CHAPTER V
MARCEL BRAND
For a moment astonishment robbed Steve of speech. Julyman was, perhaps,less affected. He stood beside his boss grinning down at the apparitiontill his eyes were almost entirely hidden by their closing lids, and hiscopper skin was wrinkled into a maze of creases.
Steve's ultimate effort was a responsive, "Hello!"
It seemed to meet with the child's approval, for he came trustfullytowards the strangers.
"Mummy's sick," he informed them, gazing smilingly up into the whiteman's face. "The Injuns is all asleep. Pop's all gone away. So's UncleCy. Gone long time. There's An-ina and me. That's all. I likesAn-ina--only hers always wash me."
The whole story of the post was told. The direct childish mind had takenthe short cut which maturity would probably have missed.
Steve had recovered himself, and he smiled down into the pretty, eager,up-turned face.
"What's your name, little man?" he asked kindly.
"Marcel," the boy returned, without the least shyness.
Steve stooped down into a squatting position, and held out his handsinvitingly. There could be no mistaking his attitude. There could be nomistaking the appeal this lonely little creature made to his generousmanhood.
"That all? Any other?"
The boy came confidently within reach of the outstretched arms, and, asthe man's mitted hands closed about him, he held up his face for theexpected caress. Steve bent his head and kissed the ready lips.
"'Es, Brand. Marcel Brand," the boy said in that slightly haltingfashion of pronouncing unaccustomed words.
Steve looked up with a start. His eyes encountered the still grinningface of the scout.
"Do you hear that?" he demanded. "Marcel Brand. It's--it's the placewe're chasing for. Gee! it's well nigh a miracle!"
Quite suddenly he released the child and stood up. Then he picked thelittle fellow up in his strong arms.
"Come on, old fellow," he said quickly. "We'll go right along up and seeyour Mummy."
And forthwith he started for the frowning stockade under its mantle ofsnow.
Once in Steve's arms the child allowed an arm to encircle the stranger'sneck. It was an action of complete abandonment to the new friendship,and it thrilled the man. It carried him back over a thousand miles ofterritory and weary toil to a memory of other infant arms and otherinfant caresses.
"'Es. I likes you," the boy observed as they moved on. "Who's you?"
Half confidences were evidently not in his calculation. He had readilygiven his, and now he looked for the natural return.
Steve laughed delightedly.
"Who's I? Why, my name's Steve. Steve Allenwood. 'Uncle' Steve. And thisis Julyman. He's an Indian, and very good man. And we like little boys.Don't we, Julyman?"
The grin on the scout's face was still distorting his unaccustomedfeatures as he moved along beside his boss.
"Oh, yes. Julyman, him likes 'em--plenty, much."
"Why ain't you asleep?" demanded the boy abruptly addressing the scoutand in quite a changed tone. His smile, too, had gone.
Steve noted the change. He understood it. White and colour. This childhad been bred amongst Indians, and his parents were white. It was alwaysso. Even in so small a child the distinction was definite. He repliedfor Julyman, while the Indian only continued to grin.
"Julyman only sleeps at night," he said.
But Marcel pointed at the domed huts which looked so like a collectionof white ant heaps.
"All Indians sleeps. All winter. My Pop says so. So does Uncle Cy. Theysleeps all the time. Only An-ina don't sleep. 'Cep' at night. I doesn'tsleep 'cep' at night. Indians does."
The white man and Indian exchanged glances. Julyman's was triumphant.Steve's was negatively smiling. He looked up into the child's face whichwas just above his level.
"These Indians sleep all winter?" he questioned.
"'Es, them sleeps. My Pop says they eats so much they has to sleep.An'," he went on eagerly, stumbling over his words, "they's so funnywhen they's sleep. They makes drefful noises, an' my Pop says they'ssnores. He says they's dreaming all funny things 'bout fairies, an'seals, an' hunting, an' all the things thems do's. They's wakes upsometimes. But sleeps again. Why does they sleep? Why does them eat somuch? It's wolves eats till they bursts, isn't it, Uncle Steve?"
