The Heart of Unaga

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XV

  THE SET COURSE

  Delight and excitement were running high. It was a game. In Marcel'schild-mind there was nothing better in the world. And it was An-ina'sinvention. It was the gopher hunt.

  They often played it in the cool summer evenings. The gophers destroyedthe crops of men, therefore men must destroy the gophers. It was thesimple logic that satisfied the child-hunter's mind. Besides, it was hisown game which An-ina had taught him, and no one else played it in thesame way. Every dead gopher An-ina told him meant more food for thepappoose on the Reserve. And it was the child's desire that the pappooseon the Reserve should eat to repletion.

  The game entailed the lighting of a fire. That in itself demanded ahundred excited instructions to the faithful An-ina, who contrived thefire unfailingly, in her quick Indian way, in spite of them. Then therewas the collection of dried grass which demanded a search and laboriousconsideration as to its suitability. Then came the stuffing of it into ascore and more of the principal holes in the selected gopher warren.During this operation strict silence had to be observed. Then thecrowning moment. Erect, alert, in his woolen jersey and the briefest ofknickers, the child took his stand in the centre, where, with youthfuloptimism, he sought to take within his purview the numberless exits forthe panic-stricken quarry. With stick raised, and every nerve quiveringwith excitement, he was there to do battle with the destructive foe.

  So he waited whilst An-ina advanced with her fire brand. With rapidbreathing and shining eyes the hunter watched as each plugging of driedgrass was fired. The smoke, rising in a circle about him, left him apicture like some child martyr being burned at the stake.

  Her work completed An-ina stood looking on, her beautiful dusky facewreathed in a smiling delight which the sight of the boy's happinessnever failed to inspire.

  A wild shriek. A flourishing and slashing of the stick. A scuttle ofracing moccasined feet. The quarry had broken cover and the chase hadbegun!

  A dozen gophers with bristling tails bounded clear of the smoke ring.They scattered in every direction. The boy was in pursuit. Shrieking,laughing, slashing, headlong he ran, nimble as the gophers themselves.

  It was wide open grassland, and An-ina contented herself with watchingfrom the distance. It was the boy's game. His was the chase. Hers wasthe simple happiness of witnessing his enjoyment.

  "Gee!"

  An-ina started at the sound of the exclamation behind her. She turned,and her movement had something of the swiftness of some wild animal. Butit was not a defensive movement. There was no apprehension in it. Sheknew the voice. It was the voice she had been yearning to hear again forsomething over two years.

  "Boss Steve!" she cried, and there was that in her wide, soft eyes whichher aboriginal mind made no effort to conceal.

  Steve was standing some yards away, with his horse's reins linked overhis arm. As the woman approached he moved forward to meet her. But hiseyes were on the boy, still in vain pursuit of the escaped gophers,pausing, stalking, completely and utterly absorbed.

  The woman realized the white man's pre-occupation. She was even glad ofit. So, in her simple way, she explained.

  "This--his game," she said. "He mak' great hunter," she added withsimple pride. "An-ina tell him gophers bad--much. So he say Marcel hunt'em. Him kill 'em. Him say Uncle Steve say all things bad must be kill."

  "He still thinks of--Uncle Steve?"

  The enquiry came with a smile. But the man had withdrawn his gaze fromthe distant child, and was earnestly searching the woman's smiling face.

  "Marcel think Uncle Steve all man," she said quickly. "Uncle Mac, oh,yes. Auntie Millie, oh, very good. An-ina. Yes. An-ina help in allthings. Uncle Steve? Uncle Steve come bimeby, then all things nomatter."

  "Is that so? Does he feel that way? After two years?"

  "Marcel think all things for Uncle Steve--always. An-ina tell him UncleSteve come bimeby. Sure come. She tell him all time. So Marcel think. Henot forget. No. He speak with the good spirit each night: 'God blessUncle Steve, an' send him back to boy.'"

  The man's smile thanked her. And a deep tenderness looked out of hissteady eyes as they were turned again in the direction of the distant,running figure.

  "You come back--yes?"

  The woman's voice was low. It was thrilling with a hope and emotionwhich her words failed to express.

  "Yes. I'm back for keeps." Steve's gaze came back to the soft eyes ofthe woman. "That is, I'm going back to Unaga--with the boy. Will An-inacome, too?"

  "Boss Steve go back--Unaga?"

  A startled light had replaced the softness of the Woman's eyes. Then,after a moment, as no reply was forthcoming, she went on.

