Part 8

“Ni-coun-is [Friend],” she repeated softly, and sat down by the children.

The man turned to Jules. “Mon nom Jean Cuchoise,” he said.

Verbaux looked at him keenly for a moment, then, “Mon nom Jules Verbaux!” His voice was quiet.

Cuchoise started violently. “Verbaux?” he asked, and a deep frown came over his heavy face. “Le Pendu he tell to me dat he keel Verbaux five day gon’ at Lac des Sables.”

“He no tell to le facteur dat,” Jules said.

“You tell to M’sieu’ Neelson ton nom Verbaux?” Cuchoise asked him.

Jules smiled and shook his head. “Non!”

The two men faced each other; the girl watched with stoic eyes, and the children slept on peacefully.

“Bon!” Cuchoise said at last. “Verbaux, you confie en moi, Jean Cuchoise, Ah no tell heet to le facteur.”

When he had finished, the voyageur stretched himself on a bed of skins. “Bon soi’, Verbaux,” he said, and was soon asleep.

Jules unfolded his blanket, spread it across some boughs, and in a few minutes he too slept. The girl arranged her bed beside the little ones, blew out the candles, and silence came on everything.

XIII

SOLITUDE

THE dogs about the post yelped and quarreled throughout the night; and the nearly full moon fell slowly through the northern heavens, showing gray-white and metallic on everything. The north star was vividly bright and twinkled ceaselessly. All was still about the post so far as human beings were concerned. Oft in the steel-blue distances wolves howled, and the sounds of their voices came softly across the intervening cold wastes; the dogs stopped and listened, then broke forth in louder clamourings.

The night passed, and then a growing light brightened the eastern skies; little by little they turned from deep blue-black to light green, then a faint rose-colour appeared and broadened; it changed into darting beams of golden light that spread over the heavens, fading to pale yellow in the west. A few clouds drifted slowly across the path of the rising sun and were bathed in its warm glow. One by one figures came from the tepees and buildings in the post; the smoke from many fires curled upward slowly in the still, crisp air.

Jules and Cuchoise came out into the yard together. “Ah mus’ get hax,” said Jules.

“M-m,” the other answered, went back to the tepee, and brought Verbaux a bright new axe. “Voilà!” he said as he gave it to him.

“Merci, Jean, Ah go maintenant get des poils; au revoir!”

Verbaux, snow-shoes on his feet, went out of the yard and struck off northwest across the white country. His ankles were stiff and lame, but he travelled at a good pace. He crossed a large river, frozen solid and three feet of snow over the ice. The land on both sides was level and sunken for many miles back. “Rivière du Grand Marais,” Jules said to himself, and shifted his course to west. The sun was three-quarters low when he reached the timber-lands. After an hour’s tramp he stopped, threw off the fur tote-bag that contained his food, and in a short time built a little lean-to of bark and branches; then he cut some fire-wood, and went off into the deep forest to make and set his traps. When the work was finished he had twenty traps ready, and he went back to the lean-to and built a roaring fire.

The evening was a beautiful one; the stars came out one by one and glimmered with their cold gray, celestial light. The water in the pannikin on the fire bubbled, and Jules dropped some cherry-tree tea in it, then munched chunks of pemmican slowly, staring at the flames before him. The meal over, he lay down in his blanket by the heat, his head resting on one hand.

The red flames sprang fiercely in the air, subsided, sprang again, while the embers underneath glowed white-hot, pink, and dull-red. The gray eyes filled with great tears. “Marie! Marie!” The strong head was buried between the arms, and here, in the silence and solitude of the deep black forest, Jules gave way for the first time, and rasping, choking sobs came. The changing, shifting, glancing light played over the prostrate figure that heaved. The giant trees about were motionless, their high peaks silhouetted against the dark heavens, like teeth of an uneven saw. At last the long figure lay quiet, the fire lessened slowly, then smoke came instead of flames and twisted its way through the intervening branches into the free air and was lost. A dark, lithe thing edged gingerly from the shadows toward the sleeping man, sniffing the air delicately and moving without sound; it came close, then scented the human body and scurried away, flitting ghost-like between the black trunks until it disappeared. A marten, its curiosity aroused, scampered swiftly hither and thither about the lean-to, searching, smelling, stopping, then scampering off again with its queer long little jumps, and it too went away.

