CHAPTER XI
A HOT SCENT
Without a word, Rainy made preparations for moving. A lesser woodsman
or lazier servant would have demurred, for, while the blizzard
lasted, there was scarcely a chance in a million that any searcher
from the fort would find their hiding-place. Even now, the newcomer's
tracks were already wiped clean from the white page of the snow.
But, when the storm cleared away, as it might do with great
suddenness, they would be in great peril of observation, for, until
they should reach the denser forest to the south, there would be
many open spots to be crossed—open spots well within the range of
a field-glass at the fort.
While Peter hitched up the growling dogs, Donald made the pack,
and fastened it on the sledge. But, before they were ready to
scatter the fire and plunge into the maelstrom of the storm, the
Scotchman pulled the other's sleeve.
“What was that clew you had in regard to Jean Fitzpatrick?” he
shouted above the wind.
“Friends told me, very quiet, that old Maria, who was at the fort
the day before we arrived, and who tried to see the factor, had
kidnaped her. But for what reason I have no idea. Maybe she's angry
because old Fitzpatrick wouldn't see her, but the man who told me
hinted at other things.”
“Was he an Indian?”
“Yes; it was Tee-ka-mee.”
“How did he know?”
“Butts tell him, he said. He and Butts good friends, because of
working in the house together.”
“Why didn't they say as much when the search was being made? Then,
they could have run this Indian hag to earth.”
“Like most English servants, that Butts was afraid to speak out,
and Tee-ka-mee says the idea never occurred to him until too late.”
“Do you think it is good talk, and that the old woman did the trick?
“I think it is the most likely explanation. At least, it is something
to work on.”
Shortly afterward, they drove the dogs from the shelter of the rock
into the teeth of the storm. Then, turning, they fled south before
the gale with what certitude they might. They had nothing to guide
them, neither stars nor brilliant aurora, and they struggled along
the heavy trail only by their memories of it, and the exercise of
every particle of woodcraft they both possessed.
The trail was cruelly heavy with the snow, and the dogs floundered
shoulder-deep at times, even when the two men had gone on before
to break the way. Traveling would be hard until a warm west wind
melted the surface, and gave a crust chance to form over-night.
Frequently, they rested in the lee of a bold rock, and continued
their talk. They left no back trail, for hardly could they lift a
foot ere the hollow it had formed had been filled with snow. On
one of these occasions McTavish asked: “Who is this Maria?”
Peter Rainy did not seem to hear, and bent down to examine the
dog-harness. Donald repeated the question, and was surprised to
have his companion change the subject without answering. There was
something peculiar about this, and a third time he put the query,
uttering it now in a tone of authority. “Captain,” said the Indian,
“I would rather not tell you. It would only make you unhappy.”
“I'll be much more unhappy if I know there is a mystery, without
knowing what it is. Tell me, Peter. We must go on in a minute.”
“Maria is the mother of Charley Seguis.”
“Well,” Donald exclaimed impatiently, as the other paused, “what's
so terrible about that?
“Don't you remember last summer, at the fort, that he was there
all the time; that he made a great show with his cleverness among
the maidens, but would have none of them? And why would he not?
Truly, they were rare Indian maidens, and warm with love, but his
eyes were elsewhere. As the wolf looks upward, and wishes the
beautiful white moon, so did he look upward and desire the lovely
white daughter of the factor.”
“What are you telling me, you devil?” shouted McTavish, his eyes
blazing.
The old Indian did not move, but bent slightly, as though expecting
a blow.
“I did not wish to tell you, Captain,” he said, with dignity, “but
you forced me. Then, too, perhaps, it is just as well that you know
early rather than late. Perhaps, old Maria took the girl just for
spite of old Fitzpatrick. I hope that is the only reason.”
“And yet—and yet—!” muttered Donald between clenched teeth. His
tongue refused to utter the foul alternative.
