CHAPTER IV.

_THE MAN OF THE SHADOWS._

Roy Thursby stood watching a small black speck which was moving slowly over the white surface of the river and coming in the direction of the Fort. Overhead was a magnificent Aurora Borealis extending high in bands of flickering color; a luminous phenomenon of all the colors of the rainbow, oscillating in electric waves. The gentle sighing of the wind, and an occasional dull, muffled sound from among the ice hummocks broke the silence. Near the trader were the dark figures of Kasba and David, in fact it was they who had given the alarm, and presently there was a slight crunching sound and Broom came striding up.

Dogs appeared as if by magic, and stood erect with ears pricked up expectantly, or darted forward with noses sniffing the air.

The black speck grew rapidly larger and larger, until presently it suddenly resolved itself into two portions, one of which, the smaller of the two, quickly mended its pace and was soon distinguishable as a man. The other travelled much slower, in a serpentine movement, swaying from side to side as it dodged the huge masses of shattered ice. This was a dog-train and driver returning from a trip to an Eskimo encampment.

Before long the man in front was clambering over a prodigious snowdrift which obstructed the approach to the trading-post. He was one Minnihak, an Eskimo whom Thursby employed to run before the dogs when he sent out a trading venture.

The native lumbered forward with a broad grin. He was a droll figure from the hood of his _tko-li-tok_ (coat) down to his _ka-miks_ (shoes) covered with hoar-frost, and his “hairy” clothing gave him a shaggy appearance greatly resembling a white bear walking on its hind legs.

Thursby went forward to meet him.

“_Timo_,” grunted the Eskimo; breathless from his late exertions.

“_Timo_,” responded the other. He was too interested in the dog-train to take further notice of the native just then.

Minnihak took his welcome for granted. He turned to look for his partner, who was now close at hand.

The advancing train of dogs barked with sheer delight at being so near home. Nothing could stop them now; even the biggest laggard of a dog was in a perfect frenzy to proceed. The dogs at hand heard the song of those approaching and joined in the melody.

Ignoring the track left by the guide and despising every obstacle the arriving train came helter-skelter over the bristling hummocks. The heavily laden _com-it-uk_ (sled), swaying dangerously, crashed through the ice at an alarming speed. Up one side of the snowdrift and down the other it flew, threatening destruction to anything in its path, but a pull here and a push there guided it safely past every obstruction.

Then the home dogs vied with the newcomers in making so great an uproar that no human voice could possibly have made itself heard above the pandemonium. A free fight ensued, but a few sharp, stinging cuts from the well-directed lash of a whip drew the dogs’ attention to other things. Then the pain of their wounds broke in upon them and they slunk off with whines and yells.

By the aid of Minnihak and Sahanderry the dogs were unharnessed and the heavily loaded sled taken away. Roy then turned to speak to Broom, but that individual had suddenly disappeared; and Kasba, possessing herself of her father’s bag containing a deerskin robe and a change of footwear, also went silently away, while some distance ahead of her was David, staggering under a load of venison that Delgezie had given him to carry home.

As the girl moved away from the fort a dim figure appeared in the deep shadow at a corner of one of the buildings and stood looking after her. When she had disappeared among the rocks the watcher chuckled and followed after.

The slight crunch, crunch, of some one walking stealthily over the crisp snow soon attracted Kasba’s attention. Twice she stopped to listen, throwing a scared glance behind. The third time a voice close at hand startled her, and she stopped dead and turned right round. A dozen feet away, in the shadow of a large boulder she discovered an indistinct figure standing. The girl stood inert, staring as if fascinated.

“Kasba, wait a minute, I want you,” said the voice in carefully modulated tones.

“What—do—you—want—with—me?” faltered the maiden, now thoroughly frightened.

“I want to speak to you,” said the voice. Kasba shivered. She swayed and almost fell, for it was the voice of the man she so greatly feared.

“What do you want—I don’t understand,” she faltered, trying to move away, but now her legs refused her bidding.

