Lords of the North

by Laut, Agnes C

  When we finally reached the height, the Sioux were far down in the valley. It was utterly hopeless to try to overtake them. Ah! It is easy to face death and to struggle and to fight and to triumph! But the hardest of all hard things is to surrender, to yield to the inevitable, to turn back just when the goal looms through obscurity!

  I still had Diable in my power. We headed about and crawled slowly back by unburnt land towards the buffalo hunters.

  Little Fellow, we overtook limping homeward afoot. Burnt Earth and Ringing Thunder awaited us near the ravine. The carts were already out gathering hides, tallow, flesh and tongues. We made what poor speed we could among the buffalo carcasses to the spot where we had left Le Grand Diable. It was Little Fellow, who was hobbling ahead, and the Indian suddenly turned with such a cry of baffled rage, I knew it boded misfortune. Running forward, I could hardly believe my eyes. Fools that we were to leave the captive unguarded! The great buffalo lay unmolested; but there was no Le Grand Diable. A third time had he vanished as if in league with the powers of the air. Closer examination explained his disappearance. A wet, tattered moccasin, with the appearance of having been chewed, lay on the turf. He had evidently bitten through his gag, raised his arms to his mouth, eaten away the hare thongs, and so, without the help of the Sioux raiders, freed his hands, untied himself and escaped.

  Dumfounded and baffled, I returned to the encampment and took counsel with Father Holland. We arranged to set out for the Mandanes on the Missouri. Diable's tribe had certainly gone south to Sioux territory. The Sioux and the Mandanes were friendly enough neighbors this year. Living with the Mandanes south of the Sioux country, we might keep track of the enemy without exposing ourselves to Sioux vengeance.

  Forebodings of terrible suffering for Miriam haunted me. I could not close my eyes without seeing her subjected to Indian torture; and I had no heart to take part in the jubilation of the hunters over their great success. The savory smell of roasting meat whiffed into my tent and I heard the shrill laughter of the squaws preparing the hunters' feast. With hard-wood axles squeaking loudly under the unusual burden, the last cart rumbled into the camp enclosure with its load of meat and skins. The clamor of the people subsided; and I knew every one was busily gorging to repletion, too intent on the satisfaction of animal greed to indulge in the Saxon habit of talking over a meal. Well might they gorge; for this was the one great annual feast. There would follow a winter of stint and hardship and hunger; and every soul in the camp was laying up store against famine. Even the dogs were happy, for they were either roving over the field of the hunt, or lying disabled from gluttony at their masters' tents.

  Father Holland remained in the tepee with me talking over our plans and plastering Indian ointment on my numerous burns. By and by, the voices of the feasters began again and we heard Pierre, the rhymester, chanting the song of the buffalo hunt:

  Now list to the song of the buffalo hunt,

  Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, chant of the brave!

  We are Bois-Brulés, Freemen of the plains,

  We choose our chief! We are no man's slave!

  Up, riders, up, ere the early mist

  Ascends to salute the rising sun!

  Up, rangers, up, ere the buffalo herds

  Sniff morning air for the hunter's gun!

  They lie in their lairs of dank spear-grass,

  Down in the gorge, where the prairie dips.

  We've followed their tracks through the sucking ooze,

  Where our bronchos sank to their steaming hips.

  We've followed their tracks from the rolling plain

  Through slime-green sloughs to a sedgy ravine,

  Where the cat-tail spikes of the marsh-grown flags

  Stand half as high as the billowy green.

  The spear-grass touched our saddle-bows,

  The blade-points pricked to the broncho's neck;

  But we followed the tracks like hounds on scent

  Till our horses reared with a sudden check.

  The scouts dart back with a shout, "They are found!"

  Great fur-maned heads are thrust through reeds,

  A forest of horns, a crunching of stems,

  Reined sheer on their haunches are terrified steeds!

  Get you gone to the squaws at the tents, old men,

  The cart-lines safely encircle the camp!

  Now, braves of the plain, brace your saddle-girths!

  Quick! Load guns, for our horses champ!

  A tossing of horns, a pawing of hoofs,

  But the hunters utter never a word,

  As the stealthy panther creeps on his prey,

  So move we in silence against the herd.

  With arrows ready and triggers cocked,

  We round them nearer the valley bank;

  They pause in defiance, then start with alarm

  At the ominous sound of a gun-barrel's clank.

  A wave from our captain, out bursts a wild shout,

  A crash of shots from our breaking ranks,

  And the herd stampedes with a thunderous boom

  While we drive our spurs into quivering flanks.

  The arrows hiss like a shower of snakes,

  The bullets puff in a smoky gust,

  Out fly loose reins from the bronchos' bits

  And hunters ride on in a whirl of dust.

  The bellowing bulls rush blind with fear

  Through river and marsh, while the trampled dead

  Soon bridge safe ford for the plunging herd;

  Earth rocks like a sea 'neath the mighty tread.

  A rip of the sharp-curved sickle-horns,

  A hunter falls to the blood-soaked ground!

  He is gored and tossed and trampled down,

  On dashes the furious beast with a bound,

  When over sky-line hulks the last great form

  And the rumbling thunder of their hoofs' beat, beat,

  Dies like an echo in distant hills,

  Back ride the hunters chanting their feat.

