CHAPTER XVII
THE COMPANION OF MANY TRAILS
Into the minds and hearts of the folk who live their lives in
the wild, there are bred certain animal traits. The good trapper
learns that, like rabbit or bob-cat, he must be able to freeze into
statuesque immobility at the sudden appearance of danger. Nature, who
does her best to protect her children, sees to it that the trapper's
costume soon resembles nothing so much as a hoary tree-trunk. And
the men who tramp the wild gradually assimilate the silent, furtive
ways of the intelligent forest folk. The wounded caribou drags
himself to some inaccessible thicket, there either to gain back
strength or die unobserved and alone. Sickness and feebleness are
the only inexcusable faults of wild animal life, and offer sufficient
reason for death if hunger is fierce. Unconsciously, Donald McTavish
had absorbed the trait of mute sufferings from his years in the
heart of nature. Not only had he absorbed it, but it had been handed
down to him through generations of wilderness-loving McTavishes;
it was part of his blood, just as the hatred of wolves as destroyers
of fur-bearing game was part of it.
So, now, with this burden upon his heart almost greater than he
could bear, he hurried through the camp, seeing no one, not even
hearing the greetings of friends who had not spoken to him before.
At his tent, he mechanically fastened on his snowshoes, and strode
away into the depths of the forest with his hurt, like a wounded
animal. When, finally, the sounds from the camp no longer reached
him, he sat down on a fallen tree that broke through the surface
of the snow. For a long while, he did not reason: reason was beyond
him now. He felt as though something had been done to his brain
that rendered it stunned and helpless. Even yet, he did not fully
realize the thing that had come to him.
“That fiend lies, curse him; he lies, I say!” he muttered, presently.
“But yet, if it wasn't true, he wouldn't dare,” was the unanswerable
reply.
He knew Angus Fitzpatrick well enough to realize that the old man
never took a step without being sure it would bear his weight. He
had always been so. It was not likely that he would change now,
particularly when there was so much at stake.
And yet, what had he, Donald himself, done? Nothing! If this
accusation were true, it only reflected on his father and his
father's past. The son winced at that, for he and the commissioner
had always been the best of companions. He could not believe that
the fine, tall, distinguished gentleman of his boyhood tottered
thus on the brink of ruin. If so, that father's ideals, his training,
his life, had been one long hypocrisy.
Personally speaking, this sin on the part of his father seemed
utterly impossible to Donald. Theoretically speaking, it was
probable enough, for men in the wilds were still men, with the call
of nature strong in them, and it was the usual thing for young
fellows in distant, lonely posts to marry the daughters of chieftains.
In fact, there was not a post in all the Hudson Bay's territory of
which he had ever heard but what had a similar romance in its
records. And, while in Donald's generation the practise had fallen
off greatly, yet in those before, it had been considered nothing
out of the ordinary.
Pondering thus, at last the realization came that, although his
father had done these things, yet it was he, the son, who must pay
for them. Old Fitzpatrick would never dare beard the commissioner
in his high lair; if that had been his aim, he would have done it
long since. Why, then, had the factor withheld his bolt until now?
Because McTavish loved Jean? Possibly. That, at least, had brought
the matter to a head. But there was something else, deeper, and
this affair with the girl had given opportunity to strike.
Donald thought back. Now that he had a tangible motive in view,
his mind shook off its paralysis and worked more easily; he was
more his former self. He remembered that, when Fitzpatrick had
first gone to Fort Severn, the elder McTavish had soon followed as
factor at York. The former was the senior as regarded age, but the
latter was the bigger man in every way. Consequently, when promotion
came, McTavish had been elevated over the head of Fitzpatrick. As
was natural with any man in Fitzpatrick's position, there must have
been heart-burning and jealousy.
How much more so, if that man were narrow, choleric, and filled
with a blind sense of loyalty and service? Donald had no doubt now
that the old factor had hidden the gall of disappointment all these
years, letting it poison his vitals until he was venom to the very
marrow against the clan of McTavish. His sense of duty and reverence
for office had forbade his acting against the new commissioner,
personally. But, when the commissioner's son came out into the
calling of his ancestors, no barriers opposed the wreaking of his
long-delayed vengeance. For more than three years, Donald had been
in the present district. He was convinced that during all this time
Fitzpatrick had been rooting among the archives of his father's
past in an endeavor to unearth something he might use. The search
had been unsuccessful until late in the summer, when one of his
spying Indians had produced Maria and her claim from the far-off
Kaniapiskau section in Ungava.
