by Zane Grey
And to other ears than their own the medicine-drum had carried the Song of Death. Down in the thick spruce of the plain a man on the trail of a caribou had heard. He looked up, and on the cap of the ridge he saw. He was old in the ways and the unwritten laws of the North, and like a deer he turned and sped back unseen in the direction of the Devil’s Nest. And as the avengers came down into the plain Kaskisoon chanted in a low monotone:
Our fathers—come!
Come from out of the valley.
Guide us—for to-day we fight,
And the winds whisper of death!
And those who heard did not laugh. Father George crossed himself, and muttered something that might have been a prayer. For in this hour Kaskisoon’s God was very near.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Many years before, Thoreau had named his aerie stronghold the Eagle’s Nest. The brown-faced people of the trails had changed it to Devil’s Nest. It was not built like the posts, on level ground and easy of access. Its northern wall rose sheer up with the wall of Eagle Chasm, with a torrent two hundred feet below that rumbled and roared like distant thunder when the spring floods came. John Adare knew that this chasm worked its purpose. Somewhere in it were the liquor caches which the police never found when they came that way on their occasional patrols. On the east and south sides of the Nest was an open, rough and rocky, filled with jagged outcrops of boulders and patches of bush; behind it the thick forest grew up to the very walls.
The forest people were three quarters of a mile from this open when they came upon the trail of the lone caribou hunter. Where he had stood and looked up at them the snow was beaten down; from that spot his back-trail began first in a cautious, crouching retreat that changed swiftly into the long running steps of a man in haste. Like a dog, Kaskisoon hovered over the warm trail. His eyes glittered, and he held out his hands, palms downward, and looked at Adare.
“The snow still crumbles in the footmarks,” he said in Cree. “They are expecting us.”
Adare turned to the men behind him.
“You who have brought axes cut logs with which to batter in the doors,” he said. “We will not ask them to surrender. We must make them fight, so that we may have an excuse to kill them. Two logs for eight men each. And you others fill your pockets with birch bark and spruce pitch-knots. Let no man touch fire to a log until we have Josephine. Then, burn! And you, Kaskisoon, go ahead and watch what is happening!”
He was calmer now. As the men turned to obey his commands he laid a hand on Philip’s shoulder.
“I told you this was coming, Boy,” he said huskily. “But I didn’t think it meant her. My God, if they have harmed her—”
His breath seemed choking him.
“They dare not!” breathed Philip.
John Adare looked into the white fear of the other’s face. There was no hiding of it: the same terrible dread that was in his own.
“If they should, we will kill them by inches, Philip!” he whispered. “We will cut them into bits that the moose-birds can carry away. Great God, they shall roast over fires!” He hurried toward the men who were already chopping at spruce timber. Philip looked about for Jean. He had disappeared. A hundred yards ahead of them he had caught up with Kaskisoon, and side by side the Indian and the half-breed were speeding now over the man-trail. Perhaps in the hearts of these two, of all those gathered in this hour of vengeance, there ran deepest the thirst for blood. With Kaskisoon it was the dormant instinct of centuries of forebears, roused now into fierce desire. With Jean it was necessity.
In the face of John Adare’s words that there was to be no quarter, Jean still feared the possibility of a parley, a few minutes of truce, the meaning of which sent a shiver to the depths of his soul. He said nothing to the Cree. And Kaskisoon’s lips were as silent as the great flakes of snow that began to fall about them now in a mantle so thick that it covered their shoulders in the space of two hundred yards. When the timber thinned out Kaskisoon picked his way with the caution of a lynx. At the edge of the clearing they crouched side by side behind a low windfall, and peered over the top.
Three hundred yards away was the Nest. The man whose trail they had followed had disappeared. And then, suddenly, the door opened, and there poured out a crowd of excited men. The lone hunter was ahead of them, talking and pointing toward the forest. Jean counted—eight, ten, eleven—and his eyes searched for Lang and Thoreau. He cursed the thick snow now. Through it he could not make them out. He had drawn back the hammer of his rifle.
