moving forms as men, women, and children answered theclan-call of MacNair, shouting to one another as they ran, in hoarse,deep gutturals.
In an instant MacNair singled out Old Elk from among the crowding forms.
"What's happened here?" he cried. "Where is the white _kloochman_?"
Old Elk had taken charge of the thirty Indians MacNair had despatchedfor provisions, and immediately upon learning from the lips of theIndian women of Chloe's disappearance he had left the loading of thesleds to the others while he worked out the signs in the snow. Thus atMacNair's question the old Indian motioned him to follow, and, startingat the door of the cottage, he traced Chloe's trail to the banskian,and there in a few words and much silent pantomime he explained withoutdoubt or hesitation exactly what had taken place from the moment ofChloe's departure from the cottage until she was carried, bound andgagged and placed upon Lapierre's waiting sled.
As MacNair followed the old Indian's story his fists clenched, his eyeshardened to points, and the breath whistled through his nostrils inwhite plumes of frost-steam.
Old Elk finished and, pointing eloquently in the direction of Lac duMort, asked eagerly:
"You follow de trail of Lapierre?"
MacNair nodded, and before he could reply the Indian stepped close tohis side and placed a withered hand upon his arm.
"Me, I'm lak' y'u fadder," he said; "y'u lak' my own son. Y'u followde trail of Lapierre. Y'u tak' de white _kloochman_ away fromLapierre, an' den, by gar, when y'u got her y'u ke'p her. Dat_kloochman_, him damn fine 'oman!"
Realizing his worst fears were verified, MacNair immediately set aboutpreparations for the attack on Lapierre's stronghold. All night hesuperintended the breaking out of supplies in the storehouse and theloading of sleds for the trail, and at the first streak of dawn thevanguard of Indians who had followed him from Snare Lake swarmed up thebank from the river.
MacNair selected the freshest and strongest of these, and with thethirty who were already at the school, struck into the timber withsleds loaded light for a quick dash, leaving the heavier impedimenta tofollow in care of the women and those who were yet to arrive from SnareLake.
The fact that MacNair had made use of the wolf-cry to call themtogether, his set face, and terse, quick commands told the Indians thatthis was no ordinary expedition, and the eyes of the men glowed withanticipation. The long-promised--the inevitable battle was at hand.The time had come for ridding the North of Lapierre. And the fightwould be a fight to the death.
It took three days for MacNair's flying squadron to reach the fort atLac du Mort. By the many columns of smoke that arose from the surfaceof the little plateau, he knew that the men of Lapierre waited theattack in force. MacNair led his Indians across the lake and into theblack spruce swamp. A half-dozen scouts were sent out to surround theplateau, with orders to report immediately anything of importance.
Old Elk was detailed to follow the trail of Lapierre's sled to the verywalls of the stockade. For well MacNair knew that the craftyquarter-breed was quite capable of side-stepping the obvious andcarrying the girl to some rendezvous unknown to any one but himself.The remaining Indians he set to work felling trees for a small stockadewhich would serve as a defence against a surprise attack. Saplingswere also felled for light ladders to be used in the scaling ofLapierre's walls.
Evening saw the completion of a substantial five-foot barricade, andsoon after dark Old Elk appeared with the information that both Chloeand Big Lena, as well as Lapierre himself, were within the confines ofthe Bastile du Mort. The man also proudly displayed a bleeding scalpwhich he had ripped from the head of one of Lapierre's scouts who hadblundered upon the old man as he lay concealed behind a snow-coveredlog. The sight of the grewsome trophy with its long black hair andblood-dripping flesh excited the Indians to a fever pitch. The scalpwas placed upon a pole driven into the snow in the centre of the littlestockade. And for hours the Indians danced about it, rendering thenight hideous with the wild chants and wails of their weirdincantations.
As the night advanced and the incantations increased in violence,MacNair arose from the robe he had spread beside his camp-fire, anddrawing away from the wild savagery of the scene, stole alone out intothe dense blackness of the swamp and detouring to the shore of thelake, seated himself upon an uprooted tree-butt.
An hour passed as he sat thinking--staring into the dark. The moonrose and illumined with soft radiance the indomitable land of the raw.MacNair's gaze roved from the forbidding blackness of the farthershore-line, across the dead, cold snow-level of the ice-locked lake, tothe bold headlands that rose sheer upon his right and upon his left.The scene was one of unbending _hardness_--of nature's frowningdefiance of man. The soft touch of the moonlight jarred upon his mood.Death lurked in the shadows--and death, and worse than death, awaitedthe dawning of the day. It was a _hard_ land--the North--having naughtto do with beauty and the soft brilliance of moonlight. He glancedtoward the jutting rock-ribbed plateau that was Lapierre's stronghold.Out of the night--out of the intense blackness of the spruce-guardeddark came the wailing howl of the savage scalp-dance.