Since then, the machinery had worked smoothly under Fitzpatrick's
direction, and now the stroke had fallen. But though his own
suffering must be the more intense, Donald knew that the blow had
been aimed to glance from him full into the face of his father.
For the elder McTavish had no higher dream in this world than that
his only son should rise to honor and distinction in the traditional
family profession.
“If I am chief commissioner,” he reasoned, “there is every opportunity
for my son to become governor, achieve a baronetcy, and found an
English line.” This was the dream of his life, and he had intimated
as much to Donald on their last meeting, two years before.
It was the foundation of this dream that Fitzpatrick was now prepared
to sweep away. Already, the flood of rumor and ill repute was
tearing at the base of it. For a time, Donald forgot his own misery
in the realization of what it would all mean to his father. More
clearly, now, he saw the careful plans, the perfect details, the
inevitable conclusion.
“If only murder weren't against the law!” he muttered, twisting
his fingers together until they cracked.
And, then, there came to him the one possible solution to the whole
difficulty. He could sweep everything away by his own sacrifice.
Now, in fifteen minutes, he could still these evil voices by going
back to Fitzpatrick and accepting the old man's conditions, never
to communicate with Jean again and to be transferred to the far
West.
Never to communicate with Jean again! Never to touch her hand
or her hair! Never to hear her voice! To go on thus for a week,
for a month, for endless weeks and months and years—forever!
heaven! He could not do it! Had he no rights? Was he to be the
helpless manikin worked by every string of evil circumstance and
voice of ill?
Yet, what other way was there? He could not wantonly haul the figure
of his father down from its pedestal of blameless life. And his
mother and sister! Theirs would indeed be a frightful position.
No, there was no other way out.
What explanation of his desertion would ever be vouchsafed to Jean,
he did not know. He would try to communicate with her before he
went. It would be hard on her, this separation, particularly if
reasons could not be given. She would never understand. She would
go through life blaming him, perhaps, in the depths of her heart...
As for himself, his own future was the thing that concerned him
least. He would start again, he supposed, and work up once more.
Nothing mattered much, now.
Resolved to have another immediate interview with Fitzpatrick,
Donald got slowly to his feet, and began to retrace his steps to
the camp. He had not gone a dozen yards when a sharp voice called
out, “Halt!”
McTavish swung around, and found himself looking into the muzzle
of a rifle that projected from behind a tree-trunk.
But he had no sooner turned than a joyful cry rang out, and a man
appeared running toward him. A moment later, he recognized Peter
Rainy. Glad beyond words to see a friendly face, Donald put his
arms about the faithful old Indian, and clung to him desperately,
as a frightened child clings to its mother.
“Master, master, what is it?” cried Peter, amazed and frightened.
But the young man did not reply for a while. Then, he sat down with
his comrade of many trails.
“Tell me what happened to you, first, and then I'll give you the
queerest half-hour you ever had,” he said.
And Rainy told his story: The night Maria struck down Donald, she
did as much for Peter, but with a different purpose. No sooner had
he been rendered helpless than he had been bound to one of the
sledges. Then, both dog-trains had been harnessed, and a midnight
march begun. Where they had gone, for days Rainy did not know, and
his companions did not enlighten him. At last, one morning when it
was snowing heavily, the Indians did a characteristic thing. They
tied him securely to a tree with ropes, the ends of which were in
the campfire. A little powder was sprinkled here and there to aid
the flames that slowly crawled toward the captive. Beside him they
put a rifle and some ammunition, along with a small pack of
provisions; but they took both dog-trains. The idea was that, when
the ropes had been eaten away by fire the falling snow would have
covered the tracks of the flying pair, so that Rainy could not
pursue them.
What with the fear of bob-cats and panthers, the Indian had passed
a harrowing half-day, and, as soon as loosed, he started straight
for Sturgeon Lake. The reason Maria had traveled around with him
so long, Peter explained, was that they wanted to be sure of
McTavish's death before the old trapper should be released, and
could start in search of his master.
When the narrative of danger and duplicity was finished, Donald
took hold of Peter's arm.
“How long were you with my father?” he asked.
“From the time he came to York factory until he was married in
Montreal. I stayed a year with him there, but found I was dying of
homesickness for the woods, and had to get back to them. But I went
up when you were born, and saw him and you regularly every year
after that, until he was ready to send you into the woods in the
summer-time.”
