Lords of the North

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Would they return to the last marks of my trail? That thought sent the
blood from my head with a rush that left me dizzy, weak and shivering. I
looked to the river. The floating branches turned lazily over and over
to the lapping of the sluggish current, and the green slime oozing from
the clustered beaver lodges of the far side might hide either a miry
bottom, or a treacherous hole.

A naked Indian came pattering back through the brush, looking into every
hollow log, under fallen trees, through clumps of shrub growth, where a
man might hide, and into the swampy river bed. It was only a matter of
time when he would reach my hiding-place. Should I wait to be smoked out
of my hole, like a badger, or a raccoon? Again I looked hopelessly to
the river. A choice of deaths seemed my only fate. Torture, burning, or
the cool wash of a black wave gurgling over one's head?

A broad-girthed log lay in the swamp and stretched out over mid-stream
in a way that would give a quick diver at least a good, clean, clear
leap. A score more savages had emerged from the woods and were eagerly
searching, from the limbs of trees above, where I might be perched, to
the black river-bed below. However much I may vacillate between two
courses, once my decision is taken, I have ever been swift to act; and I
slipped down the tree-trunk with the bound of a bullet through a
gun-barrel, took one last look from the opening, which revealed pursuers
not fifty yards away, plunged through the marsh, dashed to the fallen
log and made a rush to the end.

A score of brazen throats screeched out their baffled rage. There was a
twanging of bow-strings. The humming of arrow flight sung about my head.
I heard the crash of some savage blazing away with his old flintlock. A
deep-drawn breath, and I was cleaving the air. Then the murky, greenish
waters splashed in my face, opened wide and closed over me.

A tangle of green was at the soft, muddy bottom. Something living,
slippery, silky and furry, that was neither fish, nor water snake, got
between my feet; but countless arrows, I knew, were aimed and ready for
me, when I came to the surface. So I held down for what seemed an
interminable time, though it was only a few seconds, struck for the far
shore, and presently felt the green slime of the upper water matting in
my hair.

Every swimmer knows that rich, sweet, full intake of life-giving air
after a long dive. I drew in deep, fresh breaths and tried to blink the
slime from my eyes and get my bearings. There were the howlings of
baffled wolves from what was now the far side of the river bank; but
domed clay mounds, mossy, floating branches and a world of willows
shrubs were about my head. Then I knew what the furry thing among the
tangle at the river bottom was, and realized that I had come up among
the beaver lodges. The dam must have been an old one; for the clay
houses were all overgrown with moss and water-weeds. A perfect network
of willow growth interlaced the different lodges.

I heard the splash as of a diver from the opposite side. Was it a
beaver, or my Indian pursuers? Then I could distinctly make out the
strokes of some one swimming and splashing about. My foes were
determined to have me, dead, or alive. I ducked under, found shallow,
soft bottom, half paddled, half waded, a pace more shoreward, and came
up with my head in utter darkness.

Where was I? I drew breath. Yes, assuredly, I was above water; but the
air was fetid with heavy, animal breath and teeth snarled shut in my
very face. Somehow, I had come up through the broken bottom of an old
beaver lodge and was now in the lair of the living creatures. What was
inside, I cannot record; for to my eyes the blackness was positively
thick. I felt blindly out through the palpable darkness and caught tight
hold of a pole, that seemed to reach from side to side. This gave me
leverage and I hoisted myself upon it, bringing my crown a mighty sharp
crack as I mounted the perch; for the beaver lodge sloped down like an
egg shell.

I must have seemed some water monster to the poor beaver; for there was
a scurrying, scampering and gurgling off into the river. Then my own
breathing and the drip of my clothes were all that disturbed the lodge.

Time, say certain philosophers, is the measure of a man's ideas
marching along in uniform procession. But I hold they are wrong. Time is
nothing of the sort; else had time stopped as I hung panting over the
pole in the beaver lodge; for one idea and one only, beat and beat and
beat to the pulsing of the blood that throbbed through my brain--"I am
safe--I am safe--I am safe!"

How can I tell how long I hung there? To me it seemed a century. I do
not even know whether I lost consciousness. I am sure I repeatedly
awakened with a jerk back from some hazy, far-off, oblivious realm, shut
off even in memory from the things of this life. I am sure I tried to
burrow my hand through the clammy moss-wall of the beaver lodge to let
in fresh air; but my spirit would be suddenly rapt away to that other
region. I am sure I felt the waters washing over my head and sweeping me
away from this world to another life. Then I would lose grip of the pole
and come to myself clutching at it with wild terror; and again the
drowse of life's borderland would overpower me. And all the time I was
saying over and over, "I am safe! I am safe!"