“Oh, you needn’t be afraid,” said the man, stepping out of the shadow.

“You’re not so scared of Bekothrie, I notice,” he added with meaning.

“He is the master!” faltered the girl, her face flushing painfully, wondering whether the fellow had guessed her secret.

“Oh, of course,” laughed Broom unpleasantly, and slyly edging nearer. “The master, and therefore a little tin god. But say,” he added, taking a step or two boldly, “does he not kiss those pretty lips occasionally, and embrace that tight little waist, eh?”

“Why should he?” asked the girl stupidly, scarcely knowing what to say.

“Why should he?” repeated Broom, chuckling. “Why indeed! Why, because he is human, my dear, and can no more resist the fascination of your pretty face and figure than I can.” Kasba remembered how easily Roy had resisted her that very day and, despite the terror she was feeling, smiled bitterly. While the fellow had been speaking he had craftily reduced the space between them, and now, encouraged by the girl’s silence, he tried to clasp her about the waist. But the action worked upon the girl like magic. There was too much of the fighting blood of her warrior ancestors in her to allow her to be terrified for long, and though her expression of strong aversion never changed, she stopped trembling and with perfect calmness skilfully eluded his grasp. His arm encircled the empty air and he swore under his breath. “Oh, you needn’t try to be so confoundedly coy,” he cried, baffled for the moment. “Come, sweetheart,” he added, waxing passionate and insinuating and again edging toward her, “I’m in love with you and shall sleep all the better for a kiss from those red lips.”

“Back, Ball-eye,” cried the girl, her eyes flashing and her lips curled in scorn. “I do not like you. Why do you persist in troubling me when I dislike you and try to keep aloof?”

Somewhat staggered, the fellow gnawed savagely at his moustache. “Bah!” he exclaimed at last.

“I do not like you,” continued the girl staunchly. “There is something here,” she added, touching her breast, “that tells me that you are a very wicked man and will bring trouble upon us all.”

“And I, my pretty divinator, have something here,” retorted the man, tapping his breast in imitation of her, “that tells me that you are a canting little hypocrite, and, by God, I will have that kiss!” With that he took a step toward her, then stopped and stared hard at the girl, who stood silent and immobile as a statue, facing her tormentor with no apparent fear. She did not even start on hearing the threat, but on the contrary faced him boldly, her foot planted firmly, looking him steadily in the eye. Then deliberately she drew a long knife from her bosom and, grasping it tightly, held it ready for use. She eyed him grimly, and softly chuckled. Her terror was gone.

The fellow fell back, sullen, foiled. Kasba’s fearless attitude utterly disconcerted him, and he blasphemed till the girl shuddered and turned her back and moved away. But her face was no sooner turned than a very strange expression came on Broom’s, and rushing after her, he cried in a loud, angry voice: “Not so fast, you little wildcat. You shall pay me for those false smiles.”

Suddenly a boy’s clear voice rang out on the still night air.

“_Kas-ba-a, yu-cuz-zie, yu-cuz-zie Kas-ba-a!_”

With a smothered imprecation the man stopped dead in his tracks. Then at the sound of someone approaching he dropped hurriedly back into the shadow. Suddenly an idea crossed his mind. He stood a moment chewing his moustache thoughtfully, and nodding his head once or twice. “I’ll do it,” he muttered.

When Roy entered the house, after giving Delgezie a few supplies from the store, he was astonished to find Broom had not come in; apparently he must be outside talking to Sahanderry or Minnihak. Dismissing the matter from his mind, he turned to Delgezie, who had followed to make his report.

Throwing back his hood, Delgezie displayed a pleasant, wrinkled face. But there was the sad, wistful expression in his eyes of one who has experienced some overwhelming sorrow, and yet was conscientiously striving to live out his life bravely despite it. He seated himself at a nod from his master, who plied him with questions relative to the trip. It had been a very successful one. They had brought back a good haul of furs.

“And Acpa?” questioned Roy presently, referring to one of his Eskimo traders.

