Part 9

A gray shape came speeding past the hut, saw it, and stopped under its lee, disturbing the little sables. It was a tall caribou that stood there panting, its scarlet tongue dripping with foam, its great eyes drooping, its tired sides pumping air ceaselessly to satisfy the big lungs. And in a moment a dozen dark forms came and stood silently in a half-circle before the hut, breathing hoarsely, drool streaming from their open jaws. The wind pushed them about, but they stayed and watched. The dogs caught a whiff of the stench of wolves and set up a great cry in their shed, that sounded even above the hurricane. The dark forms listened, heard, recognised, and disappeared at once, wrapped in dim snow-clouds, through which their fleeing shapes appeared for an instant and were gone.

The caribou rested awhile, then faded away among the trees. Jules slept on, inert, on the boughs; the little sables cuddled closer together and were still.

More and more light came, and Verbaux awoke to another day. The weather remained the same, and he pulled his fur cap well down when he went out to the traps. Trees fell about him, broken branches dropped, rattling on the crust, great rents in the trunks of the hemlocks showed the fierce wrenching power of the wind. No living thing moved in the complaining, groaning forests, but Jules was happy in the chaos, and his loneliness and longing left him for a time. “By gar! Ah get beaucoup de poils!” he said. Every third trap held its dead prisoner. When he had finished the line, the load of furs on his back was heavy: eight sable, two lynx, three wolverine, four marten, and a gray fox.

He was on his way to the camp when suddenly, faint in the gale, he heard a voice calling “Holla, là-bas!” Then he saw coming toward him a short, broad figure on snow-shoes. The stranger came along easily, watching the trees that snapped and squeaked and bowed to their waists. Jules stopped and waited. “Bo’ jou’!” said the stranger in a friendly way. He was a French-Canadian, keen of eye, characteristic in face, strong in figure.

“Je suis Philippe Crevier. Ah comme two hunder’ mile’ look for un homme; you got fir’?”

“Oui; comme!” Jules said, and the two travelled across the timber-land to Verbaux’s camp.

Jules lighted the fire, then set food on the table. Crevier sat and watched him silently; with a nod, he ate a hearty meal.

“Ah-h, c’est bon!” and he sighed comfortably when he had finished, and ceremoniously drew out his quilled and beaded tobacco-bag and presented it to Jules. The latter filled his pipe; Crevier did the same; then Verbaux leaned back against the wall with legs firmly spread, the gray eyes fixed on the other, who was stretched on the green boughs. They smoked in silence for several minutes; the interior was redolent with the powerful reek of the black tobacco; the roof quivered with the sudden impacts of heavy wind, and there was the faint patter of millions of crust bits that, driven before the storm, struck the logs with all their minute weight and strength.

“Ah look for vone Jules Verbaux. Dat Le Grand h’at Poste Reliance he comme dere nine days h’ago wid une femme; by gar, she vas tire’ and hongree! She vas tak’ by Hodson Baie Compagnie at la destruction de Isle la Crosse by dat Annaotaha. Le Grand, fr’en’ to me, fin’ dis girrl and mak’ bataille avec dat scélérat. Le Grand seeck ver’ bad; he say to me, he say: ‘Philippe, you go fin’ Jules Verbaux; dees femme hees wife; she loove him mooch, mais he don’ t’ink dat trrue. You tell to heem, eef you can fin’ heen, dat ol’ Le Grand he ver’ bad, and vant for to see heem befor’ Le Grand est mort.’ Den Ah comme loook!”

Jules listened; his face was expressionless and at rest. His eyes glistened for an instant, then they too were void of feeling; he seemed interested, nothing more.

“You know dis Verbaux?” Crevier asked.

A flash came to the gray eyes. “Oui, Ah know heem; dis ees hees territoire; he gon’ Fond du Lac h’eight jour’ passé.”

“B’en, Ah go to Fond du Lac to-mor’; Ah geeve promesse to Le Grand for to fin’ heem eef eet possible, and he pay moi ten skin’ de day for do heet. Ah can stay avec vous ici to-night, hein?”

“Certainement!” Jules answered.

There was a silence—one man comfortable, happy, care-free; the other too full for utterance, but with calm, undisturbed features through it all.

The storm raved on through the afternoon, but with the coming of night it slackened, the gusts were less fierce, the trees ceased their contortions, and gradually a deep stillness spread over the forest. In the hut the two men ate their supper; Jules fed the dogs. The fire burned lightly, and Crevier’s dark face showed in sharp relief against the light-gray logs.

