Part 11

“Qu’est-ce?” asked one of the Indians. No answer: the others were listening. Only the snow silence could be heard; the minute settling of the flakes on the logs, the drifting of the heavier ones against the buildings, was audible; beyond these nothing was felt but the peace of the coming of day, that hour when everything is truly still, when man sleeps the heaviest, when animals are about to wake, but have not moved from their night’s bed. The sentries watched from their loopholes and saw the light come stronger and stronger; saw the outlines of the clearing define themselves; saw the branches of the trees stand out clearer and clearer from the mass and become separate; saw them bending farther and farther with their load of white, and finally could see through the dull gloom of the forest trunks, and discern the stillness of everything. The atmosphere changed suddenly; it became steel-like in its sting of cold. The falling snow was harder and the wind increased, blowing it into the men’s faces in biting myriads. The light was chilling and gray; comfortless and repellent. For a fleeting instant one yellow ray of the coming sun forced itself athwart the pallid heavens, then it was gone and all was bleak and stern again.

A fire was lighted by a tepee; voices came and went; then more fires shone uncertainly through the changing, ever-falling white, and the post was awake. Dull and lifeless seemed the inhabitants as they moved hither and thither solemnly. For were they not to leave their homes to-day and go into the Unknown of the wilderness? Breakfasts were eaten in quiet; the flames that boiled the tea and cooked the meal alone gave life to the cheerless scene. And afterward came the tearing down of homes, the packing of necessities and little family treasures, the gathering of all outside the stockade. Jules had arranged everything, and now he went, firebrand in hand, from building to shed and building, setting them all ablaze. As the lurid fires shot skyward he took off his fur cap and muttered “Adieu!” with the rest. “Dieu soit veet’ you h’all!” he said then, and gravely watched the trappers and their families as they disappeared, with the wounded on the dog-teams, into the dense timber-land beyond. He listened for their voices, and a feeling of loneliness, of longing for some one, came over him with unpitying force. The buildings burned with roars and crashings, and the billows of sparks were lifted up and carried far into the snow air. And still he watched, fascinated: shed by shed, log house by log house, the post caught, flared, and fell before him. At last the stockade caught the conflagration, and rings of fire crept slowly round it; and then it was all gone but heaps of smouldering ashes.

“Adieu encore,” Jules said as he swung about and went off under the thick trees, his snow-shoes sounding dully as he strode along.

XIX

THE AWAKENING OF THE GREAT HEART

ON and on through the dense forests he went, straight, unswerving, to the southward. Hours passed as he traversed the black depths, then more hours came and went as he hurried over long miles of barrens. The winter darkness brightened, and the light of another day grew and shone cold-coloured on the face of the northern solitudes. Many times Jules saw wolves, now running before him, then sneaking cowardly on his trail, and yowling with notes of hunger in their deep voices. He crossed trails of the musk-ox, that shy inhabitant of the far North that shuns the slightest suspicion of a human being. Foxes scuttled away as he advanced, and the white ptarmigan whirred with boisterous wings from his course. He saw traces of the grizzly bear, and sighed as he thought of the thick warm skins of these monsters that he once had had as his own, Each night of his travel he built a little fire, ate, then slept beside it, and the next day sped on. Sometimes the whirling snow would wrap itself about him caressingly, but with the fierce grasp of the cold in it; again all would be still—no wind, nothing but the sound of his own steps to break the insolvable, inscrutable stillness of everything. He followed frozen rivers, crossed the shapes of lakes, solid and deep with snow, went over mountains, climbing slowly up their steep, slippery sides and airily coasting down beyond on his wide snow-shoes. He watched for human tracks, but saw none. Day after day his eyes scanned the interminable distances, and roved over the desolate barren scenes and solemn depths of the forests.

Then one evening, just as the northern lights began their fantastic contortions and shiftings, he reached Poste Reliance. The faint reflections of many fires shone glowingly over the top of the walls, and Jules’s heart was glad as he went in the gate. “Marie!” he whispered softly, looking about him.

There was a crowd around a tepee; they sat there talking in low tones, and he joined them. They looked up, hearing his steps.

“Verbaux, par Dieu!” said a voice. Instantly he was surrounded by the men.

“Le Pendu!” Jules said. “Vat you do ici h’at Nor’ouest Compagnie?”

“Nor’ouest? Dat bon! Nor’ouest! Ha, ha, ha!” and the crowd roared with laughter.