“His boy’s sick,” said Delgezie.

“What’s the matter with him?”

“Oh, he met with an accident. His father shot him in the leg; the gun went off accidentally.”

“Hurt him much?”

“Yes, completely shattered the bone below the knee.”

“What are they doing to it?”

“They’ve tied a piece of shaganappi tightly around the leg, above the wound.”

“What in the world for?” asked Thursby, in blank surprise.

“Oh, the line will cut through the flesh,” said Delgezie, unmoved, “and the lower part will rot off, clean off.”

“Good heavens!” exclaimed the other. “Is that possible?”

“Yes. The greater part of the flesh below the shaganappi is off already.”

“How ghastly!” said the trader, with a slight shudder. “But the boy?”

“Oh, he’s lively enough.”

“Well, well! we live and learn,” said Thursby. “What would a doctor say of such primitive surgery?” he wondered. “But there, I won’t keep you any longer,” he added.

The old man got to his feet instantly. With a cheerful “Good-night, sir,” he left the room. Outside he was joined by Minnihak, and the two proceeded to Delgezie’s hut together. On the way they met an Eskimo woman, whom they passed with a slight greeting.

With characteristic curiosity she turned and watched them. She was a “runner.” A band of Eskimo had found it impossible to reach the post that day and had sent her on in advance to get the usual gratuity of _tee-pli-tow_ (tobacco) and carry it back to them.

The old Chipewyan’s face brightened when he approached his humble home, where a pale light welcomed him from the window. He lifted the catch softly, while a look of pleased anticipation stole over his face, for was he not to see his only child whom he loved better than anything on all God’s earth? He had been away from her many days—long, weary days, haunted by the fearful dread that he might return to find her gone, as her mother had gone years before. For there was a tragedy in the old man’s life. Leaving his wife in the best of health, he had gone on a trip to an Indian encampment, and had returned to find her dead and buried. She had died of some contagious disease. This was a terrible blow to him, for he loved her fondly. He had shortly before embraced the Christian faith, and this great affliction—this taking away of all he loved best on earth—tried the simple-hearted man sorely. It seemed monstrously unjust. He probably could not have put his feelings into words, but that was what he felt. It was hard for him to believe in a God who could do this thing—a God whom the missionary invariably presented as a “God of love.” What had he done to deserve such misery? All that was just and righteous in the gentle-minded man rose up in revolt. And was this to be wondered at? How many of us so-called highly-civilized people have not at some time or other questioned the wisdom of God with infinitely less cause? Well, then, may we sympathize with this poor, uneducated, half-pagan Indian. The bereaved man’s grief was terrible to witness. For days he sat disconsolate and desolate, moaning to himself, and neither eating nor sleeping. When the missionary called to comfort him, he rose slowly to his feet and in a voice that cut the preacher to the heart cried: “My wife, where is she?” Then with a sweep of the arm to take in the whole of his tribe, he asked: “Was there no other woman your God could take?” The missionary, greatly distressed, felt that the kindest thing he could do was to go away. Time passed on and the poor fellow again took up his accustomed duties. But he was never afterwards the same man. He never forgot his dead wife and secretly and sincerely mourned her all the rest of his days. He never took another, but showered all the love of his bruised heart upon his orphaned child, and never left the Fort without an overwhelming fear that something might happen to his treasure while he was away. But he was home again now and all was well. The _com-it-uk_ had claimed most of his attention when he had driven up to the Fort, but his eyes nevertheless sought eagerly for Kasba, whom he discovered standing meekly in the background after her wont, ready to carry his “bag” to the house. They had not yet spoken, for Kasba never intruded herself when Bekothrie was nigh. She knew her father’s work came first. But she was inside the house, he well knew, to welcome him; and never did a lover’s heart flutter and throb as did the heart of this poor old home-coming Indian father.