"The real spirit of the North," he murmured bitterly. He arose to hisfeet, and, with his eyes fixed upon the bold headland of the littleplateau, stretched his great arms toward the spot that concealed thewoman he loved--and then he turned and passed swiftly into theblackness of the forest.
But despite the frenzy of the blood-lust, at no time were the Indiansout of MacNair's control, and when he ordered quiet, the incantationsceased at the word and they sought their blankets to dream eagerly ofthe morrow.
Morning came, and long before sunrise a thin line of men, women, andheavily laden dog-sleds put out from the farther shore of the lake andheaded for the black spruce swamp. The clan of MacNair was gatheringto the call of the wolf.
The newcomers wer
e conducted to the log stockade where the women wereleft to store the provisions, while MacNair called a council of hisfighting men and laid out his plan of attack. He glanced with prideinto the eager faces of the men who would die for him. He countedeighty-seven men under arms, thirty of whom were armed with Lapierre'sMausers.
The position of the quarter-breed's fort admitted only one plan ofattack--to rush the barricade that stretched across the neck of thelittle peninsula. MacNair longed for action. He chafed withimpatience to strike the blow that would crush forever the power ofLapierre, yet he found himself wholly at the mercy of Lapierre. Forsomewhere behind that barrier of logs was the woman he loved. Heshuddered at the thought. He knew Lapierre. Knew that the man's whiteblood and his education, instead of civilizing, had served to heightenand to refine the barbaric cruelty and savagery of his heart. He knewthat Lapierre would stop at nothing to gain an end. His heart chilledat the possibilities. He dreaded to act--yet he knew that he must act.
He dismissed the idea of a siege. A quick, fierce assault--an attackthat should have no lull, nor armistice until his Indians had scaledthe stockade, was preferable to the heart-breaking delay of a siege.MacNair decided to launch his attack with so fierce an onslaught thatLapierre would have no time to think of the girl. But if worse came toworst, and he did think of her, what he would do he would be forced todo quickly.
Grimly, MacNair led his warriors to the attack, and as the lean-facedhorde moved silently through the timbered aisles of the swamp, thesound of scattering shots was borne to their ears as the scoutsexchanged bullets with Lapierre's sentries.
A cleared space, thirty yards in width, separated the forest from thebarricade, and with this clearing in sight, in the shelter of thesnow-laden spruces, MacNair called a halt, and in a brief address gavehis Indians their final instructions. In their own tongue he addressedthem, falling naturally into the oratorical swing of the council fire.
"The time has come, my people, as I have told you it must sometimecome, for the final reckoning with Lapierre. Not because the man hassought my life, am I fighting him. I would not call upon you to riskyour lives to protect mine; not to avenge the burning of my storehouse,nor yet, because he dug my gold. I am fighting him because he hasstruck at your homes, and the homes of your wives and your children.You are my people, and your interests are my interests.
"I have not preached to you, as do the good fathers at the Mission, ofa life in a world to come. Of that I know nothing. It is thislife--the daily life we are living now, with which I have to do. Ihave taught you to work with your hands, because he who works is betterclothed, and better fed, and better housed than he who does not work.I have commanded you not to drink the white man's fire-water, notbecause it is wrong to be drunken. A man's life is his own. He may dowith it as he pleases. But a man who is drunk is neither well norhappy. He will not work. He sees his women and his children sufferingand in want, and he does not care. He beats them and drives them intothe cold. He is no longer a man, but a brute, meaner and more to bedespised than the wolf--for a wolf feeds his young. Therefore, I havecommanded you to drink no fire-water.
"I have not made you learn from books; for books are things of thewhite men. In books men have written many things; but in no book isanything written that will put warmer clothes upon your backs, or moremeat in your _caches_. The white _kloochman_ came among you withbooks. Her heart is good and she is a friend of the Indians, but allher life has she lived in the land of the white men. And from books,the white men learn to gather their meat and their clothing.Therefore, she thought that the Indians also should learn from books.
"But the white _kloochman_ has learned now the needs of the North. Atfirst I feared she would not learn that it is the work of the handsthat counts. When I knew she had learned I sent you to her, for thereare many things she can teach you, and especially your women andchildren, of which I know nothing.