“Vat you t’ink—” he began; then he caught sight of the child’s cap in its old place over the bed. He looked at it, then looked at Verbaux.

Jules had not seen the discovery of the cap. He sat, his broad shoulders stooped forward, his chin in his hands.

“Jules Verbaux!” Crevier spoke the name slowly and quietly.

Verbaux started, then his eyes looked sharply from under the strong, heavy brows. “Pourquoi you call me Jules Verbaux?” he asked. Crevier’s arm stretched out, long in the dancing light, the dark hand pointed silently to the little cap, and he smoked again.

“Ah tol’ you dat dees Verbaux hees place, hees territoire, dat he gone ’way las’ weeek!” Jules spoke aggressively.

Crevier shook his head. “Non!”

“Pourquoi non? You say dat I mak’ de lie?”

The other seemed not to notice the angry tones; he took his pipe leisurely from his mouth and spoke again in a low, soft voice. “Le Grand he tol’ to me dat Verbaux he had petite fille vonce, dat he loove dat enfant ver’ mooch. You tell to me dat dees ees hees place to mak’ la chasse; Ah see dat leetle chapeau là,” and he looked up again at the cap. “an’ den Ah, Crevier, say dat you aire Verbaux.”

“Pourquoi?” asked Jules again.

“Becaus’ Verbaux no go ’way an’ leave dat souvenir of enfant ici!”

Crevier looked at Jules through drooping lids. The stooped figure swayed a little, stopped, swayed again, then shivered very slightly, and was still.

Crevier stood up and went to the door. Outside, it was a fine, clear night. The straggler clouds of the storm hurried in little groups across the light faces of the stars to catch up with the main body. The cold, penetrating air was fresh-smelling of the pine and laden with ozone of the wind and snow. He turned.

“To-mor’ ve go back to Poste Reliance!” he said quietly, then stepped out into the shadowless gloom.

Verbaux raised his head and listened; everything was still but the snapping fire at his feet.

“Pauvre Le Grand,” he murmured. “Ah mus’ go an’ see heem, mais Ah go seul’ment for dat, seul’ment for dat!” he repeated rapidly, as though trying to choke down the other thoughts that craved expression in different words from those that he had just spoken. Alternately a pale, wan face, then a rugged, kindly one, came before his eyes. “Ah not go for to see dat femme!” he almost shouted, because he feared to trust himself in the silence.

“Toi ver’ beeg fool!”

Crevier stood in the door; his arms held a pile of fire-wood, and jets of freezing moisture streamed from his nostrils as he came in out of the night and closed the bark door. He threw his load down in the corner, the dry sticks breaking sharply above the crackle of the hearth fire. He got out a light blanket from his carry-bag and laid it over some skins that were on the floor. “À demain, Verbaux,” he said as he stretched himself on it; he turned over, and was asleep in a moment. Jules stood looking down at the still form for long minutes.

“Ah go ’way for leetle taime. Ah no can go weet heem!” he whispered to himself; then silently and quickly he took his snow-shoes, reached up for the little cap and put it in his shirt, took some food, and went away into the darkness.

For a long time after he had gone nothing stirred. The trees were resting after their long turmoil, and stood as though carved from green-black marble. Crevier slept on quietly.

XVII

THE DREAM OF MORNING STAR

JULES trod with care until he was out of hearing of the camp; then, with the keenness natural to a born woodsman’s eyes, he hurried on through the dense blackness, rarely making a sound except the soft crunch of his moccasins on the crust. After two hours’ swift travelling he came out on a barren, and stopped in the open and listened—silence—greater than death which is laden with sorrow, that silence of the great and boundless wilderness of the North which is unfathomable, indescribable. Straight away from him lay the long, rolling waste, at his feet white, farther on gray, and beyond that void of colour. He looked up at the heavens, and as he watched the glinting stars he saw one appear from behind the others and rush across the sky to the south-east, leaving yet drawing a long fiery tail behind it. It arc-ed, sailed below the tree-tops, and disappeared.

The gray eyes looked into the dim distance, then behind him at the woods. “Dat étoile say go back.” He retraced his noiseless way through the black timber to the hut. As he went in Crevier, who was smoking by the heap of glowing embers, said slowly, “Ah know dat you comme back.” “Vat for mans!” Verbaux muttered; then he sat near the heat in silence. It was so absolutely still that the soft little burning hiss of the tobacco at each breath Crevier drew on the pipe was audible. The light of the coal created on the walls vague shadows that grew more and more shapeless. Then only a dim dark red shone on the men’s faces; everything else was black. The two sat on, silent. Then, crisply, rifle-shots rang out on the bitter-cold air, and silence again. Crevier leaped to the door and listened. Nothing at first; then, “Verbaux!” he called softly. Jules was behind him. “Leesten!” he said.