The fire was out completely, but a few tiny wreaths of haze came from the ashes. Jules slept, his head on his arms, the long limbs resting in graceful repose on the blanket.

The silence, the infinite silence, was deep and wonderful; not a breath of wind moved the weakest branch on the trees, not a light breeze even disturbed the ashes. The cold moon sailed up and across and down again over the noiseless landscape. Then the stars faded and their twinkling lights were gone. The air grew warm and a blackness settled over everything where the steel light had been. Clouds, black, gray, lowering clouds, came, and soon the patter of thousands of raindrops sounded. These lasted but a few minutes, then changed to big white flakes that fell silently. Jules turned in his sleep.

“Ma femme, Marie!” he muttered, and tossed restlessly.

A whispering came sibilant and faint through the forest.

“La petite! la petite! she call!”

The big figure rose in the falling snow, the eyes were wide open and set; straight ahead Jules went till he stumbled over a log and fell, awaking. “Bon Dieu, Ah see la petite dat taime!” he groaned aloud. The dull black depths of the branches overhead choked the sound of his voice, and he stood, half awake, dreaming and wondering.

The snow had ceased, but the wind grew stronger, and it whistled and moaned about him. The air cooled and became bitter with the sting of frost. Jules shivered and found his way back to the lean-to, crawled in it with his blanket, and tried to sleep. He tried in vain; always his dream was lifelike before his eyes, and he turned and twisted over and over under the fur covering. Then his sharp ears caught a faint cracking sound; he sat up and listened. A gaunt white form came and stood motionless before him, then it lifted its head, yowled dismally, and was gone. “Loup blanc! Dat bad signe!” Jules spoke dully—lay down and closed his eyes, striving to forget. Sleep, deep sleep, came again, and the figure under the blanket was still.

It was gray dawn when Verbaux woke. After the morning meal he went down through the woods to his traps, and found six sable, a cross-fox, and a marten in them. “Dat pay for mon h’eat!” he said as he skinned out the dead forms. Then he took up his axe and food-bag and started for the post again. The wind was strong; it dashed the loose snow over the barrens; its bitter edge made Jules draw his muffler close and compress his lips to keep his teeth from aching with the cold. “Ah lak’ see dees territoire,” he thought, and worked his way steadily along to the south-east. After crossing the wide, desolate stretches of level waste he came into the timber-lands again. The trees stood very thickly and the leaden skies cast but little light beneath their branches. There were many tracks of the inhabitants of the forest on the snow.

Here the short leaps of the sable, there the shuffling trail of a marten, and beyond the dainty footprints of a fox—faint, soft lines showing that he was care-free as he dragged his heavy brush. The tall hemlock and spruce swayed and bowed gracefully with a caressing, monotonous sound, and Jules felt the soothing influence of the great wilderness as he strode on, his snow-shoes stirring the loose white that rested on the light rain-crust. Overhead the sun shone coldly, mystically, through flying scud and hurrying thin clouds. The forest ended again, and straight ahead loomed the endless cold distances; the snow-line and the gray-white horizon came together and blended into one. Jules stopped and looked about him: everywhere white, everything white and still. The greatness of the wastes and the depth of nature came over him.

“Ah am notting,” he whispered, and went on. The miles came, were passed over, and fell behind the tall, gaunt form that hurried on tirelessly. Jules crossed Lac au Loups and changed his course to east; going over a hill he saw a herd of caribou; the fleet animals sped on across the wind and disappeared like wraiths in the harmonious white desert. Late in the afternoon Fond du Lac appeared as a black dot, then grew into the buildings and the stockade as he went toward it. Entering the yard, he crossed to Cuchoise’s tepee and went in. It was empty. He lighted his pipe and lay down on the boughs, his eyes roaming wistfully over the Indian girl’s clothes and the children’s rag dolls. He turned his back and lay there thinking, dreaming the day-dreams of waking hours.

