Lords of the North Part 46

"Get your tent up here," I called to conciliate them. "Then come to the bank and watch for the Indians."

A bit of clean gravel ran out from the clay cliff.

"That's the ground," said I, as the other canoe b.u.mped over the pebbles; and I stopped paddling and dangled my hand in the water.

Something in the dark drifted wet and soft against my fingers.

Ordinarily such an incident would not have alarmed me; but instantly a shudder of apprehension ran through my frame. I scarce had courage to look into the river lest the white face of a woman should appear through the watery depths. Clutching the water-soaked tangle, I jerked it up.

Something gave with a rip, and my hand was full of shawl fringe.

"What's that, Rufus?" asked Father Holland. "Don't know." I motioned him to be silent and held it up in the moonlight. Distinctly it was, or had been, red fringe.

"Do you think--" he began, then stopped. Our keel had rubbed bottom and Hamilton was springing out of the other canoe.

"Yes, I do," I replied, choking with dread. "This is too terrible! He'll kill himself! Go up the bank with him! Keep him busy at the tent! Little Fellow and I'll pole for it. The water's shallow there----"

"What do _you_ think?" said the priest to Laplante.

"T'ink! I never t'ink! I finds out." But all the same, Louis' a.s.surance was shaken and he peered searchingly into the river.

"Aren't you coming? What's your plan?" called Eric.

"Certainly we are, but get this truck to higher ground, will you?" I hoisted out the camp trappings. "I want to paddle out for something."

"What is it?" he asked.

"Something lost out there. I lost it out of my hand."

Frances Sutherland, I know, suspected trouble from the alarm which I could not keep out of my speech; for she pressed to the water's edge.

"Get the tent ready," I urged.

"What's the meaning of this mystery?" persisted Hamilton sharply. "What have you lost?"

"Don't press him too closely. Faith, it may be a love token,"

interjected Father Holland, as he stepped ash.o.r.e; but he whispered in my ear as he pa.s.sed, "You're wrong, lad! You're on the wrong track!"

I leaped back to the canoe, Little Fellow and the Frenchman following, and we paddled to the shallows where I had caught the fringe. I prodded the soft mud below and trailed the paddle back and forward over the clay bottom. Louis did likewise; but in vain. Only soft ooze came up on the blade. Then Little Fellow stripped and dived. Of course it was dark under water, as it always is dark under the muddy Red, and the Indian could not feel a thing from which fringe could have ripped. Had my jerk disturbed whatever it was and sent it rolling down to mid-current? I asked Father Holland this when I came back.

"Tush, faint-heart," he muttered, drawing me aside. "'Tis only a trial of your faith."

I said something about trials of faith which I shall not repeat here, but which the majority of people, who are on the tenter-hooks of such trials, have said for themselves.

"Faith! Pah!" exclaimed Louis, joining our whispered conference, while Eric and Mr. Sutherland were hoisting a tent. "That shawl, it mean nodings of things heavenly! It only mean rag stuck in the mud and reds nearabouts here! I have told the Great Bear and his snarl Englishman the Indians not come till morning. They get tent ready and watch! You follow Louis, he lead you to camp. The priest--he good for say a little prayer; the Indian for fight; Louis--for swear; Rufus--to s.n.a.t.c.h the Englishwoman, he good at s.n.a.t.c.hing the fair, ha-ha."

He darted to the sh.o.r.e, calling Little Fellow from the canoe and leaving Father Holland and me to follow as best we could.

"We'll be back soon, Eric," I shouted. "We're going to get the lie of the land. Keep watch here," and I broke into a run to keep up with the French trapper and the Indian, who were leading into the woods away from the river. I could hear Father Holland puffing behind like a wind-blown racer. Abruptly the priest came to a stop.

"By all the saints," he ordered. "Go back to the tent!"

I turned. A white form emerged from the foliage and Frances was beside me.

"May I not come?" she asked.

"No--dearest, there will be fighting."

"No--Lord--no," panted Father Holland coming up to us. "We're not swapping one woman for another. What would Rufus do without ye?"

"You are going for Miriam?" she questioned, holding my hand. "G.o.d speed you and bring you back safely!"

"Say rather--bring Miriam," and I unfastened the clinging hand almost roughly.

"Come on, slugs, sloths, laggards," commanded Laplante impatiently, and we dashed into the thick of the woods, leaving the white figure alone against the shadowy thicket. She called out something, of which I heard only two words, "Miriam" and "Rufus"; but I knew those names were uttered in supplication and they filled my heart with daring hope.

Surely, we must succeed--for the Little Statue's prayers were following me--and I bounded on with a faith as buoyant as the priest's blind trust. Thus we ran through the moon-shafted woods pursuing the flitting, lithe figures of trapper and Indian, who scarce disturbed a fern leaf, while Father Holland and I floundered through the underbrush like ramping elephants. Then I found myself panting as hard as the priest and clinging to his arm for support; for illness had taken all the bravery out of my muscles, like champagne uncorked and left in the heat.

