The Heart of Unaga

by Ridgwell Cullum

  CHAPTER XI

  THROUGH THE EYES OF A WOMAN

  An-ina smoothed her brown hand over the superfine surface of the spreadof buckskin where it lay on the counter in the store. Her dark eyes werecritically contemplating it, while she held ready a large pair ofscissors.

  A great contentment pervaded her life. It was in her wide, wise eyes nowas she considered the piece of material which was to provide a shirt forSteve. The buckskin had been prepared by her own hands. It was soft, andtawny with the perfect tint she desired. It could not be too soft, ortoo good for Steve. That was her thought as she prepared to hew it intoshape for the sewing and beading which no other hands would be permittedto work.

  Her contemplation was broken by the abrupt flinging open of the door ofthe store. She turned quickly, expectantly, and the smiling content inher eyes, as they rested on the figure of Steve, left no doubt as to thewelcome nature of the interruption.

  "You mak your plan?" she demanded.

  The manner of her question was that of poignant interest. Her wholethought was centred on the life and well-being of this white man. Forthe moment the buckskin was forgotten.

  Steve closed the door. He came over to the counter behind which werepiled the stores of his trade. He leant against it, and his steady eyesregarded the handsome, dusky woman, who had come to him at the moment ofhis life's disaster, and had been his strong comfort and support eversince.

  "Yes." He nodded, in the decided fashion that was always his. "We can'twait."

  "You go--before Marcel come?"

  There was no surprise in the woman's reply.

  "The outfit's ready. The dogs are hardened to the bone. Every day, Iguess, is a day lost. The snow's thick on the ground and the waters arefrozen up. Well? We can't guess the time it'll take us this trip. Wecan't spare an hour. If we get through, it don't matter. If we fail weneed to make back here before the 'Sleepers' crawl out from under theirdope. If we wait for Marcel, and he don't get right along quick, itmeans losing time we can't ever make good. You get all that?"

  The woman turned up the oil lamp. The day was dark for all the lollingsun in the horizon. She passed across to the stove, roaring comfortinglyunder its open draft. She closed the damper and stood over it with handsoutstretched to the warmth. It was a favourite attitude of hers.

  "An-ina know," she said. "An' Marcel? What it keep him so much long? Alltime he come before snow. Now? No. Why is it?"

  A shadow of anxiety descended upon her placid face. A pucker drew herbrows together. Her heart was troubled.

  Steve shook his head. He showed no sign of sharing her concern.

  "He'll be along," he said confidently. "I'm not worried a thing. I'dtrust Marcel to beat the game more than I would myself. You needn't tobe scared. No. It's not that."

  "What it--then?"

  An-ina's eyes were full of a concern she had no desire to conceal. Shehad nothing to conceal from this man who was the god of her woman'slife.

  "I just can't say," Steve said. "But--I'm not worried. The thing is we'dfixed it that I didn't quit till Marcel got to home."

  "Why?"

  Steve shrugged, but his eyes were smiling.

  "Oh, I guess we don't fancy leaving you without men folk around. Itisn't that things are likely to worry any. But you see--you're all we'vegot. You're a sort of anchor that holds us fast to things. You see, Iguess Marcel reckons you his mother, and I, why--it don't need me to sayhow I feel."

  The look in the woman's dark eyes deepened. She knew the feelingsprompting Steve. Oh, yes. She knew. And she thanked the God she hadlearned to believe in, and to worship, for the happiness which he hadpermitted her in the midst of the terrors of this desolate Northerncountry. Her answer came at once. It came full of her generosity.

  "Ah," she cried quickly. "You think all this thing--you men! An' whatAn-ina think? Oh, An-ina think much. So much. Listen. She tell. Marcelhim big feller. Him mak' summer trail. Far--far. An-ina not know. Himwolf all come around. Him river with much water--rapids--rocks. Himmuskeg. Him everything bad, an' much danger. An-ina she not say, 'An-inacome too, so no harm come by Marcel.' She say, 'no.' Marcel big man.Marcel brave. Him fight big. So him God of white man kill Marcel all up,then An-ina heart all break, but she say it all His will. So she notsay nothing. Steve him go by Unaga, where all him devil men. They gethim. They kill him. Then An-ina all mak' big weep--inside. She saynothing. She not say 'An-ina come, too, so she frighten all devil menaway.' Oh, no. An-ina woman. She not scare any more as Steve an' Marcel.She sit by fire. She mak' Steve him shirt. She have gun, plenty. No mancome. Oh, no. She not scare for nothing. An-ina brave woman, too. Steve,Marcel mak' her coward. Oh, no. Outfit ready--Julyman--Oolak--all himdogs. Yes. Steve him go--right away. Bimeby Marcel him come. So."