The flap was softly pushed aside and the girl came in alone. She started a little at the sight of the strong form stretched at her feet, then sat down quietly and began to sew with caribou-sinews on some of Cuchoise’s moccasins. Jules listened and watched with half-opened eyes.

“Ma-shca-wis-sie! [He is strong!]” she whispered, looking at him. “Ki-wa-bi-min In-nin-ee sak-ar-te-win [I look at you, big man, with love],” she murmured softly. Jules closed his eyes; a shadow of pain flitted over his face. “Bon Dieu, no dat!” he prayed, and lay still. The girl moved little by little toward him. “Ki-non-don-no-ne? [Do you hear?]” she asked. He feigned heavy sleep. Her black eyes played over him and he felt their glow; his soul rebelled, and he sat up quickly; the girl uttered a little cry, holding her hands, delicate and thin, toward him. “Ne-na-bhai-m! [My true husband!]” she whispered. Jules stood up slowly. The gray eyes were sad, and a weariness seemed to come over his body.

“In-din-ne-ga-wwe-go-in-dum-m [I am sorry],” he said in low tones, and passed out of the tepee, taking the food-bag and the light axe. He went to the store and threw the pelts he had at the factor’s feet. “Dat good?” he asked. Nelson looked at the skins. “Yes, but ye ’re not awa’, mon?” he asked. Jules nodded and went out of the store, across the yard, through the gate, and away into the wilderness once more.

XIV

LIGHT OF THE EVENING

ONAWGUISHIN (Light of the Evening) jumped to her feet, ran swiftly to the gate, and watched him go. The finely chiselled face quivered, then she turned and went to the store. Silently pushing her way through the Indians gathered there, she found the factor. “Wa-ymit-te-go-osh, Weer-baux [Frenchman gone, Verbaux],” she told him abruptly, and went quickly as she had come. The black eyes gleamed fiercely, as she went back to the tepee and sat down to the sewing of the moccasins. Everything was turmoil in the yard; the Indians and voyageurs ran about shouting, the factor yelled furious orders from the store; then a dozen men on snow-shoes sped out of the post, took Verbaux’s trail swiftly, and disappeared on it. Evening Star sewed on quietly. Steps approached the tepee and Cuchoise came, threw down his load of fur, and looked around the interior. “Verbaux ta-nin-dai? [Where is Verbaux?]” The girl looked up at him steadily. “Ma-tche-ma-ni-tou [Evil Spirit],” she answered. He stared at her without understanding.

“Here, girl, where did this mon Verbaux ye told me of go?” The factor’s loud voice at the entrance startled them both. Cuchoise’s face was blank in amazement.

“Sa-gai-egan wa-bu-no-ng [Lake to the East],” she answered.

“Hurry up there, he’s gang over Bear Lake to the island; take the quick road,” Nelson shouted to some one in the yard, and went back to the store.

Jean Cuchoise’s eyes were ugly; he stepped toward the girl, who stitched on silently.

“Oo-kut-ta-aw koo-me-cha-n! [You betrayed my friend!]” he said in a low voice. Evening Light nodded. The voyageur’s face grew black with rage at the thought of Jules, who confided in him, having been betrayed by his wife. He lunged forward, and his big hands closed round the girl’s brown throat. Her head fell back and the black eyes looked up into his, but she did not make the slightest struggle. “Serpent!” he snarled, flung her from him, rushed from the tepee, picking up his snow-shoes as he went. In the yard he stopped and listened. All the men had gone on the chase, and the place was deserted. He stole out of the post and hurried away toward Bear Lake, that showed flat and dreary in front of him. He could see many specks straggling over the surface, heading for an island whose timber showed black in the distance.

XV

“NO GREATER FRIEND....”

WHEN Jules left Fond du Lac he intended to strike off south of east back to his own country, but something forced him to go across Bear Lake. He reached the wooded island and looked back. At the edge of the lake, four miles away, he saw many specks coming toward him fast. “Dat fille, she tell!” he ejaculated, and thought a moment, then hurried on round the base of the woods, keeping on the ice and making a broad trail. Half-way round he took off his snow-shoes under a big pine, then pulled himself up carefully in the branches. He worked his way, swinging from tree to tree, for a hundred yards, then dropped lightly, ran to the other side of the island, and crawled under some thick young spruce.