  Now, old men and squaws, come you out with the carts!

  There's meat against hunger and fur against cold!

  Gather full store for the pemmican bags,

  Garner the booty of warriors bold.

  So list ye the song of the Bois-Brulés,

  Of their glorious deeds in the days of old,

  And this is the tale of the buffalo hunt

  Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, have proudly told.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIV

  IN SLIPPERY PLACES

  A more desolate existence than the life of a fur-trading winterer in the far north can scarcely be imagined. Penned in some miserable lodge a thousand miles from human companionship, only the wild orgies of the savages varied the monotony of dull days and long nights. The winter I spent with the Mandanes was my first in the north. I had not yet learned to take events as the rock takes wave-blows, and was still at that mawkish age when a man is easily filled with profound pity for himself. A month after our arrival, Father Holland left the Mandane village. Eric Hamilton had not yet come; so I felt much like the man whom a gloomy poet describes as earth's last habitant. I had accompanied the priest half-way to the river forks. Here, he was to get passage in an Indian canoe to the tribes of the upper Missouri. After an affectionate farewell, I stood on a knoll of treeless land and watched the broad-brimmed hat and black robe receding from me.

  "Good-by, boy! God bless you!" he had said in broken voice. "Don't fall to brooding when you're alone, or you'll lose your wits. Now mind yourself! Don't mope!"

  For my part, I could not answer a word, but keeping hold of his hand walked on with him a pace.

  "Get away with you! Go home, youngster!" he ordered, roughly shaking me off and flourishing his staff.

  Then he strode swiftly forward without once looking back, while I would have given all I possessed for one last wave. As he plunged into the sombre forest, where the early autumn frost of that north land had already tinged t
he maple woods with the hectic flush of coming death, so poignant was this last wresting from human fellowship, I could scarcely resist the impulse to desert my station and follow him. Poorer than the poorest of the tribes to whom he ministered, alone and armed only with his faith, this man was ready to conquer the world for his Master. "Would that I had half the courage for my quest," I mused, and walked slowly back to the solitary lodge.

  Black Cat, Chief of the Mandane village, in a noisy harangue, adopted me as his son and his brother and his father and his mother and I know not what; but apart from trade with his people, I responded coldly to these warm overtures. From Father Holland's leave-taking to Hamilton's coming, was a desolately lonesome interval. Daily I went to the north hill and strained my eyes for figures against the horizon. Sometimes horsemen would gradually loom into view, head first, then arms and horse, like the peak of a ship preceding appearance of full canvas and hull over sea. Thereupon I would hurriedly saddle my own horse and ride furiously forward, feeling confident that Hamilton had at last come, only to find the horsemen some company of Indian riders. What could be keeping him? I conjectured a thousand possibilities; but in truth there was no need for any conjectures. 'Twas I, who felt the days drag like years. Hamilton was not behind his appointed time. He came at last, walking in on me one night when I least expected him and was sitting moodily before my untouched supper. He had nothing to tell except that he had wasted many weeks following false clues, till our buffalo hunters returned with news of the Sioux attack, Diable's escape and our bootless pursuit. At once he had left Fort Douglas for the Missouri, pausing often to send scouts scouring the country for news of Diable's band; but not a trace of the rascals had been found; and his search seemed on the whole more barren of results than mine. Laplante, he reported, had never been seen the night after he left the council hall to find the young Nor'-Wester. In my own mind, I had no doubt the villain had been in that company we pursued through the prairie fire. Altogether, I think Hamilton's coming made matters worse rather than better. That I had failed after so nearly effecting a rescue seemed to embitter him unspeakably.

  Out of deference to the rival companies employing us, we occupied different lodges. Indeed, I fear poor Eric did but a sorry business for the Hudson's Bay that winter. I verily believe he would have forgotten to eat, let alone barter for furs, had I not been there to lug him forcibly across to my lodge, where meals were prepared for us both. Often when I saw the Indian trappers gathering before his door with piles of peltries, I would go across and help him to value the furs. At first the Indian rogues were inclined to take advantage of his abstraction and palm off one miserable beaver skin, where they should have given five for a new hatchet; and I began to understand why they crowded to his lodge, though he did nothing to attract them, while they avoided mine. Then I took a hand in Hudson's Bay trade and equalized values. First, I would pick over the whole pile, which the Indians had thrown on the floor, putting spoiled skins to one side, and peltries of the same kind in classified heaps.

  "Lynx, buffalo, musk-ox, marten, beaver, silver fox, black bear, raccoon! Want them all, Eric?" I would ask, while the Indians eyed me with suspicious resentment.

  "Certainly, certainly, take everything," Eric would answer, without knowing a word of what I had said, and at once throwing away his opportunity to drive a good bargain.

  Picking over the goods of Hamilton's packet, the Mandanes would choose what they wanted. Then began a strange, silent haggling over prices. Unlike Oriental races, the Indian maintains stolid silence, compelling the white man to do the talking.

  "Eric, Running Deer wants a gun," I would begin.