  An-ina's voice was low and soft. But for all her halting use of thewhite man's tongue, with which she found so much difficulty, there wasdecision and earnest in every word she uttered. There was the force,too, of a brave, clear-thinking mind in it. And it left Steve withdifficulty in answering her. Besides for all his desire to protest, heknew he must go, or sacrifice that thing which had brought him to Unaga.

  With characteristic decision he accepted her protest. He knew hergenerosity and courage. But a sense of shame was not lacking at thethought that the very position he had used to convince Marcel could notbe allowed to stand where his purpose was threatened.

  "I've got to go," he said almost doggedly. "But I hate the thought ofleaving you, An-ina. If Marcel would only get around now, I'd feel easy.But there's not a sign of him. He's late--late and--Psha! It's no sortof use. I must pull out right away."

  He stood up from the counter and came over to the stove. An-ina's darkeyes watched him. Even in her untutored mind she understood the strengthof character which overrode his every scruple, his every sentiment. Herregard for him was something of idolatry, and deep in her soul she knewthat the gleanings in his heart left by that white woman were hers.Maybe they were only gleanings, but she asked no more. She was content.She knew no distinction between mistress and wife. The natural laws weresufficient. He was the joy of her savage heart, and she was the onlywoman in his life. It was as she would have it.

  He came up to her and stood gazing down at the long, thin handsoutspread to the warmth. Then with an unaccustomed display of feeling hethrust one arm through hers, and his strong hand clasped itself overboth of hers.

  "Say, An-ina, I'm going a hell of a long trail. It's so long we justcan't figure the end. It's a winter trail northward, and I don't need totell you a thing of what that means. I'd say anyone but you and Marcelwould guess I'm crazy. Well, I'm not. But it's a mighty desperate chancewe're taking. If we win through, and get what we're chasing, it meansthe end of this country for all of us. Maybe you'll be glad. I don'tknow. If we fail--well, I can't just figure on failure. I never have andI don't reckon to start that way now. But I got to hand you 'good-bye'this time. It's not that way with us usually. But this time I sort offeel I want to. You're just a great woman, and you've been mostly thewhole meaning of things to me since--since--Anyway, I've done the bestI know to hand you all the happiness lying around in a territory there'snothing much to in that way. But all that's nothing to what you've beento me. Well, my dear, I don't guess it's our way talking these things,but I got that inside me makes me want to say a whole heap about how Ifeel and what I think. Guess I'm not going to try though. It wouldn'tamount to anything if I talked a day through. I wouldn't have said halfI needed to. You and Marcel are all I've got, and you two dear folk'llbe the last thought I have in life. You'll help him, my dear, won'tyou? You're just Marcel's mother, and if I don't get back you'll need tobe his father, too. Good-bye."

  An-ina made no reply. She had listened to him with a heart that wasoverflowing. As he said "good-bye" she turned her head, and thespeechlessness of their farewell was deep with simple human passion.

  A moment later they had moved apart. It was Steve's initiative.

  "Now? You go--now?"


  An-ina's voice was heroic in its steadiness. There was not a sign oftears in her shining eyes. She followed him to the door as though hisgoing were an ordinary incident in their day's routine, and stood there,while he passed out, the very embodiment of that stoicism for which herrace is so renowned.

  * * * * *

  An-ina was alone. Only the skeleton of her life at the fort remained tokeep her company. The flesh was shorn from the bone. That flesh whichhad made her life an existence of joy which the greatest terror of Unagawas powerless to rob her of. It is true there were a few of the traildogs left behind, and some of the reindeer. But what were these halfwild creatures in exchange for a human companionship in which her wholesoul was bound up?

  But An-ina was free of the vain imaginings which curse the lives ofthose who boast the culture of civilization. She was content in herwoman's memory, in her looking forward, and the present was full of anhundred and one occupations which held her mind to the exclusion ofeverything but the contemplation of the coming joy of reunion.

  She had claimed to herself a bravery equal to that of her men folk. Shemight well have claimed more. She possessed, in addition to that activecourage which belongs to the adventurer, the passive, courageousendurance of the woman. So, with an unruffled calm, she set about thedaily "chores" that were hers, and added to them all those labours whichwere necessary that this outland home should lack nothing in its welcometo her men.

  For the moment the world about her was still and silent. It was asthough Nature remained suspended in doubt between the seasons. The openseason was passed, when the earth lay bare to the lukewarm sun ofsummer. A white shroud covered the nakedness of the world, and alreadyice was spread out over the waters. But winter had not yet made itsgreat onslaught.