Voices came in a few minutes, and he saw the Indians stop in front of him and wait for those that came on behind. When all were together, they crept forward carefully in a mass on his trail, and disappeared round the point of the woods.

Jules waited a few moments longer, then darted with wonderful speed across to the mainland, half a mile away. Under cover of its protecting shadows he laughed, put on the snow-shoes again, and travelled on, following the dense timber by the edge of the lake. He looked across and saw the Indians hunting about and gesticulating under the pine that he had climbed. He laughed again. “You h’all no catch Jules Verbaux,” he said grimly.

In a little while Petite Rivière de l’Ours (Little Bear River) twined its way at his feet to the southward. The cold roar of rushing waters filled the quiet air. Just below, a quick water was open, and the freezing current dashed on among rocks and ice banks, the silver crest of each rapid wavelet shining with a thousand sparkles in the afternoon sunlight. Jules went down on the ice to where the live water came from under the snow, took the thonged hoops from his feet, slung them over his back, and stepped into the chilling flow.

“Ugh!” he said as it penetrated instantly to the bone with numbing effect. It was not deep,—just over his knees,—and he walked on down, keeping close to the banks, out of the strongest current. The water was ice free for a quarter of a mile, and when he stepped out of it and put on his snow-shoes his legs ached with the cold. “B’en! Comme den, vous autres, fin’ Jules’s track, hein?” he said aloud, and went on into the forests, stamping his feet vigorously and sending up myriads of snow particles that eddied lightly in his wake, then settled again on the crust.

Meanwhile Cuchoise hurried over toward the island; the others had disappeared on the far side. “Ah sauf Verbaux!” he muttered, and changed his course, going straight up the lake instead of across the lower end. He travelled on fast, looking often over his shoulder; no one in sight, he slowed up.

“Sa-ner!” shouted a Cree. He had come through the upper end of the woods on the island, and saw the figure in the distance on the lake. The cry was taken up by a score of throats; the rest gave up the search for tracks and raced on madly after Cuchoise. He saw them coming at last, and took off his tasselled cap. “Ah t’ink dey know dat,” he said, and laughed to himself as he thought how easily he had drawn the pursuit upon himself and given Verbaux a chance to get away.

He increased his speed, edging toward the forest on the left. When he came to it he stopped. Behind him, a mile away, came the Indians, travelling swiftly over the snow-covered ice. Cuchoise chuckled and went into the sombre depths. The afternoon light was fading and it was dim there under the shadowing trees. He kept on for another mile, then sat down on a log. “Voilà! V’en dey comme, Jean Cuchoise he mak’ rire!” he said, and waited. It grew darker and darker; the tree trunks lost their shapes at fifty yards. A faint clicking came from beyond, and Jean smiled broadly as he thought of his companions’ discomfiture. Then the sound ceased, all was still. “Serpent! Traître!” Cuchoise said to himself as he thought of the girl.

Then an awful pain came; he fell from the log, writhing and doubling on the snow, that reddened slowly under him. “Finis!” he groaned weakly; his head fell limp, blood gushed from his mouth, the kindly eyes dulled and became set. The heavy, strong body quivered a moment, then relaxed inertly.

An Indian strode up, rifle in hand; behind him came others, sneaking closer and closer. They stopped when they saw the dim shape lying on the blood-blackened white.

“Me-on-wash-in! [Good!]” said the Cree who had fired. A voyageur went forward and turned the stiffening body over with his foot. “Dieu!” He started in alarm. The rest crowded about, saw, took off their caps slowly, and were silent. Everything was quiet; the men stood about the dead form; the Cree shivered and shook, but no one spoke. The northern twilight was at its height and the distant light shone but little on the death scene. Then somewhere in the black woods a lynx shrieked; the rasping, curdling sound echoed and re-echoed in the crisp air. A Canadian spoke slowly. “No tell le facteur dees!” he said, looking at his companions. They shook their heads, and the Cree who had done the killing was still. Silently the men knelt and dug a hole through the crust and deep into the snow, boring it out with their bare hands. They dug till the hard, frozen ground was reached, then reverently they lifted the body of Jean Cuchoise, lowered it carefully, pushed the cold white feathery sod over it, and stamped it down. Then they dragged up logs and big branches and piled them over the freezing grave, so that the wolves should not dig where they had dug and find what they had buried there. Each man crossed himself and muttered the Ave Maria; then they made off silently through the dense shadows.