"The white _kloochman_, your good friend, has fallen into the hands ofLapierre. We are men, and we must take her from Lapierre. And now thetime has come to fight! You are fighting men and the children offighting men! When this fight is over there will be peace in theNorthland! It will be the last fight for many of us--for many of usmust die! Lapierre's men are well armed. They will fight hard, forthey know it is their last stand. Kill them as long as they continueto fight, but _do not kill Lapierre_!"
His eyes flashed dangerously as he paused to glance into the faces ofhis fighters.
"No man shall kill Lapierre!" he repeated. "He is _mine_! With my ownhands will I settle the score; and now listen well to the final word:
"Drag the ladders to the edge of the clearing, scatter along the wholefront in the shelter of the trees, and at the call of the hoot-owl youshall commence firing. Shoot whenever one of Lapierre's men showshimself. But remain well concealed, for the men of Lapierre will beentrenched behind the loop-holes. At the call of the loon you shallcease firing."
MacNair rapidly tolled out twenty who were to man the ladders.
"At the call of the wolf, rush to the stockade with the ladders, andthose who have guns shall follow. Then up the ladders and over thewalls! After that, fight, every man for himself, but mind you well,that you take Lapierre alive, for Lapierre is mine!"
The laddermen stationed themselves at the edge of the timber, and themen who carried guns scattered along the whole width of the clearing.Then from the depths of the forest suddenly boomed the cry of thehoot-owl. Heads appeared over the edge of Lapierre's stockade, andfrom the shelter of the black spruce swamp came the crash of rifles.The heads disappeared, and of Lapierre's men many tumbled backward intothe snow, while others crouched upon the firing ledge which Lapierrehad constructed near the top of his log stockade and answered thevolley, shooting at random into the timber. But only as a man's headappeared, or as his body showed between the spaces of the logs, weretheir shots returned. MacNair's Indians were biding their time.
For an hour this ineffectual and abortive sniping kept up, and thenfrom the walls of the stockade appeared that for which MacNair had beenwaiting--a white flag fluttering from the end of a sapling. Raisinghis head, MacNair imitated the call of the loon, and the firing ceasedin the timber. Having no white rag, MacNair waved a spruce bough andstepped boldly out into the clearing.
The head and shoulders of Lapierre appeared above the wall of thebarricade, and for several moments the two faced each other in silence.MacNair grim, determined, scowling--Lapierre defiant, crafty, with histhin lips twisted into a mocking smile. The quarter-breed was thefirst to speak.
"So," he drawled, "my good friend has come to visit his neighbour!Come right in, I assure you a hearty welcome, but you must come alone!Your retainers are too numerous and entirely too _bourgeois_ to eat ata gentleman's table."
"But not to drink from his bottle," retorted MacNair. "I am comingin--but not alone!"
Lapierre laughed derisively. "O-ho, you would come by force--by forceof arms, eh! Well, come along, but I warn you, you do so at yourperil. My men are all armed, and the walls are thick and high.Rather, I choose to think you will listen to reason."
"Reason!" roared MacNair. "I will reason with you when we come tohands' grips!"
Lapierre shrugged. "As you please," he answered: "I was only thinkingof your own welfare, and, perhaps, of the welfare of another, who willto a certainty fare badly in case your savages attack us. I myself amnot of brutal nature, but among my men are some who--" He paused andglanced significantly into MacNair's eyes. Again he shrugged--"We willnot dwell upon the possibilities, but here is the lady, let her speakfor herself. She has begged for the chance to say a word in her ownbehalf. I will only add that you will find me amenable to reason. Itis possible that our little differences may be settled in a mannersatisfactory to all, and without bloodshed."
The man stepped aside upon the firing ledge, evidently in order to letsomeone pass up the ladder. The next instant the face of ChloeElliston appeared above
the logs of the stockade. At the sight of thegirl MacNair felt the blood surge through his veins. He took a quickstep toward and at a glance noted the unwonted pallor of her cheeks,the flashing eyes, and the curve of the out-thrust chin.
Then clear and firm her voice sounded in his ears. He strained forwardto catch the words, and at that moment he knew in his heart that thiswoman meant more to him than life itself--more than revenge--more eventhan the welfare of his Indians.
"You received my letter?" asked the girl eagerly. "Can you forgive me?Do you understand?"
MacNair answered, controlling his voice with difficulty. "There isnothing to forgive. I have understood you all along."
"You will promise to grant one request--for my sake?"
Without hesitation came the man's answer; "Anything you ask."
"On your soul, will you promise, and will you keep that promiseregardless of consequences?"
"I promise," answered the man, and his voice rang harsh. For revengeupon Lapierre with his own hands had been the dearest hope of his life.At the next words of the girl, an icy hand seemed clutching at hisheart.