  It was coming. Oh, yes. It was near. The brief hours of daylight warnedthat. So did the mock-suns which hovered in the sky, chained by theradiant circle which held the dying sun prisoned. Then in the north theheavy clouds were gathering. They gathered and dispersed. Then theygathered again. And always they banked deeper and darker. The wind wasrising. That fitful, patchy wind which is so full of threat, and whichbears in its breath the cutting slash of a whip.

  There were moments in her solitude when An-ina read these warnings withsome misgivings. They were not for herself. They were not even forSteve. The winter trail was no new thing to her great man. Besides, hewas equipped against anything the Northern winter could display.Accident alone could hurt him. That was her creed. Marcel was different.He was only equipped for summer, and he should have returned before thatfirst snowfall. How could his canoes make the waters of the river whenthey were already frozen?

  Thus it was she speculated as each dawn she sought the sign of hisreturn, and at the close of each day, with the last of the vanishinglight.

  For a week she went on with her endless labours in that cheerful spiritof confidence which never seemed to fail her. Then there came a change.She sought the gates of the fort more often, and stood gazing outlonger, and with eyes that were not quite easy. Her unease was growing.She spurned it, she refused to admit her fears. And, in her defence, sheredoubled her labours.

  Thus ten days from the moment of Steve's going passed. It was theevening of the tenth day.

  With a desperate resolve she had refused to allow herself her lastevening vigil. Snow was in the air and had already begun to fall. So shesat over the great stove in the store, and plied her needle, threadedwith gut, upon the shirt that was some day to cover Steve's body. Notonce did she look up. It was almost as if she dared not. She wasfighting a little battle with herself in which hope and confidence werehard pressed.

  It was in the midst of this that the door was thrust open wide, and,with the opening, a flurry of snow swept in upon the warm atmosphere.But that which caused her to start to her feet, and drop the treasuredgarment perilously near to the stove, was the figure that appeared inthe white cloud that blew about it. It was Marcel, with snow and iceabout his mouth and chin, and upon his eye-lashes, and with his thickpea-jacket changed from its faded hue to the virgin whiteness of theelements through which he had succeeded in battling his way.

  "An-ina!"

  It was the glad cry of greeting she had yearned for in the big voice ofa man whose delight is unmeasured.

  "Marcel!" The woman's reply was full of joy. Then, with a sigh that wasa deep expression of relief: "An-ina glad--so glad!"

  Marcel turned and closed the outer storm door. Then he shut the innerdoor securely. A moment later he was freeing himself from icicles andsnow at the stove.

  "Say, I had to beat it like hell," he declared with a great laugh, whileAn-ina gathered up her sewing and laid it aside. Her mother mind wasrunning upon a hot supper for her boy. "I was just worried to death atyou folks sitting around guessing. Winter got me beat by just two weeks,and now the snow's falling in lumps, and it's mighty near down to zero.Where's Uncle Steve?"

  "Gone." An-ina had forgotten the supper. "Him gone where you know. Himgone days. Maybe ten. No wait. Oh, no. Him guess you come soon. So himgo."

  "And Julyman? And Oolak?"

  "All gone. All him gone by land of fire. Oh, yes."

  An-ina sighed. It was her only means of expressing the feelings shecould not deny.

  Marcel's eyes had sobered. He flung off his pea-jacket and possessedhimself of An-ina's chair. He sat there with his great hands spread outto the warmth, enduring the sharp cold-aches it inspired. He was gazingsteadily at the glowing patch where the side of the stove was red hot.His mind was busy with thoughts which robbed him of half the joy of hisreturn.

  The thought of supper returned to the woman.

  "So. I mak' him supper," she said. "Him boys. They come too?"

  "Oh, yes," Marcel laughed shortly "Guess they're back in the woodsthere, doping like hell so they shan't lose any sleep. They were kind ofmad with me getting back late. I had to rawhide two of them, or thewhole darn lot would have bolted. You see, I was held up."

  An-ina would have questioned further but there was no encouragement inMarcel's tone or manner. He had not turned to reply. His attitude wasone the squaw recognized. He wanted to think. So she moved silently awayand passed to the old kitchen to prepare his food.

  Marcel sat on. He was thinking, thinking hard. But not in any directionthat An-ina would have guessed. For once there was confusion of thoughtand feeling that was quite foreign to his nature. He was thinking ofKeeko, he was thinking of Uncle Steve, and he was thinking of An-ina. Hewas angry with himself and as nearly angry with Uncle Steve as he couldbe. He cursed himself that through his delay An-ina should have beenleft alone for two weeks. He was troubled at the thought that UncleSteve saw fit to leave her, and refused to await his return. And towardsAn-ina he felt that contrition which his deep regard for her made sopoignant. But through all, above all, floated the spirit of Keeko, andhe knew that whatever might have befallen nothing would have made himact differently. He was troubled to realize that for the first time inhis life Uncle Steve and An-ina had only second place in his thought.

