Lords of the North

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When we finally reached the height, the Sioux were far down in the
valley. It was utterly hopeless to try to overtake them. Ah! It is easy
to face death and to struggle and to fight and to triumph! But the
hardest of all hard things is to surrender, to yield to the inevitable,
to turn back just when the goal looms through obscurity!

I still had Diable in my power. We headed about and crawled slowly back
by unburnt land towards the buffalo hunters.

Little Fellow, we overtook limping homeward afoot. Burnt Earth and
Ringing Thunder awaited us near the ravine. The carts were already out
gathering hides, tallow, flesh and tongues. We made what poor speed we
could among the buffalo carcasses to the spot where we had left Le Grand
Diable. It was Little Fellow, who was hobbling ahead, and the Indian
suddenly turned with such a cry of baffled rage, I knew it boded
misfortune. Running forward, I could hardly believe my eyes. Fools that
we were to leave the captive unguarded! The great buffalo lay
unmolested; but there was no Le Grand Diable. A third time had he
vanished as if in league with the powers of the air. Closer examination
explained his disappearance. A wet, tattered moccasin, with the
appearance of having been chewed, lay on the turf. He had evidently
bitten through his gag, raised his arms to his mouth, eaten away the
hare thongs, and so, without the help of the Sioux raiders, freed his
hands, untied himself and escaped.

Dumfounded and baffled, I returned to the encampment and took counsel
with Father Holland. We arranged to set out for the Mandanes on the
Missouri. Diable's tribe had certainly gone south to Sioux territory.
The Sioux and the Mandanes were friendly enough neighbors this year.
Living with the Mandanes south of the Sioux country, we might keep track
of the enemy without exposing ourselves to Sioux vengeance.

Forebodings of terrible suffering for Miriam haunted me. I could not
close my eyes without seeing her subjected to Indian torture; and I had
no heart to take part in the jubilation of the hunters over their great
success. The savory smell of roasting meat whiffed into my tent and I
heard the shrill laughter of the squaws preparing the hunters' feast.
With hard-wood axles squeaking loudly under the unusual burden, the
last cart rumbled into the camp enclosure with its load of meat and
skins. The clamor of the people subsided; and I knew every one was
busily gorging to repletion, too intent on the satisfaction of animal
greed to indulge in the Saxon habit of talking over a meal. Well might
they gorge; for this was the one great annual feast. There would follow
a winter of stint and hardship and hunger; and every soul in the camp
was laying up store against famine. Even the dogs were happy, for they
were either roving over the field of the hunt, or lying disabled from
gluttony at their masters' tents.

Father Holland remained in the tepee with me talking over our plans and
plastering Indian ointment on my numerous burns. By and by, the voices
of the feasters began again and we heard Pierre, the rhymester, chanting
the song of the buffalo hunt:

Now list to the song of the buffalo hunt,
Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, chant of the brave!
We are _Bois-Brules_, Freemen of the plains,
We choose our chief! We are no man's slave!

Up, riders, up, ere the early mist
Ascends to salute the rising sun!
Up, rangers, up, ere the buffalo herds
Sniff morning air for the hunter's gun!

They lie in their lairs of dank spear-grass,
Down in the gorge, where the prairie dips.
We've followed their tracks through the sucking ooze,
Where our bronchos sank to their steaming hips.

We've followed their tracks from the rolling plain
Through slime-green sloughs to a sedgy ravine,
Where the cat-tail spikes of the marsh-grown flags
Stand half as high as the billowy green.

The spear-grass touched our saddle-bows,
The blade-points pricked to the broncho's neck;
But we followed the tracks like hounds on scent
Till our horses reared with a sudden check.

The scouts dart back with a shout, "They are found!"
Great fur-maned heads are thrust through reeds,
A forest of horns, a crunching of stems,
Reined sheer on their haunches are terrified steeds!

Get you gone to the squaws at the tents, old men,
The cart-lines safely encircle the camp!
Now, braves of the plain, brace your saddle-girths!
Quick! Load guns, for our horses champ!

A tossing of horns, a pawing of hoofs,
But the hunters utter never a word,
As the stealthy panther creeps on his prey,
So move we in silence against the herd.

With arrows ready and triggers cocked,
We round them nearer the valley bank;
They pause in defiance, then start with alarm
At the ominous sound of a gun-barrel's clank.