"Then fight!" she cried. "Fight! Fight! Fight! Shoot! And cut!And batter! And kill! Until you have ridded the North of this fiend!"
With a snarl, Lapierre leaped toward the girl with arm upraised. Therewas a chorus of hoarse cries from behind the walls. Before theuplifted arm could descend the figure of Lapierre disappeared withstartling suddenness. The next instant the gigantic form of Big Lenaappeared, head and shoulders above the walls of the stockade at thepoint where Lapierre had been. The huge shoulders stooped, the form ofChloe Elliston arose as on air, shot over the wall, and dropped into acrumpled heap upon the snow at its base. The face of Big Lena framedby flying strands of flaxen hair appeared for a moment above the wall,and then the sound of a shot rang sharp and clear. The facedisappeared, and from beyond the wall came the muffled thud of a heavybody striking the snow.
A dark head appeared above the walls at the point near where the girlhad fallen, and an arm was thrust over the logs. MacNair caught theglint of a blue-black barrel. Like a flash he drew his automatic andfired. The revolver dropped from the top of the wall to the snow, andthe hand that held it gripped frantically at the logs and disappeared.
MacNair threw back his head, and loud and clear on the frosty airblared the call of the wolf. The whole line of the forest spit flame.The crash and roar of a hundred guns was in the air as the men frombehind the barricade replied. Lithe forms carrying ladders dashedacross the open space. Many pitched forward before the wall and laydoubled grotesquely upon the white strip of snow, while eager handscarried the ladders on.
Suddenly, above the crash of the guns sounded the war-cry of the YellowKnives. The whole clearing sprang alive with men, yelling like fiendsand firing as they ran. Dark forms swarmed up the ladders and over thewalls. MacNair grabbed the rungs of a ladder and drew himself up.Above him climbed the Indian who had carried the ladder. He had nogun, but the grey blade of a long knife flashed wickedly between histeeth.
The Indian crashed backward, carrying MacNair with him into the snow.MacNair struggled to his feet. The Indian lay almost at the foot ofthe ladder, and, gurgling horribly, rose to his knees. MacNair glancedinto his face. The man's eyes were rolled backward until only thewhites showed. His lips moved, and he clung to the rungs of theladder. Blood splashed down his front and reddened the trampled snow,then he fell heavily backward, and MacNair saw that his whole throathad been shot away by the close fired charge of a shotgun.
With a roar, MacNair scrambled up the ladder, automatic in hand. Onthe firing ledge's narrow rim a riverman snapped together the breech ofhis shotgun, and looked up--his face close to the face of MacNair. Andas he looked his jaw sagged in terror. MacNair jammed the barrel ofthe automatic into the open mouth and fired.
CHAPTER XXV
THE GUN-BRAND
Chloe Elliston lay in the snow, partially stunned by her fall from thetop of the stockade. She was not unconscious--her hearing and visionwere unimpaired, but her numbed brain did not grasp the significance ofthe sights and sounds which her senses recorded. She wondered vaguelyhow it happened she was lying there in the snow when she distinctlyremembered that she was standing upon the narrow firing ledge urgingMacNair to fight. There was MacNair now! She could see himdistinctly. Even as she looked the man drew his pistol and fired.Something struck the snow almost within reach of her hand. It was arevolver. Chloe glanced upward, but saw only the log wall of thestockade which seemed to tower upward until it touched the sky.
A blood-curdling cry rang out upon the air--a sound she had heard ofnights echoing among rock-rimmed ridges--the pack-cry of thewolf-breed. She shuddered at the nearness of the sound and turned,expecting to encounter the red throat and slavering jaws of thefang-bared leader of the pack, and instead she saw only MacNair.
Then along the wall of the forest came thin grey puffs of smoke, andher ears rang with the crash of the rifle-volley. She heard the wickedspit and thud of the bullets as they ripped at the logs above her, andtiny slivers of bark made black spots upon the snow. A piece fell uponher face, she brushed it away with her hand. The sounds of the shotsincreased ten fold. Answering spurts of grey smoke jutted from thewalls above her. The loop-holes bristled with rifle-barrels!
In her nostrils was the rank smell of powder-smoke, and across theclearing, straight toward her, dashed many men with ladders. A manfell almost at her side, his ladder, tilting against the wall, slippedsidewise into the snow, crashing against one of the protrudingrifle-barrels as it fell. Two other men came, and uprighting theladder, climbed swiftly up the wall. Chloe saw that they wereMacNair's Indians.
