CHAPTER III

THE RIVALS

Ignoring the presence of his rival, Lamont passed aside and entered the scrub bush which fringed the odorous forest. But, noiseless and agile as the overhead chipmunk, Muskwah followed in his track, scarce ever ceasing from his melodious and heartfelt appeal. Since he played the part of suppliant, he argued with his opponent without heat, though passion might not be denied. He invoked the higher sense of right. Surely only the Indian was fit mate for the Indian. Where would be the 'heart of joy' when the brain had been touched by fancy, the mind spoilt in imagination? Love was the choicest gift of the _Heelhi-Manitou_, a thing not to be lightly taken, and never to be cast aside as worthless. In such manner he pleaded, with all the native picturesque imagery of word expression and imagination.

At length Lamont turned upon him in anger. 'What about the night of the fight? Perhaps you don't know that my rifle was once sighted for your heart. A motion of the finger, and you would have gone to your fantastic paradise. But I spared you, for you were more of the man than your followers.'

Not a muscle stirred along Muskwah's stolid countenance. 'The gift which is unsought is no gift. Mayhap I might even now be happier, had you sent my soul to join those who fell in death. For with one hand you have held out life, yet with the other have you taken away its light.'

'So now you follow me with the request that I should give you that which is as much mine as yours. You seek Menotah's love--'

'Surely!' broke in the Indian, with a fury of passion. 'What other woman is there who can so stir the heart within a man? Who would not die for her favour, or fight for her love?'

A sneer crossed Lamont's face, while his eyes grew cold. The keen-sighted Indian marked the change. 'Let not the white chief mock at my poor words. It is the heart that speaks, and the tongue must obey the thought. The white chief knows that my love is for Menotah, that my life joy lies at the utterance of her voice. He would not take away the sun, the day shine, and leave only the black night of despair.'

'Wouldn't he?' said Lamont, coolly. 'Why not?'

'Because he is merciful,' cried Muskwah, clasping his sinewy hands. 'Every man may love, yet none may resign the heart already bound.'

Lamont laughed. 'What a sickly sentiment,' he muttered carelessly.

The eyes of the Indian flashed, while his bosom heaved. He raised his hands, with head erect, in a pose of proud defiance. Then in a soft monotone he poured forth the emotional phrases of his heart,--

There is yet the great truth, which is spirit sent, behind my weak words. Listen, white chief, while I teach you the power of love.

When I was a stripling youth around the tents, before I was of age to be made brave, often would I cast eye of longing on some fair maiden as she passed. So when her eyes met mine with silent message, the heart would bound within, and I called it love. Yet it was not so, since the pain would die down, while the wound would leave no scar. Then many moons grew round and faded in their light as the young Menotah passed from childhood to youth. Her beauty opened like the flower bud moistened by the softness of light, and painted with the coloured breath of morning. For those the gods love are beautiful, and the seasons bring them gifts. So was it with Menotah. To her, spring came with heart of joy, and summer with a smile; fair blush, gift of autumn, and winter last with health.

'But as I watched her, with wonder that the Spirit could make anything so beautiful, my whole being fled away as the soul at time of death. Where the heart had once throbbed lurked a living flame, which burnt by day and night and grew ever fiercer. So I waited for that fire to burn out, as it had done before. During the clear day, when the strength rose high and I tracked the muskawk or snared the wolf, I thought I was once again master of my life. But as night rose and stillness crept through the tents, the limbs sank in weariness and the fire returned to burn away manly strength and courage. With it, also, came the loneliness and a great longing. So I knew that this was love, the sickness that knows not healing. I knew that the fire would burn, unless desire were satisfied, until there should be nothing left to consume, until life reason should have passed, and loneliness be satisfied in the silence.'

They stood together beneath the softly stirring pine branches, where the green-tinted sunlight stabbed down in narrow rays. Civilised and barbarian almost; cultured and the untaught. Yet surrounding Nature might have hesitated in choosing out the Man.

Lamont slunk away sullenly. 'I have no wish to hear your wild love songs. The feelings are things to be repressed, not blasted into the ears of those who do not wish to listen.'

The Indian turned too, and with growing passion caught him by the arm. 'I but follow the teaching of my own mind. A man must obey the love call, though the world rise to hold him back.'

Muskwah spoke from his own by no means narrow philosophy. The workings of the world were certainly beyond his understanding; the ways of Nature he was in close touch with. He was pushing dimly towards one definite aim in life. The Chief was tottering to his death. When the funeral smoke had cleared, he might well be chosen head of the tribe. Power he cared not for, except as a path which might lead to happiness. For none but the heart which knew not sorrow[1] could be the Chief's bride, and she, Menotah, would surely give all that a man could wish for.