How many of the things called hours slipped past, I do not know. As I
said before, it seemed to me a century. Whether it was mid-day, or
twilight, when I let myself down from the pole and crawled like a
bedraggled water-rat to the shore, I do not know. Whether it was
morning, or night, when I dragged myself under the fern-brake and fell
into a death-like sleep, I do not know. When I awakened, the forest was
a labyrinth of shafted moonlight and sombre shadows. All that had
happened in the past twenty-four hours came back to me with vivid
reality. I remembered Laplante's promise to leave a horse for me in the
valley beyond the beaver dam. With this hope in my heart I crawled
cautiously down through the silent shadows of the night.

At daybreak I found Louis had made good his promise, and I was speeding
on horseback towards the trail, where Little Fellow awaited me.

CHAPTER XX

PLOTS AND COUNTER-PLOTS

He who would hear that paradox of impossibilities--silence become
vocal--must traverse the vast wastes of the prairie by night. As a
mother quiets a fretful child, so the illimitable calm lulls tumultuous
thoughts. The wind moving through empty solitudes comes with a sigh of
unutterable loneliness. Unconsciously, men listen for some faint
rustling from the gauzy, wavering streamers that fire northern skies.
The dullest ear can almost fancy sounds from the noiseless wheeling of
planets through the overspanning vaulted blue; and human speech seems
sacrilege.

Though the language of the prairie be not in words, some message is
surely uttered; for the people of the plains wear the far-away look of
communion with the unseen and the unheard. The fine sensibility of the
white woman, perhaps, shows the impress of the vast solitudes most
readily, and the gravely repressed nature of the Indian least; but all
plain-dwellers have learned to catch the voice of the prairie. I,
myself, know the message well, though I may no more put it into words
than the song love sings in one's heart. Love, says the poet, is
infinite. So is the space of the prairie. That, I suppose, is why both
are too boundless for the limitation of speech.

Night after night, with only a grassy swish and deadened tread over the
turf breaking stillness, we journeyed northward. Occasionally, like the
chirp of cricket in a dry well, life sounded through emptiness. Skulking
coyotes, seeking prey among earth mounds, or night hawks, lilting
solitarily in vaulted mid-heaven, uttered cries that pierced the vast
blue. Owls flapped stupidly up from our horses' feet. Hungry kites
wheeled above lonely Indian graves, or perched on the scaffolding, where
the dead lay swathed in skins.

Reflecting on my experiences with the Mandanes and the Sioux, I was
disposed to upbraid fate as a senseless thing with no thread of purpose
through life's hopeless jumble. Now, something in the calm of the
plains, or the certainty of our unerring star-guides, quieted my unrest.
Besides, was I not returning to one who was peerless? That hope speedily
eclipsed all interests. That was purpose enough for my life. Forthwith,
I began comparing lustrous gray eyes to the stars, and tracing a woman's
figure in the diaphanous northern lights. One face ever gleamed through
the dusk at my horse's head and beckoned northward. I do not think her
presence left me for an instant on that homeward journey. But, indeed, I
should not set down these extravagances, which each may recall in his
own case, only I would have others judge whether she influenced me, or
I, her.

Thus we traveled northward, journeying by night as long as we were in
the Sioux territory. Once in the land of the Assiniboines, we rode day
and night to the limit of our horses' endurance. Remembering the
Hudson's Bay outrage at the Souris, and having also heard from Mandane
runners of a raid planned by our rivals against the North-West fort at
Pembina, I steered wide of both places, following the old Missouri trail
midway between the Red and Souris rivers. It may have been because we
traveled at night, but I did not encounter a single person, native or
white, till we came close to the Red and were less than a day's journey
from Fort Gibraltar. On the river trail, we overtook some Hudson's Bay
trappers. The fellows would not answer a single question about events
during the year and scampered away from us as if we carried smallpox,
which had thinned the population a few years before.

"That's bad!" said I aloud, as the men fled down the river bank, where
we could not follow. Little Fellow looked as solemn as a grave-stone. He
shook his head with ominous wisdom that foresees all evil but refuses to
prophesy.

"Bother to you, Little Fellow!" I exclaimed. "What do you mean? What's
up?"