The scene changed with lightning rapidity. Men with rifles were in theclearing, now running and shooting, and falling down to remainmotionless in the snow. Above the uproar of the guns a new soundrolled and swelled. An eery, blood-curdling sound that chilled theheart and caused the roots of her hair to prickle along the base of herskull. It was the war-cry of the Yellow Knives as they fired, and ran,and clambered up the ladders,
The sights and sounds were clean-cut, distinct, intenselythrilling--but impersonal, like the shifting scenes of a photo-play.She glanced about for MacNair. Her eyes travelled swiftly from face toswarthy face of the men who charged out of the timber. She directedher glance toward the wall, and there, not twenty feet away, she sawhim reach for the rungs of the ladder. And the next moment two formscrashed backward into the snow. For an instant the girl closed hereyes, and in that instant her brain awoke with a start. About her thesounds leaped into terrible significance. She realized that she wasoutside the walls of the stockade. That the sights and sounds abouther were intensely real.
The forces of MacNair and Lapierre had locked horns in the finalstruggle, and her fate, and the fate of the whole North, hung in thebalance. All about her were the hideous sounds of battle. She wassurprised that she was unafraid; instead, the blood seemed coursingthrough her veins with the heat of flame. Her heart seemed burstingwith a wild, fierce joy. Something of which she had always been dimlyconscious--some latent thing which she had always held in check--seemedsuddenly to burst within her. A flood of fancies crowded her brain.The wicked crack of the rifles became the roar of cannon. Tall masts,to which clung shot-torn shrouds, reared high above a fog ofpowder-smoke, and beyond waved the tops of palm-trees. The spirit ofTiger Elliston had burst its bounds!
With a cry like the scream of a beast, the girl leaped to her feet.She tore the heavy mittens from her hands, and reached for the revolverwhich lay in the snow at her side. She leaped toward MacNair who hadregained his feet, red with the life-blood of the Indian who lay uponhis back in the snow, staring upward wide-eyed, unseeing, throatless.She called loudly, but her voice was lost in the mighty uproar, andMacNair sprang up the ladder.
Like a flash Chloe followed, holding her heavy revolver as he had heldhis. She glanced upward; MacNair had disap
peared over the edge of thestockade. The next instant she, too, had reached the top. She paused,looking downward. MacNair was scrambling to his feet. Ten feet away aman levelled a gun at him. He fired from his knee, and the man pitchedforward. Upon him, from behind, rushed two men swinging their rifleshigh. They had almost reached him when Chloe fired straight down. Thenearest man dropped his rifle and staggered against the wall. Theother paused and glanced upward. Chloe shot squarely into his face.The bullet ripped downward, splitting his jaw. The man rushedscreaming over the snow, tearing with both hands at the wound.
MacNair was upon his feet now. Beyond him the fighting was hand tohand. With clubbed guns and axes, Lapierre's men were meeting theIndians who swarmed over the walls. Once more the wild wolf-cry rangin the girl's ears as MacNair leaped into the thick of the fight. Thegirl became conscious that someone was pounding at her feet. Sheglanced downward. Two Indians were upon the ladder waiting to get overthe wall. Without hesitation she tightened her grip upon her revolverand leaped into the stockade. She sprawled awkwardly in the snow. Shefelt her shoulder seized viciously. Someone was jerking her to herfeet. She looked up and encountered the gleaming eyes of Lapierre.
Chloe tried to raise her revolver, but Lapierre kicked it from herhand. There was the sound of a heavy impact. Lapierre's hand wasjerked from her shoulder; he was hurled backward, cursing, into thesnow. One of the Indians who had followed Chloe up the ladder hadleaped squarely upon the quarter-breed's shoulders. Like a flashLapierre drew his automatic, but the Indian threw himself upon the gunand tore it from his grasp. Then he scrambled to his feet. Lapierre,too, was upon his feet in an instant.
"Shoot, you fool! Kill him! Kill him!" cried Chloe.
But the Indian continued to stare stupidly, and Lapierre dashed tosafety around the corner of his storehouse.
"MacNair say no kill," said the Indian gravely.
"Not kill!" cried the girl. "He is crazy! What is he thinking of?"But the Indian was already out of ear-shot. Chloe glanced about herfor her revolver. An evil-faced half-breed, dragging his body from thehips, pulled himself toward it, hunching along with his bare handsdigging into the crust of the snow. The girl reached it a secondbefore him. The man cursed her shrilly and sank into the snow, cryingaloud like a child.
Suddenly Chloe realized that the battle had surged beyond her. Shotsand hoarse cries arose from the scrub beyond the storehouse, while allabout her, in the trampled snow, wounded men cursed and prayed, anddead men froze in the slush of their own heart's blood. The girlfollowed into the scrub, and to her surprise came face to face with theLouchoux girl, who was carrying armfuls of dry brushwood, which shepiled against the corner of the storehouse.