Far off in front of them they could just hear the crunching and light crackling of the crust as something ran over it; then a snapping of branches. “Somme vone comme fas’!” Jules said. The steps approached rapidly; then they heard heavy, laboured breathing that sounded hoarsely out there under the thick hemlock and pine. The thing that hurried and ran came close, and was passing the camp when it stopped and coughed—a rasping, harsh cough. “Trappé!” A man’s voice groaned with agony and fear in the tones. As one, Crevier and Verbaux ran swiftly out among the black trunks; the man heard them coming and started on. “Qu’est-ce?” called Crevier in a low, penetrating voice. The man stopped, turned, and came toward them. The three stood close but could not distinguish one another. “Pierre Du—bat, moi, Compagnie Nor’ouest,” said the stranger, brokenly, and breathing hard, “chassé par les Indiens du Hodson Baie Compagnie; dey comme h’aftaire moi ver’ queeck aussi.”

Crevier and Verbaux heard the man stagger in the darkness as he finished speaking. They caught hold of an arm each and rushed him to the hut. He sat weakly on the bed, and Verbaux began to build up the fire. “Non! Non!” said Pierre hastily, “dey see le feu and comme ici. Non!” Then he faltered to the door to listen. The two others were motionless. “Ah-h!” Pierre whispered. The patter of dogs’ feet could be heard coming swiftly, then the light creaking of sledges, eerie and mysterious in the depths of trees. The three men stood in the little doorway. “Mes dog!” Jules said very softly. “Dose Indiens go pas’ eef dose dog’ no mak’ barrrk!” They waited. On came the sledges; one was approaching the clearing: they could hear a voice swearing at the darkness. Then a team came into the scarce light.

“Bash!” shouted the man on the sledge. The dogs stopped.

“Hache!” breathed Crevier as the three fell back silently in the hut. Verbaux reached behind the door and handed him the axe. “Ho-o-e’o-o-ooe!” called this new arrival. Answering shouts came from near by, echoing back and forth dully. The man came up to the hut, then stopped, listened. The three kept still. He advanced to the door and looked in. The dogs in the shed smelled their kind outside and howled loudly. The man stepped in; Crevier swung the axe viciously at the figure that showed against the dim light of the outside. It dropped without a groan. Then all was still again in the little interior.

“Chies! Chies!” a voice called harshly close by.

“Annaotaha!” muttered Jules.

“Diable! v’ere he go?” said the voice again. The shouts and cries of other men were closing in. “Choo-ee! [Come here!]” called the voice hurriedly.

“He ’ave see la hutte; vat ve do?” whispered Dubat.

“Sssssh!” warned Jules.

Somebody was approaching the camp from behind; the steps came round, and then another figure darkened the door. Pierre swung the axe again, but missed, and the sharp tool struck heavily in the logs.

“Dam’!” The figure spoke and jumped back. “Pierre Dubat, ve ’ave toi! La mort dees taime!” and it laughed.

“Pas encore, Etienne Annaotaha!” Dubat answered savagely, the two others were silent. Dim forms moved to and fro in the little clearing.

“She-se-eemont, Dubat? [Are you hungry and tired?]” called Annaotaha, mockingly; coarse laughs sounded here and there. _Crang!_—a spit of straight flame. The rough bullet whizzed through the door against the logs of the back wall. The three flattened against the side of the hut.

“Sacré-é-é!” growled Pierre, “dey goin’ shoot!” In answer to his words sounded the _crang!_ _crack!_ _crang-crang!_ _crang-crang!_ _crang-crang!_ _crack!_ of rifles. The bullets hurtled and droned, they thudded in the logs, caromed and _pi-in-inged_ shrilly in the interior. Jules stood close by the door, behind the upright timber. Dubat was flat on the bed and Crevier under it. And still the rifles spouted flame and the leaden missiles sang and _whinged_ through the hut. Then they ceased suddenly. After the furious noise all was deathlike in stillness. Everyone listened.

“Tha-la-il [Dead!]” said Annaotaha to his companions after several minutes of the intense silence. An indistinct form came and stood in the door, listening with gun ready. It heard no sound, for the three were silent and holding their breath.