Steve pressed the little man closer to him. That "Uncle Steve" sonaturally said warmed his heart to a passionate degree. The littlefellow's mother was sick and he knew that his father and Uncle Cy weredead; murdered somewhere out in that cold vastness. What had this brighthappy little life to look forward to on the desolate plateau of theSleeper Indians.
"Wolves are great greedy creatures," he said. "They eat up everythingthey can get. They're real wicked."
"So's Injuns then."
Steve laughed at the childish logic, as the little man rattled on.
"I's hunt wolves when I grows big. I hunts 'em like Uncle Cy, an' seals,too. I kills 'em. I kills everything wicked. That's what my Pop says. Hesays, good boys kills everything bad, then God smile, an' all thepeople's happy."
They reached the stockade which the practised eye of Steve saw to bewonderfully constructed. Not only was its strength superlative, but itwas loopholed for defence and he knew that such defences were notagainst the great grey wolves of the forest or any other creatures ofthe wild. They were defences against attack by human marauders, and heread into them the story of hostile Indians, and all those scenes whichhad doubtless been kept carefully hidden from little Marcel's eyes.
Furthermore he realized that the post was of comparatively recentconstruction. Perhaps it was five or ten years old. It could not havebeen more. It entirely lacked that appearance of age which green timbersacquire so readily under the fierce Northern storms. And it set himwondering at the nature of the lure which had brought men of obviousmeans, with wife and child, to the inhospitable plateau of Unaga.
He set the boy on the ground while he removed his snow-shoes. Then, handin hand, the little fellow led him round to the gateway which opened outin full view of the valley.
It was a wide enclosure, and its ordering and construction appealed tothe man of the trail. There was thought and experience in every detailof it. There was, too, the obvious expenditure of money and infinitelabour. The great central building stood clear of everything else. Itwas long and low, with good windows of glass, and doors as powerful ashuman hands could make them. To the practical eyes of the Northern manit was clearly half store and half dwelling house, built always with aneye to a final defence.
Beyond this there were a number of outbuildings. Some were of simpleIndian construction. But three of them, a large barn, and two buildingsthat suggested store-houses, were like the house, heavily built of logs.
But he was given little time for deep investigation, for little Marceleagerly dragged him towards the door of the store. To the man there wassomething almost pathetic in the child's excitement and joy in his newdiscovery. His childish treble silenced the bristling dogs that leaptout at them in fierce welcome. And his imperious command promptlyreduced them to snuffing suspiciously at the furs of the scout and thewhite man whom they seemed to regard with considerable doubt. Hechattered the whole time, stumbling over his words in his eagerexcitement. He was endeavouring to impart everything he knew to thisnewly found friend, and, in the course of the brief interval of theirapproach to the house Steve learned all the dogs' names, theirachievements, what little Marcel liked most to eat, and how he dislikedbeing washed by An-ina, and how ugly his nurse was, and how his fatherwas the cleverest man in the world, and how he made long journeys everywinter to look for something he couldn't find.
It was all told without regard for continuity or purpose. It seemed toSteve as if the little fellow was loosing a long pent tide held up fromlack of companionship till the bursting point had been reached.
As they came to the house, however, a sudden change came over the scene.The door abruptly opened, and a tall, hand
some squaw, dressed in theclothes of rougher civilization, stood regarding them unsmilingly. Tohis surprise she was not only beautiful but quite young.
The boy's chatter ceased instantly and his face fell. One small mittedhand approached the corner of his pretty mouth, and he regarded thewoman with quaint, childish reproach. It was only for a moment, however.With a sudden brightening of hope he turned and gazed up appealingly athis new friend.
"Don't let hers wash us, Uncle Steve," he implored.
* * * * *
Deep distress looked out of Steve's steady eyes. He was gazing at awreck of beautiful womanhood lying on the bed. There was no doubt of thebeauty of this mother of little Marcel. It was there in every line ofthe pale, hollow cheeks, in her clear, broad brow. In the great, softgrey eyes which were hot with fever as they gazed at him out of theirhollow settings. Then the abundant dark hair, parted now in the centre,Indian fashion, and flooding the pillow with its masses. It was dull andlustreless, but all its beauty of texture remained.
She had summoned him at once to her sick room through An-ina. And in hergreeting had briefly told him of the trouble which had befallen her.