Again the Indian shook his head with dark mutterings, looking mighty
solemn, but he would not share his foreknowledge. We met more Hudson's
Bay men, and their conduct was unmistakably suspicious. On a sudden
seeing us, they reined up their horses, wheeled and galloped off without
a word.

"I don't like that! I emphatically don't!" I piloted my broncho to a
slight roll of the prairie, where we could reconnoitre. Distinctly there
was the spot where the two rivers met. Intervening shrubbery confused my
bearings. I rose in my stirrups, while Little Fellow stood erect on his
horse's back.

"Little Fellow!" I cried, exasperated with myself, "Where's Fort
Gibraltar? I see where it ought to be, where the towers ought to be
higher than that brush, but where's the fort?"

The Indian screened his eyes and gazed forward. Then he came down with a
thud, abruptly re-straddling his horse, and uttered one explosive
word--"Smoke."

"Smoke? I don't see smoke! Where's the fort?"

"No fort," said he.

"You're daft!" I informed him, with the engaging frankness of a master
for a servant. "There--is--a fort, and you know it--we're both
lost--that's more! A fine Indian you are, to get lost!"

Little Fellow scrambled with alacrity to the ground. Picking up two
small switches, he propped them against each other.

"Fort!" he said, laconically, pointing to the switches.

"L'anglais!" he cried, thrusting out his foot, which signified Hudson's
Bay.

"No fort!" he shouted, kicking the switches into the air. "No fort!" and
he looked with speechless disgust at the vacancy.

Now I knew what he meant. Fort Gibraltar had been destroyed by Hudson's
Bay men. We had no alternative but to strike west along the Assiniboine,
on the chance of meeting some Nor'-Westers before reaching the company's
quarters at the Portage. That post, too, might be destroyed; but where
were Hamilton and Father Holland? Danger, or no danger, I must learn
more of the doings in Red River. Also, there were reasons why I wished
to visit the settlers of Fort Douglas. We camped on the south side of
the Assiniboine a few miles from the Red, and Little Fellow went to some
neighboring half-breeds for a canoe.

And a strange story he brought back! A great man, second only to the
king--so the half-breeds said--had come from England to rule over
Assiniboia. He boasted the shock of his power would be felt from
Montreal to Athabasca. He would drive out all Nor'-Westers. This
personage, I afterwards learned, was the amiable Governor Semple, who
succeeded Captain Miles McDonell. Already, as a hunter chases a deer,
had the great governor chased Nor'-Westers from Red River. Did Little
Fellow doubt their word? Where was Fort Gibraltar? Let Little Fellow
look and see for himself if aught but masonry and charred walls stood
where Fort Gibraltar had been! Let him seek the rafters of the
Nor-Westers' fort in the new walls of Fort Douglas! Pembina, too, had
fallen before the Hudson's Bay men. Since the coming of the great
governor, nothing could stand before the English.

But wait! It was not all over! The war drum was beating in the tents of
all the _Bois-Brules_! The great governor should be taught that even the
king's arms could not prevail against the _Bois-Brules_! Was there smoke
of battle? The _Bois-Brules_ would be there! The _Bois-Brules_ had
wrongs to avenge. They would not be turned out of their forts for
nothing! Knives would be unsheathed. There were full powder-bags! There
was a grand gathering of _Bois-Brules_ at the Portage. They, themselves,
were on the way there. Let Little Fellow and the white trader join them!
Let them be wary; for the English were watchful! Great things were to be
done by the _Bois-Brules_ before another moon--and Little Fellow's eyes
snapped fire as he related their vauntings.

I was inclined to regard the report as a fairy tale. If the half-breeds
were arming and the English watchful, the distrust of the Hudson's Bay
men was explained. A nomad, himself, the Indian may be willing enough to
share running rights over the land of his fathers; but when the newcomer
not only usurps possession, but imposes the yoke of laws on the native,
the resentment of the dusky race is easily fanned to that point which
civilized men call rebellion. I could readily understand how the
Hudson's Bay proclamations forbidding the sale of furs to rivals, when
these rivals were friends by marriage and treaty with the natives,
roused all the bloodthirsty fury of the Indian nature. Nor'-Westers'
forts were being plundered. Why should the _Bois-Brules_ not pillage
Hudson's Bay posts? Each company was stealing the cargo of its rival, as
boats passed and repassed the different forts. Why should the half-breed
not have his share of the booty? The most peace-loving dog can be set
a-fighting; and the fight-loving Indian finds it very difficult indeed,
to keep the peace. This, the great fur companies had not yet realized;
and the lesson was to be driven home to them with irresistible force.