Chloe glanced into the black eyes that glowed like living coals. TheIndian girl added her armful to the pile and, drawing matches from herpocket, dropped to her knees in the snow. She pointed toward the logstorehouse.
"Lapierre ran inside," she said.
With a wild laugh Chloe passed on. The scrub thinned toward the pointof the peninsula, where the rim-rocks rose sheer two hundred feet abovethe level of the lake. Chloe caught sight of MacNair's Indians leapingbefore her, and, beyond, the crowding knot of men who gave groundbefore the rush of the Yellow Knives. One by one the men dropped,writhing, into the snow. The others gave ground rapidly, shooting attheir advancing enemies, cursing, crowding--but always giving ground.
At last they were upon the rim-rocks, huddled together like cattle.Chloe could see them outlined distinctly against the sky. They firedone last scattering volley, and then the ranks thinned suddenly; manywere leaping over the edge, while others, throwing down their rifles,advanced with arms raised high above their heads. Some Indians fired,and two of these pitched forward. Then MacNair bellowed a hoarseorder, and the firing ceased, and the Indians bound the prisoners withthongs of _babiche_.
The girl found herself close to the edge of the high plateau. Sheleaned far over and peered downward. Upon the white snow of the rocks,close to the foot of the cliff, lay several dark forms. She drew backand turned to MacNair, but he had gone. A puff of smoke arose into theair above the tops of the scrub-trees, and Chloe knew that thestorehouse was burning. The smoke increased in volume and rolledheavily skyward upon the light breeze. She could hear the crackle offlames, and the smell of burning spruce was in the air.
She pushed forward into the cordon of Indians which surrounded theburning building, glancing hurriedly from face to face, searching forMacNair. Upon the edge of the little clearing which surrounded thestorehouse she saw the Louchoux girl bending over a form that laystretched in the snow. Swiftly she made her way to the girl's side.She was bending over the inert form of Big Lena. The big woman openedher eyes, and with a cry Chloe dropped to her knees by her side.
"Ay ain't hurt much," Lena muttered weakly. "Vun faller shoot me on dehead, but de bullet yump off sidevays. Ju bet MacNair, he gif demhaal!"
At the mention of MacNair's name Chloe sprang to her feet and continuedalong the cordon.
One end of the storehouse and half the roof was ablaze, while thick,heavy smoke curled from beneath the full length of the eaves andthrough the chinkings of the logs. Chloe had almost completed thecircle when suddenly she came to a halt, for there, pressed tightagainst the logs close beside the jamb of the closed door, stoodMacNair. All about her the Indians stood in tense expectancy. Theireyes gleamed bright, and the breath hissed between parted lips--short,quick breaths of excitement. The flames had not yet reached the frontof the storehouse, but tiny puffs of smoke found their way out abovethe door. As she looked the form of MacNair stiffened, and Chloegasped as she saw that the man was unarmed.
Suddenly the door flew open, and Lapierre, clutching an automatic ineither hand, leaped swiftly into the open. The next instant his armswere pinioned to his sides. A loud cry went up from the watchingIndians, and from all quarters came the sound of rushing feet as thosewho had guarded the windows crowded about.
Lapierre was no weakling. He strained and writhed to free himself fromthe encircling arms. But the arms were bands of steel, clampingtighter and tighter about him. Slowly MacNair worked his hand downwardto the other's wrist. There was a lightning-like jerk, and theautomatic new into the air and dropped harmless into the snow. Thesame instant MacNair's grasp tightened about the other wrist. Hereleased Lapierre's disarmed hand and, reaching swiftly, tore the othergun from the man's fingers.
Lapierre swung at his face, but MacNair leaned suddenly backward andoutward, still grasping the wrist, Lapierre's body described a shorthalf-circle, and he brought up with a thud against a nearby pile ofstove-wood. Releasing his grip, MacNair crowded him close and closeragainst the wood-pile which rose waist high out of the snow. SlowlyLapierre bent backward, forced by the heavier body of MacNair. MacNairreleased his grip on the other's wrist, but his right hand still heldLapierre's gun. A huge forearm slid up the quarter-breed's chest andcame to rest under the chin, while the man beat frantically with histwo fists against MacNair's shoulders and ribs.
He stared wildly into MacNair's eyes--eyes that glowed with a greenishhate-glare like the night-eyes of the wolf. Backward and yet backwardthe man bent until it seemed that his spine must snap. His clenchedfists ceased to beat futilely against the huge shoulders of hisopponent, and he clawed frantically at the snow that hung in aminiature cornice along the edge of the wood-pile.