"Maybe you'll think it queer my receiving you this way," she said, in atired voice, "but I can't just help myself. You see, I can't move handor foot." Then a pitiful smile crept into the wistful eyes. "It happenedtwo weeks ago. Oh, those two weeks. I was felling saplings with An-inain the woods out back. Maybe a woman can't do those things right.Anyway, one fell on me, and it just crushed me to the ground, and heldme pinned there. I thought I was dead. But I wasn't. I was only broken.Maybe I'll die here--soon. An-ina got me clear and carried me home. Andnow--why, if it wasn't for my little Marcel I'd be glad--so glad to berid of all the pain."
The note of despair, the tragedy in the brief recital were overwhelming.The full force of them smote Steve to the heart, and left him incapableof expression, beyond that which looked out of his eyes. Words wouldhave been impossible. He realized she was on her deathbed. It requiredonly the poor creature's obvious intense sufferings to tell him that. Itwas a matter of perhaps hours before little Marcel would be robbed ofhis second parent.
The brief daylight was pouring in through the double glass window of theroom. It lit an interior which had only filled him with added wonder atthese folks, and the guiding hand which inspired everything he beheld.The furnishing of the room was simple enough. But it was of themanufacture of civilization, and he could only guess at the haulage ithad required to bring it to the heart of Unaga. Then there was distincttaste in the arrangement of the room. It was the taste of a woman ofeducation and refinement, and one who must have been heart and soul withher husband, and the enterprise he was embarked upon.
An-ina had left him there to talk with the mother of those things whichit was her care should not reach the ears of little Marcel.
Steve told her at once that he was a police officer, and that he was ona mission of investigation into the--he said "disappearance"--of MarcelBrand, who, he explained, was supposed to be a trader, with his partnerCyrus Allshore, somewhere in the direction north of Seal Bay in theUnaga country. He told her that he had travelled one thousand milesoverland to carry out the work, and that something little short of amiracle had brought him direct to her door.
And the woman had listened to him with the eagerness of one who hassuddenly realized a ray of hope in the blackness of her despair.
After his brief introduction she breathed a deep sigh and her eyesclosed under the pain that racked her broken body.
"Then my message got through," she said, almost to herself. "Lupite musthave reached Seal Bay." Then her eyes opened and she spoke with addedeffort. "I didn't dare to hope. It was all I could do," she explained."Lupite said he'd get through or die. He was a good and faithful neche.I--I wonder what's happened him since. He's not got back, and--theothers have all deserted me. There's no one here now but An-ina, and mylittle boy, and," she added bitterly, "What's left of me. Oh, God, willit never end! This pain. This dreadful, dreadful pain."
After a moment of troubled regard, while he watched the cold dew ofagony break upon her brow, Steve ventured his reply.
"Yes. It must have got through, I guess," he said. "It must have reachedthe Indian Department at Ottawa. They sent it right along to the man atthe Allowa Reserve where I'm stationed, and communicated with thepolice. That's how I received my instructions. They said your husbandwas supposed to be--murdered. And his partner, too."
"I put that in my letter," the woman said quickly. "I just had to. Yousee--" she broke off. But after a brief hesitation she went on. "But Idon't know. I don't know anything that's happened really. He went awayon a trip eighteen months ago, with Cy. It was to Seal Bay, with trade.He ought to have been back that fall. I haven't had a word since. I'vebeen eighteen months here alone with An-ina, and--these Sleepers. Hemight have met with accident. But it's more likely murder. TheseSleepers suspected. They were frightened he'd found out. You see, thisstuff--this Adresol--is sacred to them. They would kill anyone who foundout where they get it from."
A spasm of pain contorted her drawn face and again her eyes closed underthe agony. She re-opened them at the sound of Steve's voice.
"Will you tell me, ma'm?" he said.
Steve's manner was gentle. His sympathy for this stricken creature wasreal and deep. She was a woman, suffering and alone in a God-forsakenland. The thought appalled him.
For some moments his invitation remained without response. The woman laythere unmoving, inert. Only was life in her hot eyes, and the triflingrise and fall of the bed covering as she breathed. Obviously she wasconsidering. Perhaps she was wondering how much she had a right to tellthis officer. She was completely without guidance. If her husband hadbeen alive doubtless her lips would have remained sealed. But he was notthere, and she knew not what had become of him. Then there was littleMarcel, and she knew that when she left that bed it would be only for acold grave on this bleak plateau of Unaga.