  "Oh, yes. An-ina know." She glanced away in the direction where thepolice post stood, and a woman's understanding was in the sympathyshining in her eyes. "White man officer no more. Oh, yes. No little babygirl. No. No nothing. Only Marcel, an'--maybe An-ina. So. Oh, yes.Unaga. When we go?"

  There was no hesitation, no doubt in the woman's mind. And the utter andcomplete self-abnegation of it all was overwhelming to the man.

  "You--you're a good soul, An-ina," he said, in the clumsy fashion of aman unused to giving expression to his deeper feelings. "God made you asquaw. He handed you a colour that sets you a race apart from whitefolk, but he gave you a heart so big and white that an angel might envy.Yes, I want you An-ina. So does Marcel. We both want you bad.Unaga--it's a hell of a country, but you come along right up there withus, and I'll fix things so you'll be as happy as that darn country'lllet you be. Julyman and Oolak are going along with us. They've quit thepolice, same as I have. I can't do without them, same as we can't dowithout An-ina. We're going there for the boy. Not for ourselves. It'sthe weed. We got to do all that Marcel's father reckoned to do. And whenwe've done it Marcel will be rich and great. Same as you would have himbe. There's 'no nothing' for me anywhere now but with Marcel. Youunderstand? You'll help?"

  All the softness had returned to the woman's eyes, untaught to hidethose inner feelings of her elemental soul.

  "An-ina help? Oh, yes." Then she added with a smile of patient content:"An-ina always help. She love boy, too. You fix all things. You say'go.' An-ina go. So we come by Unaga. It storm. Oh, yes. It snow. Itfreeze. It no matter. Nothing not matter. Auntie Millie mak' boy andAn-ina speak with the Great Spirit each night. An' He bless you alltime. Him mak' you safe all time. An-ina know--sure."

  The frank simplicity of it all left the white man searching for words toexpress his gratitude. But complete and utter helplessness supervened.

  "Thanks, An-ina," he articulated. And he dared not trust himself tomore.

  Diversion came at a moment when he was never more thankful for it. Theshrill treble of the boy reached them across the stretch of tawny,summer grass.

  "Uncle Stee-e-ve! Uncle St-ee-ee-ve!"

  Little Marcel was unstinting in all things. His call was not simplypreliminary. His enthusiasm for the hunt was incomparable with his newenthusiasm. His call of recognition came as he ran towards the object ofhis hero-worship, and he ran with all his might.

  It was a breathless child that was lifted into Steve's arms and huggedwith an embrace the sight of which added to the squaw's smile ofhappiness. The boy's arms were flung about the man's neck with completeand utter abandonment. An-ina looked on, and no cloud of jealousyshadowed her joy. She had done all in her power that the white manshould not be forgotten in his absence. The great white man, who was herking of men. And she had her reward.

  The first wild moments of greeting over, the boy's chatter flowed forthin a breathless torrent. And all the while the man was observing thosethings that mattered most to his maturer mind.

  Marcel had grown astoundingly in the prolonged interval. The promise ofthe sturdy body Steve had so often watched trundling across the snows ofUnaga in its bundle of furs had developed out of all knowledge under theample hospitality of Millie Ross's home. Tall, straight, muscular it hadshot up many inches. The boy was probably se
ven years of age. Steve didnot know for sure. Nor did it signify greatly. The things that matteredwere the ruddy, sunburnt cheeks of perfect health, the big, intelligentblue eyes, the shapely mouth, and the sunny, wavy hair, all containingthe promise of a fine manhood to come. Then the firm, stout limbs, andthe powerful ribs. That which was in the handsome boyish face was in thebody, too. God willing, the man knew that the coming manhood would beamply worth.

  Slackening excitement brought the boy back to the thing which held hisvital interest, and he told of the great game he and An-ina were engagedupon. He told of his failures and successes with impartial enthusiasm.And finally invited his "Uncle" to join in the game.

  "No, old fellow," he said. "I've got to get right along down to thehouse to see Uncle Mac and Auntie Millie. You see, I've only just gotalong from Reindeer. Guess I've been chasing a gopher for two years andmore. But like you I just didn't get him. Some day----"

  "You been hunting gophers, Uncle Steve?" The childish interest leaptafresh.

  The man nodded, and his smiling eyes encountered those of the squaw. Heread the understanding he beheld there, and turned quickly to the childagain.

  "Sure," he said drily. "But I didn't get him."