“Tha-la-il! [Dead!]” he said it again, and entered the camp fearlessly. A heavy fall, that sounded but thick and muffled, and the figure sprawled in death on the ground motionless. “C’est bon!” said Etienne approaching. He came to the entrance, stumbled over the two limp figures, and sprang back, screaming in fear, then his voice died away.

Inside the hut Jules crept noiselessly to the bed.

“Go now! ve be keel ici! Dubat go nord! Crevier go sud! Ah go ouest!” he said in almost inaudible tones.

Carefully the two others followed him to the door, and they sprang through the clearing into the blackness of the forests.

“Trois mans, by diable!” screamed Annaotaha as he saw the three flit like shadows from the camp. The Indians’ rifles barked again, and the bullets _pludd-ed_ among the tree trunks. Wild cries and shouts arose, and Jules heard some one running after him. He increased his speed and went on swiftly through the deep woods, his pursuer cursing aloud and losing ground fast. Soon Jules could hear nothing of the man behind him, and he stopped. Everything was still; then far to the rear the faint _pang_ of a rifle jarred the crisp silence.

Verbaux started again and travelled steadily to the southwest. Hour after hour passed; daylight came, then broad day swept over the land, and still Jules kept on. At last the timber-land ended; he crossed out on the great barrens. The morning wind created living things of the loose drift. Round, oblong snow-clouds whirled and twisted along, their under sides blue, their tops dazzling white in the sun. Many delicate tones of gray-blue and dark gray mingled and blended into one another as the wind scud passed over the face of the sun and cast fast-changing shadows. The wind was cold; it had come for thousands of miles over chilled countries, endless barrens, black lakes and rivers frozen in fantastic shapes, and was always laden with the ice particles, that hummed and rustled monotonously, caught up by one gust, dropped, taken by another and hurried through miles of space. Verbaux covered his face with his muffler. “Ah had for leave dat _chappette_,”[8] he said sadly. He looked back. The timber fringe of the barrens was far away; only the giant trees lifted their peaked tops above the solid line of dark green. Then Verbaux slowed his pace, hesitating. “Ah lak’ go back for dat,” he thought, and the gray eyes were wistful. “Non! Ah mus’ fin’—Le Grand, oui, Le Grand!” Not the slightest admission of his heart’s wish came from his lips.

Footnote 8:

Little cap.

“Ha! dere track!” he muttered as a little farther on his keen eyes saw many snow-shoe marks; he bent over them, but the drift had almost obliterated the indentations, and he was not able to recognise any of the trails. There was one long, narrow track that turned in at the heel instead of at the toe. “Ah nevaire see dat befor’!” Verbaux said as he walked along slowly, watching the peculiar marks. As he proceeded his interest grew strangely, and soon he was following the trail backward at a rapid pace; the other snow-shoes had crossed and recrossed it, but the long scratches and slidings on the crust showed clearly by comparison. “Comme f’om Poste Reliance, Ah t’ink!” Jules raised his head, then stopped suddenly. A few yards ahead of him lay a body thinly covered with white; dark stains in the snow around the head told the story. He brushed the form clear; it was that of a squaw; the eyes were fixed and glaring stonily into his own as he turned the figure over. A deep gash in the throat had given the outlet to the life-blood that coated the freezing surface about it red and brown. “Diables, dose mans!” Jules growled. The long track traced in and out near the body, and he puzzled out where the maker of that trail had stood and bent over the dying woman. She was not very old, and not ugly. “Eet ees near to t’irt’ mile’ to Reliance,” Jules thought. “Ah no can tak’ dat femme là-bas, an’ Ah have notting to mak’ de trou ici!” He straightened up. “B’en, Jules have to go! Pauv’e femme!” he said aloud and travelled on. Shortly afterward he came upon a snow hill. Rising black from the white before him was the forest again, a few miles on. He turned his head on the back trail and shuddered. Specks were moving hither and thither, now dark and sharp, then blurred and dim as drift puffs partially hid them. They gathered together in a certain spot on the barren and seemed motionless. “De loups dey have fin’ dat corps’! Bon Dieu, Jules Verbaux he t’ink dat somme taime he have to mak’ la guerre on dat Hodson Baie Compagnie an’ keel lak’ dose Indiens dey keel!” His voice was low and savage. He went on again.

Late in the afternoon the buildings of the Northwest Post of Lac la Pluie (Rainy Lake) showed up ahead, and in an hour he entered the yard.

“Et toi, Verbaux!” one of the group of voyageurs called to him laughingly; “vat you do so far ’way de Lac des Sables?”