The Chief had placed his footsteps in the right direction, and, in the callous Indian sex love, had regarded the young warrior with special favour. Indeed, he had bidden him plead his own cause, but the lover's bashfulness could not be overcome. Whenever she passed, he trembled beneath the bright gaze. But then came the message from Riel and the subsequent struggle, where Lamont had appeared, surrounded most with the mystery of a god. Menotah beheld the skill and courage of the handsome white. Such things are pleasing to women. She had looked upon the one conquered and rope bound; the other victorious and confident. The latter had addressed her with the soft voice that maidens love; the former was ignorant of such love artifice. Moreover, she had cast at the white man smiling glances, for which the Indian would have dared the fire and mocked the powers above.

And yet the wide world course lies open to all. Prizes are set in the open, but they are few and the competitors many. The strongest, most eloquent, highest in skill, take of the best, while the multitude fight for the poor consolations remaining.

Muskwah still held Lamont back. His flashing eyes and passioned face were not to be safely trifled with. 'I love,' he cried blindly. 'Nothing can heal the wound, or soften that suffering. Were Menotah to strike me down in death, I should fall blessing her.'

Lamont tried to free his arm, but the Indian's fingers closed it round like steel springs. 'You are a fighter and hunter. Keep your strength, and do not waste it in the arms of a woman.'

'The white chief is also a warrior. When the blood runs hot, the heart may thirst for nothing but war and power. But when the fight is done, and darkness creeps around, he stretches forth his limbs in the tent and calls for love.'

Lamont feared lest the impetuous lover should again burst into his passion song. He made a quick movement, released himself, then stepped back.

'I am going,' he said coolly. 'But I will first tell you that if you would win Menotah, you must plead for yourself--and against me.'

The judgment was that of Nature. When the object of a careless affection is about to pass to another's ownership, desire becomes a passion. It is only the prize which seems irrevocably lost that remains a thing of perfect beauty; it is the realisation of an ideal that is an imperfect happiness.

Lamont had been attracted by Menotah's artless beauty, her joyous laughter, and caressing ways. Satisfied with the fact that she loved him, her favours yet failed to stir the fire of his heart into a higher glow than admiration. But now that an Indian rival breathed opposition, the smouldering flame leapt up into fierce heat, and Menotah possessed two lovers.

The ghastly pallor, which in the Indian takes the place of the red anger flush, altered the dark hue of his features. 'Perhaps the white man spoke without thought. For why should he leave his own cities, to choose a bride from the lowly tents of the Cree? For him there is the wide world to choose from. But I have only this one hope, and it is more to me than the beauty of the world. I will listen again for an answer.'

'I have spoken,' said Lamont, stubbornly. 'I have no more to say.'

Then the Indian started forward suddenly, with vengeance in his face.

'Yet there is something beside. There is an oath. Swear that you will never speak to her on the heart's pain. Swear by the Spirit. Swear that you will not enter into her life.'

Lamont stepped against a straight pine, confident in his strength. '_Diable s'en mêle!_' he muttered. Then to the Indian, 'Get back to the encampment, you crazy fool.'

Passion raged along every muscle of the grey-dark face. He cast aside control over voice and actions. 'Am I to lose Menotah after spending my life for her? You shall swear.' He came excitedly forward, with arms outreaching.

Two crows flapped heavily in the tree summits, with dismal croakings. 'Another step this way,' said Lamont, coolly, 'one more step, and the crows will have you. Your eyes will never see Menotah again.'

Yet he knew this threat was useless, for he understood the Indian character, which is a thing ruled by momentary flashes of strong impulse. The mental anarchy of the uncivilised mind is short-lived, yet overwhelming in consequence. The untrained body leaps from devotion to animosity, from obedience to open rebellion, in a moment. So with Muskwah, revenge was just then a higher passion than love.

As the anger-fire smouldered in his dark eyes, the long brown fingers worked towards the keen-edged knife, and he glided forward with the quick cunning of the grass snake.

Lamont smiled, while the sure right hand darted to his side. Half fronting he stood, with the left elbow crooked. But there was no descending flash of a bright muzzle, no sharp report, no dusky rival writing in death along the moss.

He was absolutely unarmed! At Justin's sudden entrance with the news of the boat arrival, the impetuous Factor had pulled him out without allowing time for complete equipment. Those weapons behind which he was a lion of courage were lying in the fort. He stood alone, confronted by a merciless rival, in the lonely forest of the Saskatchewan.