Chloe crowded close, shoving the Indians aside. There was a swiftmovement near her. The Louchoux girl forced past and leaped lightly tothe top of the wood-pile, where she knelt close, staring downward withhard, burning eyes into the up-turned face of Lapierre.
The man could bend no farther now, his shoulders were imbedded in thesnow and the back of his head was buried to the ears. His chest heavedspasmodically as he gasped for air, and the thin breath whined throughhis teeth. His lips turned greyish-blue and swelled thick, like stripsof blistered rubber, and his eyes rolled upward until they looked lik
ethe sightless eyes of the blind. The blue-grey lips writhedspasmodically. He tried to cry out, but the sound died in a horriblethroaty gurgle.
Slowly, MacNair raised his gun--Lapierre's own gun that he hadwrenched, bare-handed from his grasp. Raised it until the muzzlereached the level of Lapierre's eyes. Chloe had stared wide-eyedthroughout the whole proceeding. Gazing in fascination at the slowdeliberateness of the terrible ordeal.
As the muzzle of the gun came to rest between Lapierre's eyes the girlsprang to MacNair's side. "Don't! Oh, don't kill him!" Her voicerose almost to a shriek. "Don't kill him--for my sake!"
The muzzle of the gun lowered and without releasing an ounce ofpressure upon the grip-locked body of the man, MacNair slowly turnedhis eyes to meet the eyes of the girl. Never in her life had shelooked into eyes like that--eyes that gleamed and stabbed, and burnedwith a terrible pent-up emotion. The eyes of Tiger Elliston,intensified a hundredfold! And then MacNair's lips moved and his voicecame low but distinctly and with terrible hardness.
"I am not going to kill him," he said, "but, by God! He will wish Ihad! I hope he will live to be an old, old man. To the day of hisdeath he will carry my mark. Bone-deep he will carry the scar of thegun-brand! The cross of the curse of Cain!"
MacNair turned from the girl and again the gun crept slowly upward.The quarter-breed had heard the words. With a mighty effort he filledhis lungs and from between the blue-grey lips sang a wild, shrillscream of abysmal soul-terror. Chloe Elliston's heart went sick at thecry, which rang in her ears as the very epitome of mortal agony. Shefelt her knees grow weak and she glanced at the Louchoux girl, whoknelt close, still staring into the upturned face, the while her redlips smiled.
Closer, and closer crowded the Indians. MacNair deliberately reversedthe gun, his huge fist still gripping the butt. The top of the barrelwas turned downward, and the sight bit deep into the skin at the rootsof the hair on Lapierre's temple. Deeper and deeper sank the sight.MacNair's fingers tightened their grip until the knuckles whitened anda huge shoulder hunched to throw its weight upon the arm.
Slowly, very slowly, the sight moved across the upturned brow, tearingthe flesh, rolling up the skin before its dull, broad edge. Thequarter-breed's muscles strained and his legs twined spasmodicallyabout the legs of MacNair, while his fingers tore through the snow andclawed at the bark of the wood-pile. Deliberately, the gun-sightripped and tore across the forehead--grooving the bone. The wide scarshowed raw and red, and in spots the skull flashed white. The broadline lost itself in the hair upon the opposite temple.
Again MacNair buried the sight, this time among the hair roots of themedian line. Once more the gun began its slow journey, travellingdownward, crossing the lateral scar with a ragged tear. Once more theflesh and skin ripped and rolled before the unfaltering sight andgathered upon the edges of the wound in ragged, tight-rolled knots andshreds that would later heal into snaggy, rough excrescences, grey,like the unclean dregs of a slag-pot.
A thin trickle of blood followed slowly along the groove. Thegun-sight was almost between the man's eyes, when, with a scream, Chloesprang forward and clutched MacNair's arm in both her hands.
"You brute!" she cried. "You inhuman brute! _I hate you_!"
MacNair answered never a word. With a sweep of his arm he flung herfrom him. She spun dizzily and fell in a heap on the snow. Once morethe gun-sight rested deep against the bone at the point of itsinterruption. Once more it began its inexorable advance, creeping downbetween the eyes and along the bridge of the nose. Cartilage splitwide, the upper lip was cleft, and the steel clicked sharply againstblood-dripping teeth.
Then MacNair stood erect and gazed with approval upon his handiwork.His glance swept the lake, and suddenly his shoulders stiffened as hescrutinized several moving figures that approached across the levelsurface of the snow. Striding swiftly to the edge of the plateau, heshaded his eyes with his hand and gazed long and earnestly toward theapproaching figures. Then he returned to Lapierre. The man had stoodthe terrible ordeal without losing consciousness. Reaching down,MacNair seized him by the collar, and jerking him to his feet, halfdragged him to the rim of the plateau.