Jules tried to withdraw, but everywhere were ugly looks and strong bodies in his way.

“Vat ees?” he asked.

No one answered, and he stood there, towering over the other figures, his eyes searching for a friendly face; then Pendu spoke coarsely:

“Dees place ees Hodson Baie maintenant! Ve le capture four day’ gon’; you aire prisonnier, Jules Verbaux!”

With a bound Jules forced his way clear of the men, but they fell on him, seized his hands, his arms, his ankles, his body, and bore him to the ground, helpless. He knew that it was useless to fight against such odds, and lay still. They brought thongs and bound him securely, then rolled him to the firelight.

“Ah-ha! mon vieux, dis taime you aire no h’at liberté, by gar! Vous autres,” Le Pendu shouted to the crowd that had increased about the fallen man, “her’ ees Jules Verbaux, le beeg mans du Nor’ouest, tie’ han’ an’ pied; ve goin’ have du plaisir avec heem?”

“C’est ça!” “Dat feen!” “Bon!” shouted they; and Le Pendu turned to Jules.

“You goin’ tell to us vat ’appen’ h’at Lac la Pluie?” Verbaux was silent. The fury of unfair means controlled him and he was sullen.

“You no tell? Bien, le feu!” said Le Pendu.

Red-hot brands were drawn from the fire by some of the crowd; with them they closed in on Le Pendu and his prisoner.

“What ye do, min?”

A strong voice sounded above the curses and growls as Hudson Bay Factor Donalds kicked and elbowed his way through the crowd.

They fell back respectfully, and the factor saw the bound form lying near the fire.

“Who aire ye?” he asked Jules.

No answer. Then Le Pendu interrupted eagerly.

“M’sie’u le Facteur, dat homme ees Jules Verbaux, du Nor’ouest Compagnie. Ah see heem vonce t’ree mont’ gon’; he say den dat he no mak’ fight avec nous; to-night he come ici an’ he t’ink dat dees place encore Nor’ouest Compagnie. Ve h’all h’ask heem du Lac la Pluie; he no tell; ve mak’ le feu, den, for heem. Dat bon, hein?”

The factor knelt and severed Jules’s bonds with his own knife for answer, while the rest stood aghast and Le Pendu fell back step by step, muttering angrily.

“Ye aire Verbaux?” the Scotchman asked then.

“Oui, M’sieu’ le Facteur,” Verbaux answered as he rose to his feet.

“Thrree min bring him to the store,” the factor said, and went away.

The sheen of the flames was on the angry faces that threatened with black looks and growlings; three big Indians stepped forward and fell in beside Jules. One hit him on the back with his fist; like lightning Verbaux turned to retaliate, but he restrained himself and walked ahead quietly between his guards. They led him to the store, showed him up the steps and in the low door; four candles flared uncertainly by a table at which the factor and another stranger sat.

“Get out!” the factor ordered, and the Indians disappeared.

“Weel, Verbaux! we have ye mon nou! What d’ ye say is to be doune wid ye?”

Jules was silent; in his brain was the thought, the wild fear, for Marie and Le Grand.

“Speak oop, mon, speak oop!” the stranger said harshly, and Verbaux turned to him.

“Ah comme ici loook for ma wife an’ ma fr’en’; Ah tin’k dat dees poste ees to Nor’ouest,” he said.

The two men chuckled. “So she war, lad, so she war, tull four days ago; thin the Hudson Coompany tookit posseesion,” the factor grunted.

Jules stepped backward and leaned against the log wall, tumultuous and furious thoughts passing in whirlwinds through his mind.

“Den ma wife and ma fr’en’?” he asked huskily.

“Don’t know who they may be, but the place was gien oop tae us quiet-like; there was nae fecht; them that wanted to leave I let gang, an’ mony deed go, bad luck to ’em!”

A cold grip of despair came over Jules and he staggered. “Parti! Parti!” he whispered dully.

“Now, Verbaux, ye can bide here, an’ hount for us, or I wull hae to keel ye, mon!”

“Nevaire Ah mak’ la chasse for you; Ah mus’ go. Oh, bon Dieu!” and Jules shook in his pain.

“Aweel, mon, me bruither was to Posht Fearless, an’ he told me ab’ut ye. Now look here, lad: gie me yere promeese to stay an’ not try to jump yere work an’ I’ll let ye go free to hount for us, an’ tell us whut ye knaw. Coome, what d’ ye say?” the factor asked, and waited.