XVI

THE MESSENGER

VERBAUX travelled on and on across the wilderness of silence and of space. He heard nothing but the howling of the wolves, saw nothing but colourless barrens, dark green timber depths, and frozen waters. He came at last to the clearing by Lac des Sables, and built up his wrecked home. It took him two days to finish the work, and two more to catch the dogs he had turned loose to shift for themselves sixteen days gone.

It was evening; a cheery fire crackled on the little hearth. The interior shone warm and comfortable in its glow, but the log walls were gray and bare instead of warm and brown with skins as they used to be. Jules sat before the fire; his eyes reflected the light dully and his thoughts were far away—where he knew not, but of whom he knew. The old heartbroken moan for Marie, Marie came from his lips, and he would start violently, as though dreaming, and shake his head. “Je suis content!” he muttered; tears came, nevertheless, and rolled slowly down the bronzed cheeks, dripping drop by drop and glistening on the rough shirt.

The yellow-red flames played noiselessly in the air, but their sources snapped and gave out tiny diamond sparks that died two inches from the place of birth. A storm was coming from the northeast. Little by little the wind increased in strength, first whispering, then sighing, then moaning fitfully by gusts, and finally shrieking through the millions of branches that are the forest. Jules heard but heeded not. The violent draft carried the smoke away in straight blue lines, the sparks had longer lives and disappeared in the wooden flue. A dog yelped, the others awoke and joined him, and their voices blended into one long minor clamour that sounded above the whistling wind, and cadenced with the now loud, then softer notes of the gale. A muffled roaring came down the little chimney; sometimes the powerful back draft imprisoned the smoke and it filled the hut with its pungent acrid smell. Dream figures appeared to Jules and passed in long review before his half-closed eyes. The very flames were distorted into living things that moved and, as he saw them, disappeared. He rose, went to the new bed of boughs, fell on it, and slept instantly. And in his vague, unrestful slumber the figures came and passed again before his brain.

“Traître!” he growled in his sleep; “Ah, Maquette, mon vieux, how ees, hein? An you, Bossu, an’ Hibou, mes camarades dat Ah sauve’!” The changeless voice shrilled then, and the long arms stretched out, “Petite! Marie!” He awoke, dazed, and heard the sobbing of the storm overhead. “Bon Dieu, grâce!” he said, and knelt by the bough bed, his face buried in his hands. He prayed, but always, even in his prayers, the squat, ugly figure of Manou with his treacherous eyes came before him; and much as the body cried out for the woman that lived somewhere under the broad expanse of God’s heavens, still the iron will and reason spoke through the pain-compressed lips and said, “Je suis content!” The fight was awful in its terrible fierceness; at last he sank, utterly exhausted, on the boughs and slept dreamlessly. The northern hurricane grew under the black skies; it lashed the trees until they groaned and snapped. As an accompaniment to the shrieking voices of the wind sounded the crashing reports of falling trees, here, there, everywhere. The two giant pines on each side of the hut moved to their foundations and twisted; their great roots heaved and tore the frozen sod beneath its white cover, and the walls of the camp trembled at each furious gust. And Verbaux slept on.

Long past its regular hour, the timid light of dawn appeared and broadened over the wild, tumultuous earth. By its light the flying masses of filmy clouds tore across the leaden skies. Sometimes a big black one came over the horizon and was whirled away over the lonely north at tremendous speed. Two sables came to the hut, pushed and buffeted by the gale, their tree home destroyed by the storm; they crept within the shelter of its lee side and curled up there together, hungry and frightened. The dogs howled at intervals, but their voices were almost lost in the heavy peals of the monstrous noises of the forest.