"Look!" he cried savagely. "Yonder, comes LeFroy--and with him are themen of the Mounted."
Lapierre stared dumbly. His thin hand twitched nervously, and hisfists clasped and unclasped as the palms grew wet with sweat.
MacNair gripped his shoulder and twisted him about his tracks. Slowseconds passed as the two men stood facing each other there in thesnow, and then, slowly, MacNair raised his hand and pointed toward theforest--toward the depths of the black spruce swamp.
"Go!" he roared. "Damn you! Go hunt your kind! I did not brand youto delight the eyes of prison guards. Go, mingle with free men, thatthey may see--and be warned!"
With one last glance toward the approaching figures, Pierre Lapierreglided swiftly to the foot of the stockade, mounted the firing ledge,and swung himself over the wall.
Bob MacNair watched the form of the quarter-breed disappear from sightand then, tossing the gun into the snow, turned to Chloe Elliston.Straight toward the girl he advanced with long, swinging strides.There was no hesitancy, no indecision in the free swing of theshoulders, nor did his steps once falter, nor the eyes that bored deepinto hers waver for a single instant. And as the girl faced him asudden sense of helplessness overwhelmed her.
On he came--this big man of the North; this man who trampled rough-shodthe conventions, even the laws of men. The man who could fight, andkill, and maim, in defence of his principles. Whose hand was heavyupon the evil-doer. A man whose finer sensibilities, despite theirrough environment, could rise to a complete mastery of him. Inherentlya fighting man. A man whose great starved heart had never known awoman's love.
Instinctively, she drew back from him and closed her eyes. And thenshe knew that he was standing still before her--very close--for shecould hear distinctly the sound of his breathing. Without seeing sheknew that he was looking into her face with those piercing, boring,steel-grey eyes. She waited for what seemed ages for him to speak, buthe stood before her--silent.
"He is rough and uncouth and brutal. He hurled you spinning into thesnow," whispered an inner voice.
"Yes, strong and brutal and good!" answered her heart.
Chloe opened her eyes. MacNair stood before her in all his bigness.She gazed at him wide-eyed. He was fumbling his Stetson in his hand,and she noticed the long hair was pushed back from his broad brow. Theblood rushed into the girl's face. Her fists clenched tight, and shetook a swift step forward.
"Bob MacNair! _Put on your hat_!"
A puzzled look crept into the man's eyes, his face flushed like theface of a schoolboy who had been caught in a foolish prank, and hereturned the hat awkwardly to his head.
"I thought--that is--you wrote in the letter, here--" he paused as hisfingers groped at the pocket of his shirt.
Chloe interrupted him. "If any man ever takes his Stetson off to meagain I'll--I'll _hate_ him!"
Bob MacNair stared down upon the belligerent figure before him. Henoticed the clenched fists, the defiant tilt of the shoulders, theunconscious out-thrust of the chin--and then his eyes met squarely theflashing eyes of the girl.
For a long, long time he gazed into the depths of the upturned eyes,and then, either the significance of her words dawned suddenly uponhim, or he read in that long glance the wondrous message of her love.With a low, glad cry he sprang to her and gathered her into his great,strong arms and pressed her lithe, pliant body close against hispounding heart, while through his veins swept the wild, fierce joy of amighty passion. Bob MacNair had come into his own!
There was a lively commotion among the Indians, and MacNair raised hishead to meet the gaze of LeFroy and Constable Craig and two others ofthe men of the Mounted.
"Where is Lapierre?" asked the constable.
Chloe struggled in confusion to release herself from the encirclingarms, but the arms close
d the tighter, and with a final sigh ofsurrender the girl ceased her puny struggles.
Constable Craig's lips twitched in a suppressed smile. "Ripley wasright," he muttered to himself as he awaited MacNair's reply. "Theyhave found each other at last."
And then the answer came. MacNair stared straight into the officer'seyes, and his words rang with a terrible meaning.
"Lapierre," he said, "has gone away from here. If you see him againyou shall never forget him." His eyes returned to the girl, close-heldagainst his heart. Her two arms stole upward until the slender handsclosed about his neck. Her lips moved, and he bent to catch the words.
"I love you," she faltered, and glancing shyly, almost timidly into hisface, encountered there the look she had come to know so well--thesuspicion of a smile upon the lips and just the shadow of a twinkleplaying in the deep-set eyes. She repeated, softly, the words thatrang through her brain: "I love you--_Brute MacNair_!"
THE END.
The Gun-Brand Page 23