“Non! Jamais, par Dieu!” Jules shouted fiercely at him. “V’ere ees ma femme an’ Le Grand? Ah mus’ go ce soir!”

“It aire too bad, me lad, thut ye’re no opin to sic a chaince. Aweel, God ha’ maircy on yere soule!” He whistled sharply as he finished, and the store was suddenly filled with Indians.

“Take him awa’ and look after him till sun-oop, thin shoot him!” the factor ordered, and Jules was buffeted and hustled out of the store. The guards goaded and insulted him; they tied him hand and foot and pushed him headlong into an empty tepee, without blankets or food, and left him there, powerless.

He lay on his back and unconsciously listened to the heavy, gruff voices whose hoarse murmur penetrated to him from the fireside beyond. Then a tremor of rage thrilled him; the powerful muscles twisted and bulged, but the fastenings held and the thongs cut into the skin. Jules gave up and was still, while fears and hopes for Her crossed and recrossed in his brain. “V’ere dey go? Par où dey gon’?” he whispered to himself time and again. The restrained circulation in his arms and legs pained, and thumped audibly, it seemed to him; his hands had lost their feeling and were growing cold. Time dragged slowly on; all had become silent in the post, when some one came into the tepee and stood in the darkness, chuckling.

“Le Pendu,” Jules thought, but said nothing.

“Eh, tu!” his visitor said, pushing him with his foot. No answer. The Indian kicked Verbaux hard. “Wak’ hup, cochon, beas’!” he growled.

Jules’s anger seethed, but he gave no sign of it. “Vat tu vant?” he asked.

“Notting,” the other answered. “Ah comme for to tell dat cette vomans an’ l’Indien be los’ certainement; dey gone au nord, loook for toi, an’—ha, ha! c’est drôle—you den comme here! Bien, c’est bon comme ça; Ah tol’ to you dat you mus’ be au Hodson Baie Compagnie, hein?”

“Oui.” Jules spoke quietly, resolved not to let his tormentor know of his sufferings.

“You be keel dans le matin, an’ Ah goin’ shoot toi, Verbaux; den mabbe Ah go fin’ dat femme?” he laughed and stepped nearer to Jules.

The latter heard the Indian close to his feet, though he could not see him, and raising his tied legs, he shot them forward viciously with a straight hip thrust and caught the other in the stomach.

“Dam’ toi to l’enfer!” Le Pendu coughed as he lurched out of the tepee. “Ah feex toi for dat!” and he swore fiercely.

Jules heard him move away, coughing hard, and was satisfied. “Ah geeve heem good keeck!” and he felt more comfortable. Then, “Los’, bon Dieu? Non! not los’! Marie! Marie! eef Ah could onlee fin’ toi an’ Le Grand, eef Ah could seulement see you vonce h’aga’n an’ tell to vous dat—Ah, non! no encore; not so, Marie; mais Ah vant see toi—an’ eet ees feenesh dis taime!” He spoke aloud and his voice trembled. He rolled over on his stomach, rested his chin on the hard, lumpy ground; the change of position lightened the strain of the bindings and he slept.

Day had just broken across the high skies when they woke him, severed his feet-thongs, and led him out into the yard. It was bitterly cold, and tears of chill welled in the corners of Jules’s eyes as his guards stood him by one of the log houses, facing the east.

He looked at the heavens, over which swung veils of different colours that changed continually. The yard was crowded with Indians and trappers; they were silent, in a semicircle, their blankets fluttering slightly in the wind of the dawn that blew across between the buildings. Five of them, grouped together in front of him, had guns. Everything was still, and Jules thought of his lonely, free life that he loved. He looked passionately on the forests that showed black and uneven beyond the post walls, and his keener senses felt the glorious, fierce winds that swept the wastes. He saw, not his executioners, not the death-hungry crowd, not the stiff houses, but the white country, and far away a hut that stood desolate between two giant pines; he saw the child’s cap, and then a form, a slight figure, stood before his dream-eyes; beside it a strong face, with long black hair about it, looked at him, and Le Grand’s voice came to his dream-ears. “Ah, Dieu!” he whispered, and knelt there in the snow with bowed head. The crowd shuffled uneasily, then one by one they took off their caps, all but Le Pendu, who held a gun and grunted contemptuously. Slowly the dark vaults above lightened and faint yellow beams stole, far-reaching, over the dark spruce.

“Bénissez, vous bon Dieu, ma femme et mon ami, si c’est votre volonté dat Ah die ains’. B’en, c’est fini!” He stood up and faced the east again.