A wave from our captain, out bursts a wild shout,
A crash of shots from our breaking ranks,
And the herd stampedes with a thunderous boom
While we drive our spurs into quivering flanks.

The arrows hiss like a shower of snakes,
The bullets puff in a smoky gust,
Out fly loose reins from the bronchos' bits
And hunters ride on in a whirl of dust.

The bellowing bulls rush blind with fear
Through river and marsh, while the trampled dead
Soon bridge safe ford for the plunging herd;
Earth rocks like a sea 'neath the mighty tread.

A rip of the sharp-curved sickle-horns,
A hunter falls to the blood-soaked ground!
He is gored and tossed and trampled down,
On dashes the furious beast with a bound,

When over sky-line hulks the last great form
And the rumbling thunder of their hoofs' beat, beat,
Dies like an echo in distant hills,
Back ride the hunters chanting their feat.

Now, old men and squaws, come you out with the carts!
There's meat against hunger and fur against cold!
Gather full store for the pemmican bags,
Garner the booty of warriors bold.

So list ye the song of the _Bois-Brules_,
Of their glorious deeds in the days of old,
And this is the tale of the buffalo hunt
Which I, Pierre, the rhymester, have proudly told.

CHAPTER XIV

IN SLIPPERY PLACES

A more desolate existence than the life of a fur-trading winterer in the
far north can scarcely be imagined. Penned in some miserable lodge a
thousand miles from human companionship, only the wild orgies of the
savages varied the monotony of dull days and long nights. The winter I
spent with the Mandanes was my first in the north. I had not yet learned
to take events as the rock takes wave-blows, and was still at that
mawkish age when a man is easily filled with profound pity for himself.
A month after our arrival, Father Holland left the Mandane village. Eric
Hamilton had not yet come; so I felt much like the man whom a gloomy
poet describes as earth's last habitant. I had accompanied the priest
half-way to the river forks. Here, he was to get passage in an Indian
canoe to the tribes of the upper Missouri. After an affectionate
farewell, I stood on a knoll of treeless land and watched the
broad-brimmed hat and black robe receding from me.

"Good-by, boy! God bless you!" he had said in broken voice. "Don't fall
to brooding when you're alone, or you'll lose your wits. Now mind
yourself! Don't mope!"

For my part, I could not answer a word, but keeping hold of his hand
walked on with him a pace.

"Get away with you! Go home, youngster!" he ordered, roughly shaking me
off and flourishing his staff.

Then he strode swiftly forward without once looking back, while I would
have given all I possessed for one last wave. As he plunged into the
sombre forest, where the early autumn frost of that north land had
already tinged the maple woods with the hectic flush of coming death, so
poignant was this last wresting from human fellowship, I could scarcely
resist the impulse to desert my station and follow him. Poorer than the
poorest of the tribes to whom he ministered, alone and armed only with
his faith, this man was ready to conquer the world for his Master.
"Would that I had half the courage for my quest," I mused, and walked
slowly back to the solitary lodge.

Black Cat, Chief of the Mandane village, in a noisy harangue, adopted me
as his son and his brother and his father and his mother and I know not
what; but apart from trade with his people, I responded coldly to these
warm overtures. From Father Holland's leave-taking to Hamilton's coming,
was a desolately lonesome interval. Daily I went to the north hill and
strained my eyes for figures against the horizon. Sometimes horsemen
would gradually loom into view, head first, then arms and horse, like
the peak of a ship preceding appearance of full canvas and hull over
sea. Thereupon I would hurriedly saddle my own horse and ride furiously
forward, feeling confident that Hamilton had at last come, only to find
the horsemen some company of Indian riders. What could be keeping him? I
conjectured a thousand possibilities; but in truth there was no need for
any conjectures. 'Twas I, who felt the days drag like years. Hamilton
was not behind his appointed time. He came at last, walking in on me one
night when I least expected him and was sitting moodily before my
untouched supper. He had nothing to tell except that he had wasted many
weeks following false clues, till our buffalo hunters returned with news
of the Sioux attack, Diable's escape and our bootless pursuit. At once
he had left Fort Douglas for the Missouri, pausing often to send scouts
scouring the country for news of Diable's band; but not a trace of the
rascals had been found; and his search seemed on the whole more barren
of results than mine. Laplante, he reported, had never been seen the
night after he left the council hall to find the young Nor'-Wester. In
my own mind, I had no doubt the villain had been in that company we
pursued through the prairie fire. Altogether, I think Hamilton's coming
made matters worse rather than better. That I had failed after so nearly
effecting a rescue seemed to embitter him unspeakably.