"Brace yourself, lad," said the priest. "The Lord is with us, but don't you bungle."

A long, low whistle came through the dark, a whistle that was such a perfect imitation of the night hawk, no spy might detect it for the signal of a runner. After the whistle, was the soft, ominous hiss of a serpent in the gra.s.s; and we were abreast of Louis Laplante and Little Fellow standing stock still sniffing forward as hounds might scent a foe.

"She may not be there! She may be drown;" whispered Louis, "but we creep on, quiet like hare, no noise like deer, stiller than mountain cat, hist--what that?"

The night breeze set the leaves all atremble--clapping their hands, as the Indians call it--and a whiff of burning bark tainted the air.

"That's it," said I under my breath.

The smoke was blowing from wooded flats between us and the river.

Cautiously parting interlaced branches and as carefully replacing each bough to prevent backward snap, we turned down the sloping bank. I suppose necessity's training in the wilds must produce the same result in man and beast; and from that fact, faddists of the various "osophies"

and "ologies" may draw what conclusions they please; but I affirm that no panther could creep on its prey with more stealth, caution and cunning than the trapper and Indian on the enemy's camp. I have seen wild creatures approaching a foe set each foot down with noiseless tread; but I have never seen such a combination of instincts, brute and human, as Louis and Little Fellow displayed. The Indian felt the ground for tracks and pitfalls and sticks, that might crackle. Louis, with his whole face p.r.i.c.ked forward, trusted more to his eyes and ears and that sense of "feel," which is--contradictory as it may seem--utterly intangible. Once the Indian picked up a stick freshly broken. This was examined by both, and the Indian smelt it and tried his tongue on the broken edge. Then both fell on all fours, creeping under the branches of the thicket and pausing at every pace.

"Would that I had taken lessons in forest lore before I went among the Sioux," I thought to myself. Now I knew what had been incomprehensible before--why all my well-laid plans had been detected.

A wind rustled through the foliage. That was in our favor; for in spite of our care the leaves crushed and crinkled beneath us. At intervals a glimmer of light shone from the beach. Louis paused and listened so intently our breathing was distinctly audible. A vague murmur of low voices--like the "talking of the trees" in Little Fellow's language--floated up from the river; and in the moonlight I saw Laplante laugh noiselessly. Trees stood farther apart on the flats and brushwood gave place to a forest of ferns, that concealed us in their deep foliage; but the thick growth also hid the enemy, and we knew not at what moment we might emerge in full view of the camp. So we stretched out flat, spying through the fern stalks before we parted the stems to draw ourselves on a single pace. Presently, the murmur separated into distinct voices, with much low laughing and the bitter jeers that make up Indian mirth. We could hear the crackling of the fire, and wormed forward like caterpillars.

There was a glare of light through the ferns, and Louis stopped. We all three pulled abreast of him. Lying there as a cat watches a mouse, we parted first one and then another of the fronds till the Indian encampment could be clearly seen.

"Is that the tribe?" I whispered; but Louis gripped my arm in a vice that forbade speech.

The camp was not a hundred feet away. Fire blazed in the centre. Poles were up for wigwams, and already skins had been overlaid, completing several lodges. Men lay in lazy att.i.tudes about the fire. Squaws were taking what was left of the evening meal and slave-women were putting things to rights for the night. Sitting apart, with hands tied, were other slaves, chiefly young women taken in some recent fray and not yet trusted unbound. Among these was one better clad than the others. Her wrists were tied; but her hands managed to conceal her face, which was bowed low. In her lap was a sleeping child. Was this Miriam? Children were with the other captives; but to my eyes this woman's torn shawl appeared reddish in the fire glow.

"Let's go boldly up and offer to buy the slaves," I suggested; but Louis' grip tightened forbiddingly and Little Fellow's forefinger pointed towards a big creature, who was ordering the others about. 'Twas a woman of giant, bronzed form, with the bold stride of a conquering warrior and a trophy-decked belt about her waist. The fire shone against her girdle and the stones in the leather strap glowed back blood-red.

Father Holland breathed only one word in my ear, "Agates;" and the fire of the red stones flashed like some mystic flame through my being till brain and heart were hot with vengeance and my hands burned as if every nerve from palm to finger-tips were a blade point reaching out to destroy that creature of cruelty.

"Diable's squaw," I gasped out, beside myself with anger and joy. "Let me but within arm's length of her----"

"Hold quiet," the priest hissed low and angry, gripping my shoulder like a steel winch. "'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord! See that you save the white woman! Leave the evil-doer to G.o.d! The Lord's with us, but I tell you, don't you bungle!"

"Bungle!" I could have shouted out defiance to the whole band. "Let go!"

I ordered, trying to struggle up; for the iron hand still held me. "Let go, or I'll----"