A candle-lantern approached, and the factor came into the circle. “Aire ye ready, me lads?” he asked.

“Mm-hm!” answered Le Pendu; no one else spoke.

“Verbaux!”—the chief turned to Jules—“I’ll gie ye a chaince mair, mon, for ye life, If ye’ll gie me yere worrd o’ hanair not to gang awa’, an’ to bide here an’ trap for me, I’ll let ye go. Me bruither, God rest his soule! told me of ye, an’ said ye cud be truisted when ye promeesed.”

Jules straightened up proudly. “Ah’m no h’afraid of la mort, M’sieu’ le Facteur, an’ Jules Verbaux he no can be forcé to do vat he no vant to do!” he answered.

The Scotchman shook his head slowly. “I’m vera sorry,” he said, stepping back; he nodded to the shooting squad. They moved forward, cocking their guns, then stopped. A picture of a woman, alone, destitute, maybe hounded by an Indian; the reflection of a rugged face, of a strong form now bent of wounds, yet doing what he could for his sake, passed rapidly before Jules; then came the thought of the child: this was its mother after all. The craving to see Marie again some time, to find her, the heart’s cry for her, was too strong, and won at last. The deep voice spoke hoarsely.

“Ah geeve ma promesse, M’sieu’ Le Facteur,” Jules said.

A long sigh came from the men; Le Pendu cursed under his breath.

“I’m glad, Verbaux! Cut him loose,” and the factor went away.

Some one parted his wrist-thongs and Verbaux was free, alone in the yard; from beyond a tepee Le Pendu shook his fist at him and disappeared.

Jules went to the gates and walked out to the edge of the dark woods. The smell of the trees drove him to madness, and he caressed the rough bark of a tall hemlock. “Ah go fas’, dey no catch me!” he thought, and looked back. Nothing stirred at the post; the gray light made shapes dimly visible. “Non! Jules he geeve hees promesse, he no can go,” he whispered, and went into the yard again. He felt friendless and alone; nowhere to go, no one to speak to, no one to say a kind word to Her, or tell him of Her.

Hesitatingly he wandered to his prison tepee and threw himself on the cold earth. At first he regretted his weakness, then he condoned it with thoughts of Marie. “Somme taime Ah fin’ dat fille, eef Le Grand he ees h’alive an’ stay veet’ her’ an’ Ah know dat he do dat!” Then he resigned himself to the situation, and stepped gravely out among the fires that crackled cheerily for the morning meals at Hudson Bay Company’s Poste Reliance.

XX

THE QUEST

THERE were but few squaws to be seen. “Dey no arriver encore,” Jules muttered. The voyageurs nodded to him in a friendly way; the Indians seemed not to notice his presence, and Le Pendu scowled openly. Verbaux approached one of the fires where French-Canadians breakfasted, and they made room for him to sit. One of them offered Jules his pannikin and plate and motioned toward the food—a caribou-stew that simmered in an iron pot and gave off appetising vapours. Verbaux ate silently; no one spoke to him, and he did not feel the necessity of speech. His meal finished, he went to the factor’s house and asked for orders; and as he stood listening to what the factor said, his eyes wandered longingly through the forest tops, and focused themselves on a white strip of barren that was the horizon, many miles beyond the trees.

“I’ll gie ye dogs, sledge, food, an’ blankit to start wi’; ye’ll sattle wi’ yere fierst lot o’ skin!”

The old prison tepee was given him as his home; five mangy brutes were turned over to his care as his team; a medium-light sledge, two thin blankets, some tea and pemmican completed his indebtedness to the Hudson Bay Company. He smiled a trifle bitterly when the factor concluded his orders by “Do yere worrk weel, mon, an’ ye’ll be recht; eef ye don’t I’ll make ye that feine ye canna be sweeped!” and the throb for freedom and Her came over him hard, but he answered quietly enough, “Oui, M’sieu’ le Facteur,” then turned away, leading the scrawny dogs and dragging the sledge and outfit.

All day he worked steadily, patching up the rotten skins of his tepee, and bringing boughs for his bed. He made his own fire, ate alone, and lived apart from the other inhabitants of the post. When night came again his home was comfortable and warm, and he slept with the prayer for Marie on his lips.