Out of deference to the rival companies employing us, we occupied
different lodges. Indeed, I fear poor Eric did but a sorry business for
the Hudson's Bay that winter. I verily believe he would have forgotten
to eat, let alone barter for furs, had I not been there to lug him
forcibly across to my lodge, where meals were prepared for us both.
Often when I saw the Indian trappers gathering before his door with
piles of peltries, I would go across and help him to value the furs. At
first the Indian rogues were inclined to take advantage of his
abstraction and palm off one miserable beaver skin, where they should
have given five for a new hatchet; and I began to understand why they
crowded to his lodge, though he did nothing to attract them, while they
avoided mine. Then I took a hand in Hudson's Bay trade and equalized
values. First, I would pick over the whole pile, which the Indians had
thrown on the floor, putting spoiled skins to one side, and peltries of
the same kind in classified heaps.

"Lynx, buffalo, musk-ox, marten, beaver, silver fox, black bear,
raccoon! Want them all, Eric?" I would ask, while the Indians eyed me
with suspicious resentment.

"Certainly, certainly, take everything," Eric would answer, without
knowing a word of what I had said, and at once throwing away his
opportunity to drive a good bargain.

Picking over the goods of Hamilton's packet, the Mandanes would choose
what they wanted. Then began a strange, silent haggling over prices.
Unlike Oriental races, the Indian maintains stolid silence, compelling
the white man to do the talking.

"Eric, Running Deer wants a gun," I would begin.

"For goodness' sake, give it to him, and don't bother me," Eric would
urge, and the faintest gleam of amused triumph would shoot from the
beady eyes of Running Deer. Running Deer's peltries would be spread out,
and after a half hour of silent consideration on his part and trader's
talk on mine, furs to the value of so many beaver skins would be passed
across for the coveted gun. I remember it was a wretched old squaw with
a toothless, leathery, much-bewrinkled face and a reputation for
knowledge of Indian medicines, who first opened my eyes to the sort of
trade the Indians had been driving with Hamilton. The old creature was
bent almost double over her stout oak staff and came hobbling in with a
bag of roots, which she flung on the floor. After thawing out her frozen
moccasins before the lodge fire and taking off bandages of skins about
her ankles, she turned to us for trade. We were ready to make
concessions that might induce the old body to hurry away; but she
demanded red flannel, tea and tobacco enough to supply a whole family of
grandchildren, and sat down on the bag of roots prepared to out-siege
us.

"What's this, Eric?" I asked, knowing no more of roots than the old
woman did of values.

"Seneca for drugs. For goodness' sake, buy it quick and don't haggle."

"But she wants your whole kit, man," I objected.

"She'll have the whole kit and the shanty, too, if you don't get her
out," said Hamilton, opening the lodge door; and the old squaw presently
limped off with an armful of flannel, one tea packet and a parcel of
tobacco, already torn open. Such was the character of Hamilton's
bartering up to the time I elected myself his first lieutenant; but as
his abstractions became almost trance-like, I think the superstition of
the Indians was touched. To them, a maniac is a messenger of the Great
Spirit; and Hamilton's strange ways must have impressed them, for they
no longer put exorbitant values on their peltries.

After the day's trading Eric would come to my hut. Pacing the cramped
place for hours, wild-eyed and silent, he would abruptly dash into the
darkness of the night like one on the verge of madness. Thereupon, the
taciturn, grave-faced La Robe Noire, tapping his forehead significantly,
would look with meaning towards Little Fellow; and I would slip out some
distance behind to see that Hamilton did himself no harm while the
paroxysm lasted. So absorbed was he in his own gloom, for days he would
not utter a syllable. The storm that had gathered would then discharge
its strength in an outburst of incoherent ravings, which usually ended
in Hamilton's illness and my watching over him night and day, keeping
firearms out of reach. I have never seen--and hope I never may--any
other being age so swiftly and perceptibly. I had attributed his worn
appearance in Fort Douglas to the cannon accident and trusted the
natural robustness of his constitution would throw off the apparent
languor; but as autumn wore into winter, there were more gray hairs on
his temple, deeper lines furrowed his face and the erect shoulders began
to bow.