At the click of it Kaskisoon moved. He looked at the half-breed. His breath came in a low monosyllable of understanding. Over the top of the windfall he poked the barrel of his gun. Then he looked again at Jean. And Jean turned. Their eyes met. They were eyes red and narrowed by the beat of storm. Jean Croisset knew what that silence meant. He might have spoken. But no word moved his lips. Unseen, his right hand made a cross over his heart. Deep in his soul he thought a prayer.
Jean looked again at the huddled group about the door. And beside him there was a terrible silence. He held his breath, his heart ceased to beat, and then there came the crashing roar of the Cree’s heavy gun, and one of the group staggered out with a shriek and fell face downward in the snow. Even then Jean’s finger pressed lightly on the trigger of his rifle as he tried to recognize Lang. Another moment, and half a dozen rifles were blazing in their direction. It was then that he fired. Once, twice—six times, as fast as he could pump the empty cartridges out of his gun and fresh ones into the chamber. With the sixth came again the thunderous roar of the Cree’s single-loader.
“Pa, Kaskisoon!” cried Jean then. The last of Thoreau’s men had darted back into the house. Three of their number they had carried in their arms. A fourth stumbled and fell across the threshold. “Pa! We have done. Quick—kistayetak!”
He darted back over their trail, followed by the Cree. There would be no truce now! It was war. He was glad that he had come with Kaskisoon.
Two hundred yards back in the forest they met Philip and Adare at the head of their people.
“They were coming to ambush us when we entered the clearing!” shouted Jean. “We drove them back. Four fell under our bullets. The place is still full of the devils, M’sieur!”
“It will be impossible to rush the doors,” cried Philip, seeing the gathering madness in John Adare’s face. “We must fight with caution, Mon Pere! We cannot throw away lives. Divide our men. Let Jean take twelve and you another twelve, and give Kaskisoon his own people. That will leave me ten to batter in the doors. You can cover the windows with your fire while we rush across the open with the one log. There is no need for two.”
“Philip is right,” added the Missioner in a low voice. “He is right, John. It would be madness to attempt to rush the place in a body.”
Adare hesitated for a moment. His clenched hands relaxed.
“Yes, he is right,” he said. “Divide the men.”
Fifteen minutes later the different divisions of the little army had taken up their positions about the clearing. Philip was in the centre, with eight of the youngest and strongest of the forest men waiting for the signal to dash forward with the log. First, on his right, was Jean and his men, and two hundred yards beyond him the master of Adare, concealed in a clump of thick spruce, Kaskisoon and his braves had taken the windfalls on the left.
As yet not a man had revealed himself to Thoreau and his band. But the dogs had scented them, and they stood watchfully in front of the long log building, barking and whining.
From where he crouched Philip could see five windows. Through these would come the enemy’s fire. He waited. It was Jean who was to begin, and draw the first shots. Suddenly the half-breed and his men broke from cover. They were scattered, darting low among the boulders and bush, partly protected and yet visible from the windows.
Phi
lip drew himself head and shoulders over his log as he watched. He forgot himself in this moment when he was looking upon men running into the face of death. In another moment came the crash of rifles muffled behind log walls. He could hear the whine of bullets, the zip, zip, zip of them back in the spruce and cedar.
Another hundred yards beyond Jean, he saw John Adare break from his cover like a great lion, his men spreading out like a pack of wolves. Swiftly Philip turned and looked to the left. Kaskisoon and his braves were advancing upon the Nest with the elusiveness of foxes. At first he could not see them. Then, as Adare’s voice boomed over the open, they rose with the suddenness of a flight of partridges, and ran swift-footed straight in the face of the windows. Thus far the game of the attackers had worked without flaw. Thoreau and his men would be forced to divide their fire.