Long before any one was awake the next morning he started off, taking all his food and his blankets. He travelled as fast as his dogs could go until evening, then built a temporary camp at the edge of the open country. He fastened the team after supper, put on his snow-shoes, and crossed out from under the black timber to the barrens. A light breeze was blowing and Jules inhaled great lungsful of its strength. The cold stars glittered above him, and the crust crackled sharply under his weight. In the centre of the space he stopped. Behind and beyond showed the skirts of the woods, like black cords drawn about a white sheet. Shooting comets trailed and flashed athwart the studded heavens, and he wondered whence they came and whither they went. There was no sound but that of the icy myriads as they moved along over the crust, impelled by the breeze.

“Eef Ah onlee could go an’ loook! Eef Ah could go—have liberté vonce h’aga’n!” and Jules sighed. “Dat no possible; somme taime Ah get ’way, tell le facteur dat Ah go, an’ den go queeck—somme taime, mabbe!” He retraced his way slowly, lingering over each step that took him toward the things that belonged to the Company. The dark line heightened as he went, and when he reached the woods again he could see the shifting reflection of his fire. He came to the bough camp, wrapped himself in his blankets, and passed into the unconsciousness of sleep while the darkness hung on, then little by little gave way to the irresistible power of another sun.

This day Jules set forty traps, and in four days had twenty marten, nineteen sable, three fox (one gray), six wolverine, five lynx, and a beaver (that he killed on a neighbouring pond).

The fifth day he set out for the post again. A strong northerly storm was on, and the sleet dashed against him with dizzying strength as he slowly forced his way against it. He broke the trail, and the dogs followed on his heels, whining and shivering, their long hair clustered with white and their tails dragging heavily. The wind sang riotously in Jules’s ears, and their inner rims were covered with the blowing drift; the hair in his nose froze solid, and prickled as he breathed; and the gusts found their way inside the thick muffler and chilled his body. But he loved it, and fought his way steadily to Reliance.

A few trappers were in the open when Verbaux entered the yard, and they grunted surprisedly as they saw the tall, gaunt figure leading the team and sledge.

“’ave success?” asked one.

Jules nodded and went to his tepee, fed the dogs, gathered up his skins, and sought the factor.

“Voilà! Dat h’anough for you?” he asked.

“Aye, that’s guid!” the Scotchman answered, and counted the pelts. “That’s guid, mon,” he repeated, but Verbaux had gone out of the store.

Jules passed close to Le Pendu’s camp on the way to his own, and he stopped suddenly. Lying at one side were Le Pendu’s snow-shoes, and it was their remarkable and unpleasantly familiar shape that caught Jules’s attention; they were long and narrow, turning up at the toe and heel, with thin lacings.

“Ah rememb’ maintenant! Dat le track Ah see long ’go’ par dat femme mort près de Lac la Pluie!” he muttered, and went on.

The winter days, weeks, and months rolled sluggishly by. Verbaux kept to his promise and worked faithfully and hard. To be sure, he got good pay for his skins from the factor, and this he saved carefully. He had brought his dogs to perfect form and they held the reputation of being the fastest team on the post. The Indians had grown to like Jules, while the voyageurs were outspoken in their admiration for his great skill in the forests, and for his wonderful sagacity and cunning in setting traps. His luck had been phenomenal up to the close of the season, and represented a good share of the entire take of the post. Le Pendu was always ugly, but Jules laughed in his face and snapped his fingers at him.

Five long months had passed since he had given his word to stay with Factor Donalds. The snows had all gone; in their place the spring gray-green of the barren tundra showed, suggestive of hot suns and warm skies. In the forests the undergrowth was thick, and bright, tender leaves appeared from day to day. The birches spread their budding limbs hungrily to the southern winds that came caressingly from warmer climes, and the winter masses shrivelled on their trunks and died. The ice had melted from the lakes and rivers, and their cold waters shone dancingly in the lengthening days. Snow-shoes were laid away, and in their stead graceful bark canoes lay daintily on the beach before the post at the lake edge. The dogs strolled lazily about, their work finished for some months. And still Jules remained. One night he pushed a canoe from the shore, and leaping in sent it flying over the calm waters with long, sweeping strokes of his paddle. Some distance out he ceased paddling and drifted. The darkness was warm, the night air laden with the odours of the fresh things of early summer; the still waters mirrored the tiny bright lamps of the heavens, and as he watched and lived in the silence of the waters a gleaming crescent lifted its horns above the trees and cast long, glancing rays across the lake. Jules was kneeling in the canoe, resting his hands on the paddle, that lay athwart the craft.