Steve waited with infinite patience. He felt it to be a moment forpatience. Suddenly she began to talk in a rapid, feverish way.
"Yes, yes," she cried. "I must tell you now, and quickly. Maybe whenyou've heard it all you'll help me. There's no one else can help me.You see, it's my boy--my little boy. He's all I have in the world--now.He's the sun and light of my life. It's the thought of him alone, withonly An-ina, in this terrible land that sets me well-nigh crazy. Thepolice. I wonder. Would they look after him? Could you take him backwith you when I'm dead? Do they look after poor orphans, poor littlebits of life like him? Or is he too small a thing in the work they haveto do? I pray God you'll take him out of this when I'm dead."
Steve strove to keep a steady tone. The appeal was heartrending.
"Don't you fret that way, ma'm," he cried earnestly. "If those thingshappen you reckon are going to, I'll see that no harm, I can help, comesto him. He's just a bright little ray of light, and I guess God didn'tset him on this earth to leave him helpless in such a country as this."
A world of relief in the mother's eyes thanked him.
"I--I--" she began, and the man promptly broke in.
"You needn't try to thank me ..." Steve's manner was gravely kind."Maybe when you've told me things I'll be able to locate your husband.And maybe he isn't dead."
The woman's eyes denied him hopelessly.
"He's dead--sure," she said. "Whatever's happened he's--dead. Say,listen, I'd best try and tell you all from the start," she went on, withrenewed energy. "It's the only way. And it's a straight story withoutmuch shame in it. My husband, Marcel Brand, is a Dane, with French bloodin his veins. He's a great chemist, who learned everything the Germanscould teach him. He absorbed their knowledge, but not their ways. He wasa good and great man, whose whole idea of life was to care for his wifeand child, and expend all his knowledge to help the world of sufferinghumanity. It was for that reason that seven years ago he realized all hepossessed, and, taking Cy Allshore as a partner, came up he
re."
"To help suffering humanity?"
Incredulity found expression almost before Steve was aware of it.
"Yes, I know. It sounds crazy," the sick woman went on. "But it isn't.Nothing Marcel ever did was crazy. All his life he has been studyingdrugs, and his studies have taken him into all sorts of crazy corners ofthe world. Thibet, Siberia, Brazil, Tropical Africa, India, andnow--Unaga. It was he who discovered Adresol, that wonderful, pricelessdrug, which if it could only be obtained in sufficient quantities wouldbe the greatest boon to humanity for--as he used to say himself--alltime. Oh, I can't tell you about that," she exclaimed wearily, "guess itwould need someone cleverer than I. But it's that brought us here, andkept us here for seven years. And maybe we'd have spent years more. Yousee, Marcel was years hunting over the world for the stuff growing inquantities. It was a chance story about these Indians he'd listened tothat brought him here first, and when he discovered they were using thestuff, he believed it was the hand of Providence guiding him. With theuse of it he found the Indians hibernated each winter, and yet remainedhealthy, robust creatures, retaining their faculties unimpaired, andliving to an extreme old age."
"I'd heard of the 'Sleepers,' ma'm," Steve admitted. "But," he added,with a half smile, "I couldn't just believe the yarn."
"Oh, it's surely real," the woman returned promptly. "You can see foryourself. We call them the Ant Indians, because of their queer huts.They're all around the fort, and they're sleeping now, with their foodand their dope near by for each time they wake. Yes, you can see it allfor yourself. They look like dead things."
After another agonized spasm she took up her story more rapidly, asthough fearing lest her strength should fail and she would be leftwithout sufficient time to finish it.
"When Marcel came here he found himself up against tremendousdifficulties. Oh, it wasn't the climate. It wasn't a thing to do withthe country. It was the Indians themselves. He found they held the drugsacred, and the secret of their supply something more precious than lifeitself. It's the whole key to his death. Oh, I know it. I am sure, sure.He found that these mostly peaceful creatures were ready to defend theirsecret to the uttermost. No money could buy it from them, and theyviolently resented Marcel's attempts in that direction. For awhile theposition was deadly, as maybe the defences we had to set up outside havetold you. Marcel had blundered, and it was only after months of troublehe remedied it, and came to an understanding with these folk. They werewon over by the prospect of trade, and agreed to trade small quantitiesof weed provided we would make no attempt to look for the source oftheir supply."