It had taken perhaps three quarters of a minute for the first forward rush of the three parties, and during this time the fire from the windows had concentrated upon Jean and his men. Philip looked toward them again. They were in the open. He caught his breath, stared—and counted eight! Two were missing.
He turned to his own men, crouching and waiting. Eight were ready with the log. Two others were to follow close behind, prepared to take the place of the first who fell. He looked again out into the open field. There came a long clear cry from the half-breed, a shout from Adare, a screaming, animal-like response from Kaskisoon, and at those three signals the forest people fell behind rocks, bits of shrub, and upon their faces. In that same breath the crash of rifles in the open drowned the sound of those beyond the wall of the Nest. From thirty rifles a hail of bullets swept through the windows. This was Philip’s cue. He rose with a sharp cry, and behind him came the eight with the battering-ram. It was two hundred yards from their cover to the building. They passed the last shelter, and struck the open on a trot. Now rose from the firing men behind rock and bush a wild and savage cheer. Philip heard John Adare roaring his encouragement. With each shot of the Crees came a piercing yell.
Yard by yard they ran on, the men panting in their excitement. Then came the screech of a bullet, and the shout on Philip’s lips froze into silence. At first he thought the bullet had struck. But it had gone a little high. A second—a third—and the biting dust of a shattered rock spat into their faces. With a strange thrill Philip saw that the fire was not coming from the windows. Flashes of smoke came from low under the roof of the building. Thoreau and his men were firing through loopholes! John Adare and Jean saw this, and with loud cries they led their men fairly out into the open in an effort to draw the fire from Philip and the log-bearers. Not a shot was turned in their direction.
A leaden hail enveloped Philip and his little band. One of the log-bearers crumpled down without a moan. Instantly his place was filled. Twenty yards more and a second staggered out from the line, clutched a hand to his breast, and sank into the snow. The last man filled his place. They were only a hundred yards from the door now, but without a rock or a stump between them and death. Another of the log-bearers rolled out from the line, and Philip sprang into the vacancy. A fourth, a fifth—and with a wild cry of horror John Adare called upon Philip to drop the log.
Nothing but the bullets could stop the little band now. Seventy yards! Sixty! Only fifty more—and the man ahead of Philip fell under his feet. The remaining six staggered over him with the log. And now up from behind them came Jean Jacques Croisset and his men, firing blindly at the loopholes, and enveloping the men along the log in those last thirty yards that meant safety from the fire above. And behind him came John Adare, and from the south Kaskisoon and his Crees, a yelling, triumphant horde of avengers now at the very doors of the Devil’s Nest!
Philip staggered a step aside, winded, panting, a warm trickle of blood running over his face. He heard the first thunder of the battering-ram against the door, the roaring voice of John Adare, and then a hand like ice smote his heart as he saw Jean huddled up in the snow. In an instant he was on his knees at the half-breed’s side. Jean was not dead. But in his eyes was a fading light that struck Philip with terror. A wan smile crept over his lips. With his head in Philip’s arm, he whispered:
“M’sieur, I am afraid I am struck through the lung. I do not know, but I am afraid.” His voice was strangely steady. But in his eyes was that swiftly fading light! “If should go—you must know,” he went on, and Philip bent low to hear his words above the roar of voices and the crashing of the battering-ram. “You must know—to take my place in the fight for Josephine. I think—you have guessed it. The baby was not Josephine’s. It was Miriam’s!”
“Yes, yes, Jean!” cried Philip into the fading eyes. “That was what I guessed!”
“Don’t blame her—too much,” struggled Jean. “She went down into a world she didn’t know. Lang—trapped her. And Josephine, to save her, to save the baby, to save her father—did as Munito the White Star did to save the Cree god. You know. You understand. Lang followed—to demand Josephine as the price of her mother. M’sieur, you must kill him! Go!”
The door had fallen in with a crash, and now over the crime-darkened portals of the Devil’s Nest poured the avengers, with John Adare at their head.
“Go!” gasped Jean, almost rising to his knees. “You must meet this Lang before John Adare!”