The half-breeds also had news of a priest bringing a delirious man to
Fort Douglas. The description seemed to fit Hamilton and Father Holland.
Whatever truth might be in the rumors of an uprising, I must ascertain
whether or not Frances Sutherland would be safe. Leaving Little Fellow
to guard our horses, at sundown I pushed my canoe into the Assiniboine
just east of the rapids. Paddling swiftly with the current, I kept close
to the south bank, where overhanging willows concealed one side of the
river.

As I swung out into the Red, true to the _Bois-Brules'_ report, I saw
only blackened chimneys and ruined walls on the site of Fort Gibraltar.
Heading towards the right bank, I hugged the naked cliff on the side
opposite Fort Douglas, and trusted the rising mist to conceal me. Thus,
I slipped past cannon, pointing threateningly from the Hudson's Bay
post, recrossed to the wooded west bank again, and paddled on till I
caught a glimpse of a little, square, whitewashed house in a grove of
fine old trees. This I knew, from Frances Sutherland's description, was
her father's place.

Mooring among the shrubbery I had no patience to hunt for beaten path;
but digging my feet into soft clay and catching branches with both
hands, I clambered up the cliff and found myself in a thicket not a
stone's throw from the door. The house was in darkness. My heart sank at
a possibility which hardly framed itself to a thought. Was the
apparition in the Mandane lodge some portent? Had I not read, or heard,
of departed spirits hovering near loved ones? I had no courage to think
more.

Suddenly the door flung open. Involuntarily, I slipped behind the
bushes, but dusk hid the approaching figure. Whoever it was made no
noise. I felt, rather than heard, her coming, and knew no man could walk
so silently. It must be a woman. Then my chest stifled and I heard my
own heart-beats. Garments fluttered past the branches of my
hiding-place. She of whom I had dreamed by night and thought by day and
hoped whether sleeping, or waking, paused, not an arm's length away.

Toying with the tip of the branch, which I was gripping for dear life,
she looked languorously through the foliage towards the river. At first
I thought myself the victim of another hallucination, but would not stir
lest the vision should vanish. She sighed audibly, and I knew this was
no spectre. Then I trembled all the more, for my sudden appearance might
alarm her.

I should wait until she went back to the house--another of my brave vows
to keep myself in hand!--then walk up noisily, giving due warning, and
knock at the door. The keeping of that resolution demanded all my
strength of will; for she was so near I could have clasped her in my
arms without an effort. Indeed, it took a very great effort to refrain
from doing so.

"Heigh-ho," said a low voice with the ripple of a sunny brook tinkling
over pebbles, "but it's a long day--and a long, long week--and a long,
long, long month--and oh!--a century of years since----" and the voice
broke in a sigh.

I think--though I would not set this down as a fact--that a certain
small foot, which once stamped two strong men into obedience, now vented
its impatience at a twig on the grass. By the code of eastern
proprieties, I may not say that the dainty toe-tip first kicked the
offensive little branch and then crunched it deep in the turf.

"I hate this lonely country," said the voice, with the vim of water-fret
against an obstinate stone. "Wonder what it's like in the Mandane land!
I'm sure it's nicer there."

Now I affirm there is not a youth living who would not at some time give
his right hand to know a woman's exact interpretation of that word
"nicer." For my part, it set me clutching the branch with such ferocity,
off snapped the thing with the sharp splintering of a breaking stick.
The voice gave a gasp and she jumped aside with nervous trepidation.

"Whatever--was that? I am--not frightened." No one was accusing her. "I
won't go in! I won't let myself be frightened! There! The very idea!"
And three or four sharp stamps followed in quick succession; but she was
shivering.

"I declare the house is so lonely, a ghost would be live company." And
she looked doubtfully from the dark house to the quivering poplars. "I'd
rather be out here with the tree-toads and owls and bats than in there
alone, even if they do frighten me! Anyway, I'm not frightened! It's
just some stupid hop-and-go-spring thing at the base of our brains that
makes us jump at mice and rats." But the hands interlocking at her back
twitched and clasped and unclasped in a way that showed the automatic
brain-spring was still active.

"It's getting worse every day. I can't stand it much longer, looking and
looking till I'm half blind and no one but Indian riders all day long.
Why doesn't he come? Oh! I know something is wrong."