True to his expectations, his daughter was waiting for him within. She was standing by the stove. Instantly the girl’s face glowed with pleasure, and with a little cry of delight she flew to him and, encircling his neck with her arms, drew his face down on a level with her own, and gazed searchingly into it for a moment, as if to see whether he had taken any harm during his long absence. The old man gave a short, contented laugh, then his feelings welled up within him and tears of joy gleamed in his eyes. Reluctantly putting her from him, he took off his out-door garments while Kasba greeted the Eskimo and flew back to the stove, on which a pot was boiling merrily. A savory smell filled the room but the old man remarked it not. His eyes were following his daughter’s movements with the wistful gaze of loving solicitude. He paused in the act of drying his hands on a coarse towel to smile whenever his eyes caught hers in her flittings. His ablutions completed, Kasba helped him into his jacket. Then, taking him by the shoulder she playfully forced him to a seat. The Eskimo seated himself at the table at a gesture from Kasba, and soon food was set before the men. Hardly a word was exchanged between them, and in a marvellously short space of time they had finished supper and were feeling for their pipes. Fumbling in one pocket after another, Delgezie pulled out pipe, knife and a plug of nigger-head from profound depths. Then he proceeded to cut up enough of the tobacco to fill his pipe. Minnihak produced his _pu-lu-yet-ti_ (pipe) from his fire-bag and with scrupulous carefulness filled its little black bowl with a mixture of tobacco and a particular kind of weed which grows among the rocks in the vicinity.

This _pu-lu-yet-ti_ had been fashioned from soft stone and ornamented with little brass bands in a manner and after a pattern peculiar to the Eskimo. The stem was of wood and frequently renewed. But the old stems were never thrown away; they were hoarded up against a tobacco famine when they would be cut up very fine and smoked.

The two men smoked in silence. Minnihak drew lovingly at his pipe long after the little bowl was empty. Then with a deep sigh of regret he reluctantly put it away, and drawing his _kaip-puk_ (deerskin robe) over him, he stretched himself on the floor to sleep.

Her duties completed, Kasba sat down beside her father.

“The boy’s asleep,” said Delgezie, with an indicative thrust of the chin in the direction of a recumbent figure in a corner of the room.

“Yes,” laughed the girl, with a glance in the same direction. “Poor David, he tried to keep awake, but he was so very tired. He was away on the ‘big hill’ hunting, all day. He shot three deer.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the old man with a nod and smile of approbation.

“We’re going for them to-morrow,” she explained, taking her father’s hand and smoothing it fondly.

Just then the door opened and Broom appeared. He hesitated on the threshold, glancing from one to the other as if asking permission to enter. Kasba half started up from her seat at sight of him. She experienced a feeling of resentful surprise, wondering what his visit might portend.

The old man bade him enter, though he seemed rather taken aback at the fellow’s presence. The welcome obviously lacked fervor.

Nothing daunted, Broom came forward with a peculiar smile on his lips.

Kasba rose hastily and placed a seat for him, then turned deliberately away, withdrawing to another part of the room, and for the time being appeared totally absorbed in some kind of needlework.

“Well, old man,” said Broom, breaking the strained silence, “what sort of a trip did you have?”

“Pretty fair, sir,” Delgezie made brief reply. Then he nervously moved his hands and his eyes went to the girl. Delgezie certainly looked upon Broom with much disfavor. Suddenly he straightened up a little and looked the sailor full in the face. “What do you want?” he demanded bluntly.

Broom appeared a trifle confused by this direct question. He glanced at the girl before answering, then: “Oh, nothing much?” he said.

Delgezie nodded doubtfully, his eyes fastened on the fellow’s face. Something in his manner had startled and displeased him.

Conversation lagged.

The intruder fidgeted uneasily under the old man’s solemn scrutiny. He changed his position several times. Then he suddenly produced a cigar and offered it to the old man, who refused it point blank.

“No thank you,” said the old fellow, with grim brevity, “I’m used to the pipe.”

Broom bit off the end of the rejected cigar savagely, and sticking it into his mouth applied a match. Again he glanced at the girl.