Philip sprang to his feet. The last of the forest people had poured through the door. Alone he stood—and stared. But not through the door! Two hundred yards away a man was flying along the edge of the forest, and he had come from behind the walls of the devil’s nest! He recognized him. It was Lang, the man he was to kill!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
In a moment the flying figure of the Free Trader had disappeared. With a last glance at Jean, who was slowly sinking back into the snow, Philip dashed in pursuit. Where Lang had buried himself in the deeper forest the trees grew so thick that Philip, could not see fifty yards ahead of him. But Lang’s trail was distinct—and alone. He was running swiftly. Philip had noticed that Lang had no rifle, He dropped his own now, and drew his pistol. Thus unencumbered he made swifter progress. He had expected to overtake Lang within four or five hundred yards; but minute followed minute in the mad race without another view of his enemy. He heard a few faint shouts back in the direction of the Devil’s Nest, the barking of dogs, and half a dozen shots, the sounds growing fainter and fainter. And then Lang’s trail led him unexpectedly into one of the foot-beaten aisles of the forest where there were the tracks of a number of men.
At this point the thick spruce formed a roof over-head that had shut out the fresh snow, and Philip lost several minutes before he found the place where Lang had left the trail to bury himself again in the unblazed forest. Half a mile farther he followed the Free Trader’s trail without catching a glimpse of the man. He was at least a mile from the Devil’s Nest when he heard sounds ahead of him. Beyond a clump of balsam he heard the voices of men, and then the whine of a cuffed dog. Cautiously he picked his way through the thick cover until he crouched close to the edge of a small open. In an instant it seemed as though his heart had leapt from his breast into his throat, and was choking him. Within fifty paces of him were both Lang and Thoreau. But for a moment he scarcely saw them, or the powerful team of eight huskies, harnessed and waiting. For on the sledge, a cloth bound about her mouth, her hands tied behind her, was Josephine!
At sight of her Philip did not pause to plan an attack. The one thought that leapt into his brain like fire was that Lang and Thoreau had fooled the forest people—Josephine had not been taken to the Devil’s Nest, and the two were attempting to get away with her.
A cry burst from his lips as he ran from cover. Instantly the pair were facing him. Lang was still panting from his run. He held no weapons. In the crook of Thoreau’s arm rested a rifle. Swift as a flash he raised it to his shoulder, the muzzle levelled at Philip’s breast. Josephine had turned. From her smothered lips came a choking
cry of agony. Philip had now raised his automatic. It was level with his waistline. From that position he had trained himself to fire with the deadly precision that is a part of the training of the men of the Royal Northwest Mounted. Before Thoreau’s forefinger had pressed the trigger of his rifle a stream of fire shot out from the muzzle of the automatic.
Thoreau did not move. Then a shudder passed through him. His rifle dropped from his nerveless hands. Without a moan he crumpled down into the snow. Three of the five bullets that had flashed like lightning from the black-muzzled Savage had passed completely through his body. It had all happened in a space so short that Lang had not stirred. Now he found himself looking into that little engine of death. With a cry of fear he staggered back.
Philip did not fire. He felt in himself now the tigerish madness that had been in John Adare. To him Thoreau had been no more than a wolf, one of the many at Devil’s Nest. Lang was different. For all things this monster was accountable. He had no desire to shoot. He wanted to reach him with his hands—to choke the life from him slowly, to hear from his own blackening lips the confession that had come through Jean Croisset.
He knew that Josephine was on her feet now, that she was struggling to free her hands, but it was only in a swift glance that he saw this. In the same breath he had dropped his pistol and was at Lang’s throat. They went down together. Even Thoreau, a giant in size and strength, would not have been a match for him now. Every animal passion in him was roused to its worst.
Lang’s jaws shot apart, his eyes protruded, his tongue came out—the breath rattled in his throat. Then for a moment Philip’s death-grip relaxed. He bent down until his lips were close to the death-filled face of his victim.