  "For goodness' sake, give it to him, and don't bother me," Eric would urge, and the faintest gleam of amused triumph would shoot from the beady eyes of Running Deer. Running Deer's peltries would be spread out, and after a half hour of silent consideration on his part and trader's talk on mine, furs to the value of so many beaver skins would be passed across for the coveted gun. I remember it was a wretched old squaw with a toothless, leathery, much-bewrinkled face and a reputation for knowledge of Indian medicines, who first opened my eyes to the sort of trade the Indians had been driving with Hamilton. The old creature was bent almost double over her stout oak staff and came hobbling in with a bag of roots, which she flung on the floor. After thawing out her frozen moccasins before the lodge fire and taking off bandages of skins about her ankles, she turned to us for trade. We were ready to make concessions that might induce the old body to hurry away; but she demanded red flannel, tea and tobacco enough to supply a whole family of grandchildren, and sat down on the bag of roots prepared to out-siege us.

  "What's this, Eric?" I asked, knowing no more of roots than the old woman did of values.

  "Seneca for drugs. For goodness' sake, buy it quick and don't haggle."

  "But she wants your whole kit, man," I objected.

  "She'll have the whole kit and the shanty, too, if you don't get her out," said Hamilton, opening the lodge door; and the old squaw presently limped off with an armful of flannel, one tea packet and a parcel of tobacco, already torn open. Such was the character of Hamilton's bartering up to the time I elected myself his first lieutenant; but as his abstractions became almost trance-like, I think the superstition of the Indians was touched. To them, a maniac is a messenger of the Great Spirit; and Hamilton's strange ways must have impressed them, for they no longer put exorbitant values on their peltries.

  After the day's trading Eric would come to my hut. Pacing the cramped place for hours, wild-eyed and silent, he would abruptly dash into the darkness of the night like one on the verge of madness. Thereupon, the taciturn, grave-faced La Robe Noire, tapping his forehead significantly, would look with meaning towards Little Fellow; and I would slip out some distance behind to see that Hamilton did himself no harm while the paroxysm lasted. So absorbed was he in his own gloom, for days he would not utter a syllable. The storm that had gathered would then discharge its strength in an outburst of incoherent ravings, which usually ended in Hamilton's illness and my watching over him night and day, keeping firearms out of reach. I have never seen—and hope I never may—any other being age so swiftly and perceptibly. I had attributed his worn appearance in Fort Douglas to the cannon accident and trusted the natural robustness of his constitution would throw off the apparent languor; but as autumn wore into winter, there were more gray hairs on his temple, deeper lines furrowed his face and the erect shoulders began to bow.

  When days slipped into weeks and weeks into months without the slightest inkling of Miriam's whereabouts to set at rest the fear that my rash pursuit had caused her death, I myself grew utterly despondent. Like all who embark on daring ventures, I had not counted on continuous frustration. The idea that I might waste a lifetime in the wilderness without accomplishing anything had never entered my mind. Week after week, the scouts dispatched in every direction came back without one word of the fugitives, and I began to imagine my association with Hamilton had been unfortunate for us both. This added to despair the bitterness of regret.

  The winter was unusually mild, and less game came to the Missouri from the mountains and bad lands than in severe seasons. By February, we were on short rations. Two meals a day, with cat-fish for meat and dried skins in soup by way of variety, made up our regular fare for mid-winter. The frequent absence of my two Indians, scouring the region for the Sioux, left me to do my own fishing; and fishing with bare hands in frosty weather is not pleasant employment for a youth of soft up-bringing. Protracted bachelordom was also losing its charms; but that may have resulted from a new influence, which came into my life and seemed ever present.

  At Christmas, Hamilton was threatened with violent insanity. As the Mandanes' provisions dwindled, the Indians grew surlier toward us; and I was as deep in despondency as a man could sink. Frequently, I wondered whether Father Holland would find us alive in the spring, and I sometimes feared ours would be the fate of Athabasca traders whose bodies satisfied the
hunger of famishing Crees.

  How often in those darkest hours did a presence, which defied time and space, come silently to me, breathing inspiration that may not be spoken, healing the madness of despair and leaving to me in the midst of anxiety a peace which was wholly unaccountable! In the lambent flame of the rough stone fireplace, in the darkness between Hamilton's hut and mine, through which I often stole, dreading what I might find—everywhere, I felt and saw, or seemed to see, those gray eyes with the look of a startled soul opening its virgin beauty and revealing its inmost secrets.

  A bleak, howling wind, with great piles of storm-scud overhead, raved all the day before Christmas. It was one of those afternoons when the sombre atmosphere seems weighted with gloom and weariness. On Christmas eve Hamilton's brooding brought on acute delirium. He had been more depressed than usual, and at night when we sat down to a cheerless supper of hare-skin soup and pemmican, he began to talk very fast and quite irrationally.

  "See here, old boy," said I, "you'd better bunk here to-night. You're not well."

  "Bunk!" said he icily, in the grand manner he sometimes assumed at the Quebec Club for the benefit of a too familiar member. "And pray, Sir, what might 'bunk' mean?"

  "Go to bed, Eric," I coaxed, getting tight hold of his hands. "You're not well, old man; come to bed!"