  His reflections were broken by An-ina's quiet return.

  "Supper--him all fixed. Marcel come?"

  Marcel started up. And the shadows passed out of his handsome eyes. Thegentle humility with which An-ina addressed him was irresistible. He wassmiling again. His deep affection for this mother woman was shining inhis eyes.

  "Will I come?" he cried. "Say, you just see."

  * * * * *

  Marcel had eaten his fill. He had been well-nigh famishing when hearrived, and the simple cooking and wholesome food that An-ina setbefore him was like a banquet compared to the fare of the trail, onwhich he had subsisted all the open season.

  Now he was lounging back in the rawhide-seated chair with his pipeaglow. He was ready to talk, more than ready. And An-ina's soft eyeswere observing him, and reading him in her own wise way.

  "You tell me--now?" she said, in the fashion of one who knows the
valueof food to her men folk's mood.

  Marcel nodded with a ready smile.

  "Any old thing you fancy," he cried. "What'll I tell you? About the darnoutfit, the pelts we got? The woods? The rivers? The skitters? The----"

  An-ina shook her head. His mood was what she desired.

  "No. Marcel say the thing that please him. An-ina listen."

  Marcel laughed. He had come home with the treasure hugged tight to hisbosom. He had promised himself that this was his secret, to be impartedto no one--not even to Uncle Steve. An-ina had demanded that he shouldspeak as he desired, and he knew that his one desire was to talk ofKeeko. Now, he asked himself, why--why, for all his resolve, should hewithhold the story of this greatest of all joys from the woman who washis second mother?

  His laugh was his yielding.

  "Oh, yes," he cried impulsively. "I'll tell you the thing that pleasesme. I'll tell you the reason I was held up. And--it's the greatestever!"

  An-ina rose quickly from her seat.

  "You tell An-ina--sure. It long. Oh, yes. An-ina say this thing--'thegreatest ever.'"

  She was gone and had returned again before Marcel had dragged himselfback from his contemplation of the things which he desired to talk of.It was a gentle hint from An-ina that roused him.

  "Oh, yes? An-ina listen."

  Marcel started. He stirred his great bulk, and re-lit the pipe he hadfailed to keep alight.

  "I'd forgotten," he said, with another laugh that was not free fromself-consciousness. "Say," he went on, "I've hit the greatest trail evera feller struck in this queer darn country. Gee!" He breathed a profoundsigh. "It was queer. I was trailing an old bull moose. I followed itdays."

  An-ina was watching him. She beheld the radiant light in his frank eyes.She noted the almost feverish manner in which he was clouding thetobacco smoke about him. She even thought she detected an unsteadinessin the hand that held his pipe. She waited.

  "Oh, yes," he went on. "I was in a territory I guess I've hunted plenty.I kind of knew it all, as it's given to anyone to know this darn land. Ifollowed the trail right up to the end, but--I didn't make a kill. No."

  His tone had dropped to a soft, deep note that thrilled with someemotion An-ina had never before been aware of in him. A startled lightshone in her eyes, and her work lay unheeded in her lap.

  "No. I didn't make a kill, but I came right up to the end of that trail,and found----"

  "A woman?"

  Marcel sat up with a jolt. His wide, astonished eyes stared almostfoolishly into the dark native eyes smiling back into his.

  "How d'you know--that?" he demanded sharply.

  He planted his elbows on the table, resting his square chin upon hishands.

  An-ina laughed that almost silent laugh so peculiar to her.

  "An-ina guess him. An-ina look and look. An-ina see Marcel allsmiling--inside. She hear him voice all soft, like--like--Ah, An-ina notknow what it like. So she think. She say, what mak' Marcel all like this?Him find something. Him not scare. Oh, no. Marcel not scare nothing. No.Him much please. Marcel boy? No. Him big man. What him mak' big man muchplease. An-ina know. It woman. So she say."

  Marcel wanted to laugh. He wanted to shout his delight. He wanted topour out the hot, passionate feelings of his heart to a woman who couldread and understand him like this. He did none of these things, however.

  He simply smiled and nodded, while his whole face lit radiantly.

  "That's a hell of a good guess," he cried. "Yes. I found a--woman. Abeautiful, blue-eyed white woman. And she called herself, 'Keeko.'"

  An-ina swiftly rolled up the buckskin she was working. She laid it onthe supper table beside her. Then she drew up her chair, and she, too,set her elbows on the table, and supported her handsome, smiling face inher hands. Again it was the woman, the mother in her. It was her boy'sromance. The boy she had raised to manhood with so much love anddevotion. And she was thirsting, as only a mother can, for the story ofit.

  "So. Marcel him say. An-ina listen."