This time Delgezie caught the direction of his glance and instinctively his attention was alert. A shade of uneasiness came into his eyes; his mind was filled with vague alarms. With puckered brows he sat silently watchful and suspicious.

To Kasba the constraint became unbearable. She softly opened the door and went out. The closing of the door was the first warning Broom received of it.

He turned half round and sat for a few moments in a listening attitude. Then he turned back, and leaning forward toward Delgezie, “Look here, old man,” he said, laughing oddly, “what I’ve come to see you about is this: I want your girl—” He left the sentence unfinished; there was that in the old man’s face that caused him to stop.

For Delgezie had turned white, his lower jaw dropped, his eyes set in a fixed, horrified stare; he breathed heavily. So paralyzed was he at the news that he lost his faculties. Something like a groan escaped his lips.

“You—want—my—daughter!” he gasped, at length.

“Yes, I do,” replied Broom, mercilessly, with another odd laugh. “I’m in love with her. Course I can’t marry her properly here, we haven’t a parson; but I’m going south first open water and will take her along. We can get hitched up then, at Churchill. In the meantime an Indian marriage will have to do.”

The look in the old man’s honest eyes caused Broom’s to wander.

“Well,” said the old fellow shakily, “I can’t give you my girl. She’s all I’ve got.” His voice broke and a tear showed on his cheek. “Besides,” he added, pulling himself together, “you don’t love her; you say you do, but by and by—”

“I know what you mean. You mean I would grow tired of her and throw her off.”

“Yes,” said the brave old Indian, slowly, “that’s what I mean.”

Broom laughed harshly. “You’re candid, at any rate, old man; but you’re wrong. Besides, how do you know that the girl don’t want me?”

“You can ask her yourself, in front of me,” replied Delgezie with honest indignation. And rising slowly, he crossed the room and went out. Broom heard the old man’s voice in conversation outside for a few moments, then he returned, leaving the door ajar behind him.

Soon after, the girl came in. “Well!” she said quietly, yet with a touch of defiance in her voice, and facing Broom boldly. Her eyes were wide and flashing, her lips compressed. She looked at him in a manner which despite himself caused him to feel somewhat abashed and his face to crimson.

The fellow seemed too confused to speak for a moment. Then: “I’ve been asking your father for you, Kasba,” he said, somewhat brusquely, as if intending to carry off the matter with a high hand.

The girl displayed no surprise. She looked him squarely in the face for a moment, then: “Do you mean that you wish to _marry_ me?” she asked with rather marked emphasis.

“Well, I would; but I can’t, very well,” he explained. “I’d do it fast enough, but there ain’t any parson here. I reckon you’d think a sky-pilot necessary—” He paused and looked at her searchingly.

But she would not help him. She stood grimly silent, gazing at him with an inscrutable face.

He shifted uneasily under the intensity of her gaze. Her attitude stirred his wrath. Who in the world was she that she should put on airs? She had been spoilt. Just because she was pretty she had been petted and made much of! But—just wait! D—— her!

“Still we could get married—” he continued, as she did not speak.

The girl’s lip curled, and he left the sentence unfinished.

“According to _native_ custom,” she finished scornfully. “Oh!” There was great significance in the exclamation. She threw back her head proudly, and her nostrils widened. She surveyed him from head to foot in one sweeping glance of contempt.

Broom smiled. It was a disagreeable smile and his brows lowered. There came an unpleasant glint in his eye.

Going to her father, who had resumed his seat, she knelt down beside him. The old man took her hand and held it tightly. “Father,” she said firmly, “I shall never marry in that fashion. You would not wish me to do so?”

The staunch old fellow shook his head decidedly. “No, my child,” said the downright old fellow. “We are Indians, it’s true; but we are also Christians. No, I do not wish it, nor would I allow it.” There was much righteous indignation in his voice.