Still here was opportunity for displaying that vaunted courage of the all-conquering white before one of the defeated. He might stand up against him and fight with the natural weapons of despair, aided perhaps by the withered branch snapped from the near pine with strength of necessity. This Indian should be shown how fearlessly the white man could face danger or death.

With a shrill cry, Muskwah sprang at him. He staggered back a pace, blenching from the uplifted knife--then ran, with all the speed of his limbs, with all the white fear of the pursued.

The display of cowardice was needless, for the Indian rapidly overtracked him. Lamont turned suddenly, with the horror of feeling the cold slush of the knife in his back, and dropped to his knees. He was seized by the shoulders; he clutched his enemy by the body.

So together they fought in the solitude, while the sun revolved up the heavens, and the summer heat grew towards noon. Purple butterflies flashed unconcernedly in the greenish light over their heads; the blood-red kanikanik wands nodded; locusts whirred and hurled themselves strongly against the sweating bodies of the combatants. The beauty of Nature environed the hot human passions. On the extreme summit of a feather-pine, the carrion crows croaked and rocked in the soft breeze.

Muskwah's natural strength, aided by passion, which disregarded life safety, prevailed at length. His rival lay beneath his hands, pressed upon the white, flowering moss, his face rigid with increasing fear.

The victor's bosom rose and fell exultantly. 'The Spirit has given you into my power, and bidden me take revenge. Gaze for the last time on the world light, white man, before I draw darkness across your eyes with my knife.'

Lamont glared upward despairingly. The hands that held him trembled with the mighty flood of restrained anger. A knife quivered in hot white circles between his eyes and the furious face of his opponent.

All his subtle resource in emergency rose in a mighty effort for preservation of life. There was still a move to be made; desperate, but yet of possible success. He must pit his trained mind knowledge and power of will against the weak determination and brain of inexperience.

He was a splendid actor. So he nerved himself and laughed aloud.

Surprise partially disarmed the victor of his blind anger. Then came the words which caused his grip to loosen,--

'Pshaw! I will in a word take away strength from your arm. You dare not kill me.'

Muskwah stared upon the lively face of scorn, his own working in perplexity. 'Tell me why I should spare you,' he said wonderingly.

The answer came with a slow, cruel deliberation, 'Menotah loves me.'

He felt the finger clutch on his throat unfasten, as an overstrained necklet. He watched the light of knowledge dawning upon the heavy features. He had fired his shot, as at invisible foes under cover of night. Now he must follow up his words and make his advantage sure.

By his murder there would be nothing beyond the mere satisfaction of revenge. But Menotah would mourn and wear sorrow upon her 'heart of joy.' The Indian had declared entire devotion, yet he was now thirsting to perform an act which must surely bring suffering into her life. More, she might even learn, through the process of chance, whose hand it had been that had destroyed the life of him she loved.

'Kill me, you destroy your own happiness; spare my life--you may yet win her who has your love.'

Such arguments dashed against a weak knowledge to the overwhelming of desperation's anger. To the heart came well-nigh relinquished memories of self-pride and future hope. The dull brain spoke plainly. By satisfying longing for vengeance, he would banish into the impossible all life happiness. By extinguishing the flame of life he destroyed the light in Menotah's eyes. That which she approved was sacred, even though a rival. So he lifted his simple head, with the understanding that his opponent's words had brought _salvation_ to three lives. It was again the triumph of the tongue.

Muskwah sheathed the long knife. 'Now you shall swear to leave this land, and return to your own place. Behold the black boat lies upon the waters, and in her you shall sail away, even as I said. You have stood at the outer door of life, while I was by your side ready to cast you into whirling vapour. Down you must have fallen, shadow amid shadows, while I might have gazed into the nether gloom, then stepped back to the life world. Will you swear not? Surely you shall return thither again. Then shall I come back alone. You are teaching me the ways of the world, white man.'

Sullenly Lamont struggled to a sitting posture. In the dim voice of hatred he muttered, 'I will swear to depart from this place, and never more speak of love to Menotah. That is the price I am to pay for life?'

'By the Great Spirit, the Totem of your being, the Light and Darkness, the River, and your own Gods,' chanted the Indian in his deep monotone.[2]

So Lamont swore.

[1] Such is the literal translation of 'Menotah.'

[2] To the heathen Indian, an oath such as this is absolutely infrangible. The converted native quickly comes to treat a sacred promise with the easy elasticity of other Christians!