"Afraid of the Metis," thought I, "and expecting her father. A fine
father to leave his daughter alone in the house with the half-breeds
threatening a raid. She needs some one else to take care of her." This,
on after thought, I know was unjust to her father; for pioneers obey
necessity first and chivalry second.

"If he would only come!" she repeated in a half whisper.

"Hope he doesn't," thought I.

"For a week I've been dreaming such fearful things! I see him sinking in
green water, stretching his hands to me and I can't reach out to save
him. On Sunday he seemed to be running along a black, awful precipice. I
caught him in my arms to hold him back, but he dragged me over and I
screamed myself awake. Sometimes, he is in a black cave and I can't find
any door to let him out. Or he lies bound in some dungeon, and when I
stoop to cut the cords, he begins to sink down, down, down through the
dark, where I can't follow. I leap after him and always waken with such
a dizzy start. Oh! I know he has been in trouble. Something is wrong!
His thoughts are reaching out to me and I am so gross and stupid I can't
hear what his spirit says. If I could only get away from things, the
clatter of everyday things that dull one's inner hearing, perhaps I
might know! I feel as if he spoke in a foreign language, but the words
he uses I can't make out. All to-day, he has seemed so near! Why does he
not come home to me?"

"Mighty fond daughter," thought I, with a jealous pang. She was fumbling
among the intricate draperies, where women conceal pockets, and
presently brought out something in the palm of her hand.

"I wouldn't have him know how foolish I am," and she laid the thing
gently against her cheek.

Now I had never given Frances Sutherland a gift of any sort whatever;
and my heart was pierced with anguish that cannot be described. I was,
indeed, falling over a precipice and her arms were not holding me back
but dragging me over. Would that I, like the dreamer, could awaken with
a start. In all conscience, I was dizzy enough; and every pressure of
that hateful object to her face bound me faster in a dungeon of utter
hopelessness. My sweet day-dreams and midnight rhapsodies trooped back
to mock at me. I felt that I must bow broken under anguish or else steel
myself and shout back cynical derision to the whole wan troop of
torturing regrets. And all the time, she was caressing that thing in her
hand and looking down at it with a fondness, which I--poor fool--thought
that I alone could inspire. I suppose if I could have crept away
unobserved, I would have gone from her presence hardened and embittered;
but I must play out the hateful part of eavesdropper to the end.

She opened the hand to feast her eyes on the treasure, and I craned
forward, playing the sneak without a pang of shame, but the dusk foiled
me.

Then the low, mellow, vibrant tones, whose very music would have
intoxicated duller fools than I--'tis ever a comfort to know there are
greater fools--broke in melody: "To my own dear love from her ever
loyal and devoted knight," and she held her opened hand high. 'Twas my
birch-bark message which Father Holland had carried north. I suddenly
went insane with a great overcharge of joy, that paralyzed all motion.

"Dear love--wherever are you?" asked a voice that throbbed with longing.

Can any man blame me for breaking through the thicket and my resolution
and discretion and all?

"Here--beloved!" I sprang from the bush.

She gave a cry of affright and would have fallen, but my arms were about
her and my lips giving silent proof that I was no wraith.

What next we said I do not remember. With her head on my shoulder and I
doing the only thing a man could do to stem her tears, I completely lost
track of the order of things. I do not believe either of us was calm
enough for words for some time after the meeting. It was she who
regained mental poise first.

"Rufus!" she exclaimed, breaking away from me, "You're not a sensible
man at all."

"Never said I was," I returned.

"If you do _that_," she answered, ignoring my remark and receding
farther, "I'll never stop crying."

"Then cry on forever!"

With womanly ingratitude, she promptly called me "a goose" and other
irrelevant names.

The rest of our talk that evening I do not intend to set down. In the
first place, it was best understood by only two. In the second, it could
not be transcribed; and in the third, it was all a deal too sacred.

We did, however, become impersonal for short intervals.

"I feel as if there were some storm in the air," said Frances
Sutherland. "The half-breeds are excited. They are riding past the
settlement in scores every day. O, Rufus, I know something is wrong."

"So do I," was my rejoinder. I was thinking of the strange gossip of the
Assiniboine encampment.

"Do you think the _Bois-Brules_ would plunder your boats?" she asked
innocently, ignorant that the malcontents were Nor'-Westers.

"No," said I. "What boats?"

"Why, Nor'-West boats, of course, coming up Red River from Fort William
to go up the Assiniboine for the winter's supplies. They're coming in a
few days. My father told me so."

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