“Ah go Poste Reliance in vone, two day’!” Jules answered as he joined the group. Picturesque men they were and rough in their tanned-skin shirts that hung outside of the broad caribou-hide trousers; fringes of hair adorned the ends of their shirts, and choice bits of ermine were cleverly stitched in various designs here and there on the brown skins. Beaver, otter, and fox caps were predominant on the men’s heads, and tassels of picked fur dangled gracefully over the sides of their faces. Long moccasins with coloured beads were on their feet, and bright handkerchiefs knotted loosely about many of their throats showed their childlike love of bright colours. They offered Jules tobacco; he filled his pipe and lighted it. “Ah see dat Annaotaha an’ les Crees!” he said then. “Quand?” “V’ere?” “V’en?” The questions came eagerly. “Las’ nuit dey h’attack Crevier, Dubat, an’ moi, an’ comme near feenesh nous aussi!” and Jules laughed silently. The crowd were clamorous for details. Jules told them the story of the night attack, and how he and the two others had fled, and of his success in getting away; he told of finding the woman’s body, and deep curses showed the feeling of these men of the wilderness. When he had finished his story, there was a silence.

“Verbaux, you somme taime go avec nous feex dat Hodson Baie Compagnie?” a square-shouldered, deep-chested voyageur asked. Jules looked at him for a moment. “Oui,” he answered, “somme taime.” He left the group and went over to the supply-house and found the factor; to him he told his story, and asked to be “trusted for skins” for a blanket and some food.

“Aye, Verbaux lad, ye ’re welcome!” Factor McNeil answered. “But wull ye gie us a leeft with these deevils when the time coomes?”

“Mabbe!” Jules answered gravely, got his “stuff” from the clerk, and went out among the trappers and tepees.

“Tell, mon frère, you been Fond du Lac deese taime gon’,” a genial Frenchman, named Gregoire, asked.

“Vas dere trois day’ gon’; dey fin’ h’out Ah vas no’ goin’ avec dem, an’ dey try for to catch moi, but Ah arrivé Lac des Sables ver’ queeck jus’ sam’!” and Jules chuckled.

“Ah t’ink dat dose Hodson Baie mans dey mak’ du trouble for nous. Las’ Mercredi Ah vas comme f’om Rivière Folle Avoine an’ see dose canaille Crees et des Piegans veet’ dem; Ah mak’ le détour an’ comme sauf, mais dose bad, ver’ bad!” Gregoire looked troubled as he spoke.

A tall, wiry half-breed Canadian joined in the conversation. “Vone mont’ ’go Ah fin’ vone compagnie of dose Plats Côtes de Chiens [Dog Rib Indians], par là, au nor’e’st, an’ dey had fusils, an’ mak’ lot beeg talk, tell h’all taime mooch vat dey goin’ do à nous touts du Compagnie Nor’ouest.”

And so the late afternoon passed, the men laughing and talking together. The blue skies darkened, then shone with myriads of bright points as the stars crept into view. Fires gleamed more and more warmly, and groups of light-hearted voyageurs, singing and jesting, sat about some of them; around others serious Indians squatted and smoked, watching their squaws get supper. Twilight died away; then came the clear, sharp night of the ice-bound latitudes. Overhead the northern lights drifted slowly, sometimes fading to misty white shafts, then blazing out in brilliant lights that brought every log house and tepee into deep relief against the surrounding forests. Faint reports, sometimes distant crashes like far-off thunder, came from the ever-changing aurora, and great nebulous rings appeared, disappeared, narrowed, broadened, always shifting, moving. Dogs wandered among the men, snuffing here and there restlessly. The strong, tanned faces were lighted by the yellow tongues of the fires, and the deep voices harmonised with the animated scene.

Verbaux ate his supper with his friends, and afterwards they lighted their pipes and silence came over the little group. As they sat there, these typical men of the woods and wastes, an Indian approached and sank on his knees by the fire. He was handsome; dark eyes, quantities of straight hair, a strong aquiline nose, high cheek-bones, long sinewy arms, light hands with tapering fingers; dressed in a fancy skin shirt on which coloured beads glittered as he moved, with high moccasins on his feet and legs, and wolf-hide trousers. He smoked a long pipe slowly, meditating between puffs; then he spoke in his own language, and everyone listened.

“My friends and brothers: to me, Morning Star, the great Manitou sent a dream on the last night, and I come to tell that dream to you.” He began swaying back and forth gently, and his voice sank into a musical monotone. No one moved.