When days slipped into weeks and weeks into months without the slightest
inkling of Miriam's whereabouts to set at rest the fear that my rash
pursuit had caused her death, I myself grew utterly despondent. Like all
who embark on daring ventures, I had not counted on continuous
frustration. The idea that I might waste a lifetime in the wilderness
without accomplishing anything had never entered my mind. Week after
week, the scouts dispatched in every direction came back without one
word of the fugitives, and I began to imagine my association with
Hamilton had been unfortunate for us both. This added to despair the
bitterness of regret.

The winter was unusually mild, and less game came to the Missouri from
the mountains and bad lands than in severe seasons. By February, we were
on short rations. Two meals a day, with cat-fish for meat and dried
skins in soup by way of variety, made up our regular fare for
mid-winter. The frequent absence of my two Indians, scouring the region
for the Sioux, left me to do my own fishing; and fishing with bare hands
in frosty weather is not pleasant employment for a youth of soft
up-bringing. Protracted bachelordom was also losing its charms; but
that may have resulted from a new influence, which came into my life and
seemed ever present.

At Christmas, Hamilton was threatened with violent insanity. As the
Mandanes' provisions dwindled, the Indians grew surlier toward us; and I
was as deep in despondency as a man could sink. Frequently, I wondered
whether Father Holland would find us alive in the spring, and I
sometimes feared ours would be the fate of Athabasca traders whose
bodies satisfied the hunger of famishing Crees.

How often in those darkest hours did a presence, which defied time and
space, come silently to me, breathing inspiration that may not be
spoken, healing the madness of despair and leaving to me in the midst of
anxiety a peace which was wholly unaccountable! In the lambent flame of
the rough stone fireplace, in the darkness between Hamilton's hut and
mine, through which I often stole, dreading what I might
find--everywhere, I felt and saw, or seemed to see, those gray eyes with
the look of a startled soul opening its virgin beauty and revealing its
inmost secrets.

A bleak, howling wind, with great piles of storm-scud overhead, raved
all the day before Christmas. It was one of those afternoons when the
sombre atmosphere seems weighted with gloom and weariness. On Christmas
eve Hamilton's brooding brought on acute delirium. He had been more
depressed than usual, and at night when we sat down to a cheerless
supper of hare-skin soup and pemmican, he began to talk very fast and
quite irrationally.

"See here, old boy," said I, "you'd better bunk here to-night. You're
not well."

"Bunk!" said he icily, in the grand manner he sometimes assumed at the
Quebec Club for the benefit of a too familiar member. "And pray, Sir,
what might 'bunk' mean?"

"Go to bed, Eric," I coaxed, getting tight hold of his hands. "You're
not well, old man; come to bed!"

"Bed!" he exclaimed with indignation. "Bed! You're a madman, Sir! I'm to
meet Miriam on the St. Foye road." (It was here that Miriam lived in
Quebec, before they were married.) "On the St. Foye road! See the lights
glitter, dearest, in Lower Town," and he laughed aloud. Then followed
such an outpouring of wild ravings I wept from very pity and
helplessness.

"Rufus! Rufus, lad!" he cried, staring at me and clutching at his
forehead as lucid intervals broke the current of his madness.
"Gillespie, man, what's wrong? I don't seem able to think.
Who--are--you? Who--in the world--are you? Gillespie! O Gillespie! I'm
going mad! Am I going mad? Help me, Rufus! Why can't you help me? It's
coming after me! See it! The hideous thing!" Tears started from his
burning eyes and his brow was knotted hard as whipcord.

"Look! It's there!" he screamed, pointing to the fire, and he darted to
the door, where I caught him. He fought off my grasp with maniacal
strength, and succeeded in flinging open the door. Then I forgot this
man was more than brother to me, and threw myself upon him as against an
enemy, determined to have the mastery. The bleak wind roared through the
open blackness of the doorway, and on the ground outside were shadows of
two struggling, furious men. I saw the terrified faces of Little Fellow
and La Robe Noire peering through the dark, and felt wet beads start
from every pore in my body. Both of us were panting like fagged racers.
One of us was fighting blindly, raining down aimless blows, I know not
which, but I think it must have been Hamilton, for he presently sank in
my arms, limp and helpless as a sick child.

Somehow I got him between the robes of my floor mattress. Drawing a box
to the bedside I again took his hands between mine and prepared for a
night's watch.