"Maybe we're to be blamed," she hurried on, "I don't know. Anyway,Marcel reckoned he was working for the good of humanity. He saw hisopportunity in that agreement. The Indians were satisfied. Their goodnature re-asserted itself, and all went smoothly with our trade in sealsand the weed. But our opportunity lay in the winter. In the sleep-timeof this folk. Maybe the Indians reckoned their secret was safe inwinter. The storming, the cruel terror of winter which they dared notface would surely be too much for any white man. Maybe they thoughtthat way, but if they did they were wrong. Marcel determined to usetheir sleep time to discover the secret he needed. He and Cy were readyfor any chances. They would stand for nothing. That was their way. So,with our own boys, they made the long trail every winter.
"But they failed. Oh, yes, they failed." The woman sighed. "Sometimes itwas climate beat them. Sometimes it wasn't. Anyway they never found thegrowing stuff. They never got a clue to its whereabouts. Maybe it wasall buried up in snow. We always reckoned on that. The winter passed,and with each year that slipped away the chances seemed to recedefarther and farther. Then all of a sudden the Indians got suspiciousagain. That was three years ago. I just don't know how it happened.Maybe one of our boys gave it away. Anyhow they turned sulky. That wasthe first sign. Then they refused to trade their weed. Then we knew thetrouble had come. But Marcel was ready for them. He was ready for mostthings. He refused to trade their seals if they refused their weed. Itwas a bad time, but we finally got through. You see they needed ourtrade, once having begun it, and in the end Marcel managed to patchthings up. But they frankly told us they knew of our winter expeditionsto rob them, and, if they were continued, they would kill us all, andburn up the post. Well, things settled down after that and trade wenton. But it wasn't the same. The Indians became desperately watchful, andfor one whole winter half of them didn't sleep. I knew trouble wascoming.
"Then came the time when Marcel had to make a trip to Seal Bay. He'dpostponed it as long as he could. But our stuff had accumulated, and wehad to get rid of it, and so, at last, he was forced to go. The post waswell fortified, as you've seen, and we were liberally supplied withmeans of defence. Lupite was faithful, and I could rely on my otherfighting neches. So Marcel and Cy set out, and--well, there's nothingmore to tell," she said wearily. "They've both disappeared, vanished.And they should have been back more than a year ago. In desperation Isent the message by Lupite. He's not returned either, and, one by one,all our own Indians have deserted me. Oh," she went on passionately,"it's no accident that's happened. Marcel has been killed, murdered bythese miserable folk, and all his years of work have gone for nothing.Why they haven't killed me and little Marcel, I can't think. Maybe theythink we're of no account without Marcel. Maybe they find our storeuseful. For I've carried on the trade ever since Marcel went. But now mysupplies are running out and when the Indians wake up and find that isso--but I shall be already dead. Poor little Marcel. But--but you won'tlet that happen, will you? It--it is surely God's hand that has sent youhere now."
The woman's voice died out in a sob, and her eyes closed upon the tearsgathered in them. It was the final weakening of her courage. For all itsbrevity, for all it was told in such desperate haste, the story lostnothing of its appeal, nothing of its pathos.
It left Steve feeling more helpless than he had ever felt in his life.At that moment he would have given all he possessed for the sound of thedeep, cheerful voice of Ian Ross in that room of death.
Mrs. Brand's eyes remained closed, and her breathing laboured under herfailing strength. She had put forth a tremendous effort, and thereaction was terrible. The ghastly hue of her cheeks and lips terrifiedSteve. He dreaded lest at that moment the final struggle was actuallytaking place.
He waited breathlessly. He had risen from his seat. The feeble throb ofthe pulse was visibly beating at the woman's temples. He knew he coulddo nothing, and, presently, as the eyes showed no sign of re-opening, heturned, and stole out to summon An-ina.
The Heart of Unaga Page 5