“Christians!” sneered Broom, in a manner so diabolical that it is quite beyond power of description. “_Fine_ Christians, I’m sure. But I’m up to your little game. You think to make a fine lady of the girl, eh? She’s throwing herself at Thursby’s head, and if—”

“Stop!” commanded Delgezie, sternly. Gently disengaging himself from the girl, he got to his feet. Raised to his full height, he looked upon the slanderer with a face which, in truth, was fearful. His eyes brightened into clear and perfect fire. He stood, a concentration of scorn, contempt, hatred the most intense; pouring upon the dastardly villain an unbroken stream of withering fury that was dreadful to look upon. His daughter, in fact, was obliged to speak twice before she could arrest his attention.

“Father! father!” she pleaded. She was greatly frightened. She had never seen this kind-hearted old man in such a fierce passion before.

At the sound of the girl’s voice, Delgezie partly recovered himself. The anger went slowly out of his face, leaving it grim and stern. “You have received your answer,” he said with dignity. “You have no right to insult us. Please go.” With that he resumed his seat.

But Broom was angry, too. For an instant he had a wicked desire to seize the girl and carry her off, but he could not do this without being followed and brought back, and his punishment would be severe. Roy had already declared himself on that score. Besides there would be this fiery old father to deal with.

“I’ll have her yet,” said Broom, starting to take his leave, “I swear it!”

At the door he turned and glanced maliciously back at the girl, then laughing discordantly he strode out, banging the door behind him.

Then a great, horrible fear seizing Delgezie seemed to still the beating of his heart. For Broom had sworn that he would possess Kasba. Broom was a white man, and white men always got what they set their hearts upon; that is, when dealing with Indians. At least, such was Delgezie’s experience. He must consult Bekothrie. Yet it seemed a silly thing to make a fuss about. It was no insult to offer a girl marriage, and, if pressed by Bekothrie, Broom would undoubtedly construe his offer as such. Besides the fellow had been refused, and that should end the matter, and probably would, when he had had time to recover from his ruffled feelings. If he then refused to take the rejection in good part and continued to annoy the girl with his attentions, it would then be time to complain to Bekothrie. So argued the old fellow, who was not a little shrewd in his way.

“Do you like that man, my girl?” he asked with exceeding tenderness.

“I don’t, and never shall,” Kasba replied firmly. “And oh, father, I never want to leave you. You are the best father any girl ever had.” Then with a laugh she kissed him.

He put his hand up and stroked her cheek.

“When the time comes, little girl, and the right man asks, your father won’t refuse him,” Delgezie assured her in his slow, thoughtful way. “But in God’s name let it be a man of your own kind, an Indian. You were trained in the white man’s ways, and taught to read and write English, but you are still an Indian, my dear; nothing could alter that. You are what the good God intended you should be—a Chipewyan Indian girl; and to be ashamed of it would be to doubt His wisdom. But there,” he added hastily, trying to hide his emotion, “you are going to the ‘big hill’ to-morrow, so must be off to bed. Give me the books.” He drew the lamp toward him as if to obtain more light to read by, but in reality his poor old eyes were dim with tears.

Kasba sprang to her feet and brought two Chipewyan books, a hymn and a prayer book. These she handed to her father, who fumbled at the leaves of the hymn-book for some moments with a thoughtful frown. Then suddenly, “_A Neolt ye sesal naothat da_” (Abide with me), he sang in a thin, tremulous voice. Kasba joined in the hymn, but in subdued tones, fearing to wake David, who moved uneasily.

The pair then fell on their knees and Delgezie read the “general confession,” concluding with “_Neta Yaka thenda nese_” (Our Father, who art).

Long after her father’s deep breathing told her that he was asleep, Kasba lay gazing at a shaft of moonlight that pierced the small window. Her mind dwelt with bitterness on the harshness of her situation: Broom’s persistent attentions; Roy’s indifference to her love; and her promise to Sahanderry necessitated important changes in her life. In future she must no longer roam the Fort unattended; no longer spend the quiet hours thinking of Bekothrie. Instead, she must always be accompanied in her ramblings, must think of Bekothrie no more, and accept Sahanderry as her lover.