  "No." The boy turned regretful eyes towards the open, where he, too, hadjust failed to bag his quarry. "You kill 'em when you get 'em, Uncle. Wedo, don't we, An-ina?" he added, appealing for corroboration.

  "We always kills 'em, Uncle Steve," he went on, "'cos gophers are verybad."

  "Yes. Gophers are bad, old fellow. Always kill them. That's how I'd havedone if I'd got the one I was after. But I didn't get him. He ran toofast for me. Maybe I'll find him another time. You never know. Do you?Boy and Uncle and An-ina are going a great long way soon. We'll findbetter than gophers to hunt, eh?"

  "Yes--wolves! Where we go?"

  "We go back to the Sleepers--and the old fort."

  Steve searched the child's face anxiously as he made the announcement.He was half afraid of a lingering memory that might jeopardize hisplans, or, at least make their fulfilment more difficult. But he needhave had no fear. The child remembered, but only with delight. And againthe man recognized the guiding hand of the squaw.

  "Oo-o, Uncle! Soon? We go soon?" Marcel cried, his eyes shining. "Theforests where the wolves are. And the Sleepers. And the snow comes down,and we dig ourselves out. And the dogs, and sleds, and--we go soon--verysoon! Can't we go now? Oo-o!"

  "Not now, but--soon."

  Steve's satisfaction was in the glance of thanks which he flashed intoAn-ina's watching eyes.

  "But now I must really go along to the house, old fellow," he said, witha sigh. "Guess boy'll come, too, or maybe he'll go on with his game?"

  The question was superfluous. Gopher hunting was a glorious sport, butwalking hand in hand with Uncle Steve back to the house, even though bedand a bath were awaiting him, was a delight Marcel had no idea ofrenouncing.

  * * * * *

  The plump figure of Millie Ross half filled the doorway, while thesunset sought out the obscure corners of the comfortably furnished hallplace behind her.

  The doctor's great figure was supported on the table on which he hadflung his hat while he welcomed Steve. The latter's arrival had beenquite unheralded, completely unexpected. So long was it since his goingthat husband and wife had almost abandoned the thought that some daythey would be called upon to render an account of their stewardship withregard to young Marcel, and hand over the little human "capital"originally entrusted to them. It was not to be wondered at. They lovedthe boy. They had their two girls, but they had no son. AndMarcel--well, Steve was so long overdue, and his absence had been onelong, unbroken silence. So, all unconsciously, they had come to thinkthat something had happened, something which had caused him to changehis mind, or which had made it physically impossible for him to return.Now, after the first warmth and delight of the meeting had passed, acertain pre-occupation restrained the buoyancy so natural to thewarm-hearted pair.

  Steve was seated in the chair beside the table, the chair which thedoctor was wont to adopt when the mosquitoes outside made the verandaimpossible. Perhaps he understood the preoccupation which moreparticularly looked out of Millie's eyes. He felt the burden of his debtto these people, a debt he could never repay; he understood the feelingswhich his return must inspire if the child, left in their care, hadbecome to them a tithe of that which he had become to him. He knew itwas his purpose to tear the child out of their lives. And the wrenchwould be no less for the thought that he purposed carrying him off tothose regions of desolation which had already come very near to costingthe child's helpless little life.

  So his steady eyes were watchful of the woman's attitude, and he lookedfor the sign of those feelings which he knew his return must have setstirring. He knew that, whatever the big Scotsman felt and thought, thewoman was the real factor with which he must reckon.

  With this understanding he frankly laid bare much which he otherwisewould have kept deep hidden. He told these two, who listened in deepsympathy, the story of his pursuit of the man who had wronged him, fromthe beginning to the end. And, in the telling, so shorn of allunnecessary colouring, the simple deliberateness of his purpose,contemplated in the coldly passionate desire of an implacable nature,the story gained a tremendous force, the more so that his pursuit hadended in failure.

  He told them how for nearly a year, after winding up the affairs of hisdead father, which had left him with even a better fortune than he hadexpected, he had systematically devoted himself to spreading a wide netof enquiries. In this process he had to travel some thousands of miles,and had to write many hundreds of letters, and had spent countless hoursin the official bureau of local police.

  He told them how finally he had discovered the trail he, sought in aremote haunt in the poorer quarters of Winnipeg. This, after manytortuous wanderings and blind alley searchings, had finally led him tothe waterside of Quebec, and the purlieus of Mallard's, where, under theguidance of the celebrated Maurice Saney, he ran up against the blankwall of that redoubtable harbour of crime.