He raved in a low, indistinct tone, muttering Miriam's name again and
again, and tossing his head restlessly from side to side. Then he fell
into a troubled sleep. The supper lay untouched. Torches had burned
black out. One tallow candle, that I had extravagantly put among some
evergreens--our poor decorations for Christmas Eve--sputtered low and
threw ghostly, branching shadows across the lodge. I slipped from the
sick man's side, heaped more logs on the fire and stretched out between
robes before the hearth. In the play of the flame Hamilton's face seemed
suddenly and strangely calm. Was it the dim light, I wonder. The
furrowed lines of sorrow seemed to fade, leaving the peaceful,
transparent purity of the dead. I could not but associate the branched
shadows on the wall with legends of death keeping guard over the dying.
The shadow by his pillow gradually assumed vague, awesome shape. I sat
up and rubbed my eyes. Was this an illusion, or was I, too, going mad?
The filmy thing distinctly wavered and receded a little into the dark.

An unspeakable fear chilled my veins. Then I could have laughed defiance
and challenged death. Death! Curse death! What had we to fear from
dying? Had we not more to fear from living? At that came thought of my
love and the tumult against life was quieted. I, too, like other
mortals, had reason, the best of reason, to fear death. What matter if a
lonely one like myself went out alone to the great dark? But when
thought of my love came, a desolating sense of separation--separation
not to be bridged by love or reason--overwhelmed me, and I, too, shrank
back.

Again I peered forward. The shadow fluttered, moved, and came out of the
gloom, a tender presence with massy, golden hair, white-veined brow, and
gray eyes, speaking unutterable things.

"My beloved!" I cried. "Oh, my beloved!" and I sprang towards her; but
she had glided back among the spectral branches.

The candle tumbled to the floor, extinguishing all light, and I was
alone with the sick man breathing heavily in the darkness. A log broke
over the fire. The flames burst up again; but I was still alone. Had I,
too, lost grip of reality; or was she in distress calling for me?
Neither suggestion satisfied; for the mean lodge was suddenly filled
with a great calm, and my whole being was flooded and thrilled with the
trancing ecstasy of an ethereal presence.

If I remember rightly--and to be perfectly frank, I do--though I was in
as desperate straits as a man could be, I lay before the hearth that
Christmas Eve filled with gratitude to heaven--God knows such a gift
must have come from heaven!--for the love with which I had been dowered.

How it might have been with other men I know not. For myself, I could
not have come through that dreary winter unscathed without the influence
of her, who would have been the first to disclaim such power. Among the
velvet cushions of the east one may criticise the lapse of white man to
barbarity; but in the wilderness human voice is as grateful to the ear
as rain patter in a drouth. There, men deal with facts, not arguments.
Natives break the loneliness of an isolated life by not unwelcomed
visits. Comes a time when they tarry over long in the white man's lodge.
Other men, who have scouted the possibility of sinking to savagery, have
forsaken the ways of their youth. Who can say that I might not have
departed from the path called rectitude?

Religion may keep a holy man upright in slippery places; but for common
mortals, devotion to a being, whom, in one period of their worship men
rank with angels, does much to steady wavering feet. Hers was the
influence that aroused loathing for the drunken debauches, the cheating,
the depraved living of the Indian lodges: hers, the influence that kept
the loathing from slipping into indifference, the indifference from
becoming participation. Indeed, I could wish a young man no better
talisman against the world, the flesh and the devil, than love for a
pure woman.

How we dragged through the hours of that night, of Christmas and the
days that followed, I do not attempt to set down here. Hamilton's
illness lasted a month. What with trading and keeping our scouts on the
search for Miriam and waiting on the sick man, I had enough to busy me
without brooding over my own woes. Hard as my life was, it was fortunate
I had no time for thoughts of self and so escaped the melancholy apathy
that so often benumbs the lonely man's activities. And when Eric became
convalescent, I had enough to do finding diversion for his mind. Keeping
record of our doings on birch-bark sheets, playing quoits with the
Mandanes and polo with a few fearless riders, helped to pass the long
weary days.

So the dismal winter wore away and spring was drizzling into summer.
Within a few weeks we should be turning our faces northward for the
forks of the Red and Assiniboine. The prospect of movement after long
stagnation cheered Hamilton and fanned what neither of us would
acknowledge--a faint hope that Miriam might yet be alive in the north. I
verily believe Eric would have started northward with restored courage
had not our plans been thwarted by the sinister handiwork of Le Grand
Diable.

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