“But before he came to York factory? Do you know anything of his
life then?
“Only hearsay. Stones of his brave deeds and big hunting on the
Labrador and westward! He had a sense of game that comes very
rarely; he moved with the animals instinctively, so that the best
pelts were always his. And he had luck. One year, he brought in
three of the six silver-fox skins taken that winter in the whole
of Canada. He was a wonderful hunter.”
“But, Peter, did you ever hear anything about his relations with
the Indians?” Donald demanded. “Was he ever fond of a chiefs
daughter? Did he ever mar—?” One look at the old Indian's face
stopped the question, for, caught unaware, the rising of this
skeleton shook Rainy to the depths.
“No, master, no, n-o, n-n—”
“Peter, don't lie to me! You've never done it yet. I'm in too much
trouble to be lied to. I know the truth now, despite your denials,
so you might as well admit it. Didn't my father marry old Maria at
one time?
“Yes,” said Peter simply. “But how did you know it?”
Then, Donald told his story in full, closing with his determination
to go to the factor and accept the conditions imposed.
But, at that, Peter Rainy protested violently.
“No,” he cried, “never! Put no trust in that old wolf, Fitzpatrick.
Once he has got you under his heel, he'll grind and grind, until
there's not as much as powder left. What good for you to go away
West, eh? He'll let you get started well, and then along will come
queer rumors and unexplained things about you. At last, something
will drive you away, and you'll start again. Once more, you'll
be driven out, and so it will go. Do I not know? Have I not
seen it work?
“But I can't resist him, and have my whole family dragged through
the mud, can I?” Donald remonstrated, in despair.
“Yes, this man Fitzpatrick is bound to drag it through the mud
anyway. He hasn't waited all these years for his revenge to let it
slide through his hands that easily, has he, do you suppose? His
whole happiness in life now rests on your disgrace and that of your
family. It will come, whatever you may do, and it's much better to
fight to the last wolf than put your trust in a man like the factor.”
So, they talked for more than an hour, Peter Rainy heartening his
young master in this desperate plight. The old Indian declared that
a woman as malicious as Maria must have her vulnerable spot, that
she might be bribed; in fact, that a hundred ways of removing the
obstruction might be come at. Presently, Donald caught a little
of his companion's fire, and began to warm to the project.
“Peter,” he cried finally, “I'll do it on one condition, and that
condition may be the death of you.”
“What is it?”
“That you start to-night for Winnipeg, and bring my father North.
Upon him really rests the burden of blame and of proof; if he wants
to save himself and the rest of us, he must come out here and do
it.”
“Wisely spoken, my son. The thought was in my mind. When I arrive
in Winnipeg, your father will know I have crossed the wastes for
only one thing—and he will come.”
“Then, you go willingly?
“I should never forgive you, if I hadn't been sent.”
“Brave old Peter!” McTavish put his arm across the old Indian's
shoulders affectionately, as had been his custom when, a boy, he
had gone on his first, short canoeing expeditions. “If it weren't
for you, where would the McTavishes be? If we come out of this
safely, you can have a house and servants of your own the rest of
your life.”
“I know; your father has told me that for the last ten years; but
I can't stand it, Donald. My little money in your father's hands
has grown big the way white men make it grow in banks, but I shall
never touch it. The wild is too much part of me. I'd rather battle
with winter's cold under an abuckwan, and running my line of
traps, than live in the finest house in Winnipeg. Some time, when
I'm old, and the winter winds shake me to the marrow, I'll build
a little cabin by a fishing stream or lake, and live happily until
the coming of the shadow. Many young men and maidens will look
after me, for I'm rich. So, I'll never want for anything in my old
age, except the sight of my master, who will then be gone from the
forest trails.”
“Good old Peter!” Donald exclaimed, huskily. He rose suddenly,
the tears in his eyes. He fumbled with his gun uncertainly while
the Indian filled a pipe. Then, he gave his directions.
They were far enough from the camp for Rainy to remain unobserved
all day. McTavish would return among his companions, and buy a
dog-train if he could get one, giving as an excuse the fact of his
own being drowned. He would secure provisions, and meet Rainy on
the edge of the camp at night. He specified where.
Both knew that to get the Indian off unknown and unseen on his long
journey would be a desperately difficult thing to do, particularly
as the young man would be watched; but, as the need was great,
so was the determination, and Donald started for the camp with
a light heart.