  "All this," he said, without emotion, "took me over two years. And Iguess it wasn't till I hit up against Mallard's that I sat down and tooka big think. You see," he went on simply, "I wanted to kill that feller.I wanted to kill that feller, and take my poor girl back and get backmy little, little baby. I had a notion I might have to hang for the job,but, anyway, I'd have saved her from a life--well, I'd have saved themboth, and been able to fix them so they didn't need a thing in life.What happened to me didn't seem to worry any. But when I hit up againstMallard's, and I'd listened some to Saney I started in to figure. To getthat far had taken me over two years, and big money. There might bestill years of it ahead of me. And when I'd done, was I sure I'd getNita and the kiddie back? And if I did, how would I be able to fix themafter all the expense? Then there was Marcel. Maybe it was somethingelse urging me to quit. Something I wasn't just aware of. I don't know.I've heard say that a feller who yearns to kill, either kills quick orgoes crazy. There wasn't a thing foolish about me. I hadn't any of thefoolishness of a crazy man. Which is a way of saying the yearning tokill hadn't the grip on me it had. It was a big fight, but sense--orsomething else--won out. I quit for those other things I'd got in myhead. Guess I heard that little feller's 'Hullo!' ringing in my ears.Same as I heard it up in Unaga. So I cut out the other, and got busyright away fixing things for the big play I mean to put up for thekiddie that Providence has left to me. There are times when my wholebody kicks at the thought of that skunk getting away with his play. Butthere's others when I'm glad--real glad--I quit. I can't judge the thingright. I'm sort of torn in different directions. Anyway, there it is.Maybe the thing I haven't been allowed to do will be done sometime bythe Providence that reckons to straighten out most things as it seesfit. I hope the way it sees is my way. That's all. Now I'm ready for thebig play. My outfit has gone up by water on Hudson's Bay, a specialcharter. It's to be landed and cached on t
he shores of ChesterfieldInlet. I've sunk every cent of my inheritance in it. It's an outfitthat'll give Marcel and me a life stake in the work lying ahead. And allthat comes out of it is for him. With all this fixed I got back rightaway."

  "But not--in a 'hurry.'"

  There was a half smile in the Scotsman's eyes.

  "The only 'hurry' I'm in is to get all the season we need," Stevereplied simply.

  "That means you want Marcel--right away."

  Millie spoke without turning from her contemplation of the view beyondthe doorway. And there was that in her voice which told Steve of theinroads Marcel had made upon her mother's heart.

  "I've thought of all this a whole heap," he said gently. "It's one ofthe things that clinched my idea of quitting. Later I don't guess I'dhave had the nerve to--ask for Marcel."

  Millie turned abruptly. And the husband was watching her as urgently asSteve himself.

  "That's not fair, Steve," she declared, without attempting to soften thechallenge.

  "But, Millie--"

  The husband's protest was cut short.

  "Don't worry, Mac," Millie cried. "I know just the feelings thatprompted Steve to think that way. But it's not fair. It's making outthat I'd like to go back on my word, and refuse to give Marcel up to themoloch of Unaga. That's the part that isn't fair. Steve, if you'd cometo me in twenty years my word would have gone every time. That boy mightbe my own son, I never had a son, and maybe you can guess just what thatmeans to me when I say it. But there's bigger things in the world thanmy feelings, and I'm full wise to them. That boy loves you the same asif you were his father. I've helped to see to that. I and An-ina. You'vebeen through hell for him. You've been through a hell of your ownbesides. Now you're ready to give your all for him--including your life.Do you know what I feel in my fool woman's way? I'll try and tell you,"she went on, forcing back the threatening tears. "There's men in theworld made to give their everything for those they love. You're one ofthem. To rob you of an object for you to work and sacrifice yourself forwould be to rob you of the greatest thing in your life. It would be anunforgivable crime, and though it broke my heart I would refuse tocommit that crime. Marcel is ready for you the moment you ask for him.Oh, yes, it's just as I said. His outfit is ready. We've enlarged it ashe's grown. An-ina has done her share. There's two of everything, as Isaid there would be--and a good deal over. But," she added, with alittle pitiful break in her voice that showed how near were her tears,"I wish, oh, how I wish, it was not Unaga, and that, some day, I mighthope to see his smiling, happy face again. You'll be good to him, Steve,won't you? Raise him, train him, teach him. Don't let him become a wildman. I want to think of him, to always remember him as he is now, and tothink that when he grows to manhood at least he's as good a man asyou."

  PART II