Silent, they moved out in the storm once more, and McTavish bent
to the work with a will. It was good to battle, to struggle with
the elements on this wild night; it was good to weary himself with
labor and to keep his mind alert with the changing exigencies of
every step. Else, he should be beside himself with fear and impotence.
In flashes, he pondered on what he had heard: the Indian woman's
fruitless visit to Fitzpatrick, her relationship to Charley Seguis,
her sudden abduction of Jean. There was something about these things
that presented to his understanding a wall of insurmountable height.
Then, he recalled his last interview with Jean and the suspicions
that had been cast upon himself, suspicions he had vainly endeavored
to fathom. What was in the wind, anyhow? he asked himself. There
seemed to be forces at work over which he had no control, forces
big with portent, heavy with menace. Like a towering thunder-cloud
that casts its sickly green over all about, so these unknown
influences were overshadowing all the lives around him.
There was but one thing to do. Probe matters to the bottom, force
the issues, and drive these disquieting rumors out of the country.
But how to accomplish this? There was but one answer to that question
in Donald's mind, and it was the answer of the man in primitive
surroundings thousands of years ago. He would marry Jean Fitzpatrick
out of hand, and then start asking questions. If she did not yet
love him, she would learn to; if her father did not like it, he
would have to make the best of matters. For the present, Sturgeon
Lake was out of the question for Donald. He would attend to that
later. Just now, Jean was in danger of worse things than death,
and needed him. He would devote his attention entirely to her.
All that night, Rainy, McTavish, and the dogs toiled like
galley-slaves, not sure of their exact direction, but aware that
they were taking a general southerly course away from the fort.
Morning found them fully ten miles on their way, with no back trail,
and the blizzard lessening perceptibly. It did not matter now. Their
tracks would be taken for those of a trapper running his line.
They halted for breakfast in the lee of a bluff, just as a muddy
light made itself apparent.
“Shall we rest now, Captain?” asked Rainy.
But Donald said no, and told the old servant his reasons and his
plans. An hour's inactivity represented to him a hundred hideous
possibilities. They must travel fast in the general direction of
Sturgeon Lake, and try to pick up the trail of Maria, the squaw...
So, after an hour, they pressed on again, finding easier traveling
and making better time.
That night they came to a little lake, perhaps a mile wide, and on
the opposite shore discerned a wretched shanty. They decided to
camp here, for the dogs were weak with exhaustion. Rainy attended
to the unharnessing of the animals and the unpacking of the sledge,
while Donald went out to cut wood for the fire and boughs to sleep
on. When he returned and entered the cabin, he found the Indian
examining something closely. It proved to be a charred ember. Rainy
fingered it and smelled it, and finally announced that it was not
more than a day old. The two then went outside, and circled slowly
about the shanty.
Here, forty miles from Fort Severn, the blizzard had been light,
and the snowfall trifling. Presently, they uncovered faint tracks
leading away southwest, and judged, from the edge of the crust
where the sledge had occasionally broken through, that they were
not older than thirty-six hours.
Once more, the mania for travel seized McTavish, and he was all
for setting out on the trail that night. But Peter Rainy restrained
him, showing him the folly of such action, since both dogs and men
were unfit for work.
In the cabin, at one time, there had been a bunk. The flat shelf
still projected out from the wall. Donald entered with an armful
of spruce boughs, and threw them on the bunk. While he was arranging
them to a semblance of smoothness for the blankets, his hand struck
something hard and cold. He picked the object up and held it to
the light of the fire. Then, with a cry, he leaned forward, and
examined it intently.
It was a bone button from Jean Fitzpatrick's fur outer garment.
That it was hers, there could be no doubt, for the reason that in
the very center was a tiny raised flag-pole and flag, the latter
enameled red—the banner of the Hudson Bay Company. The buttons
were a curiosity, and were the work of an old squaw for whom Jean
had done many little kindnesses.
How had it got here? There was but one explanation: Maria, Tom,
her full-blooded Indian son, and Jean had occupied this lonely
cabin.
“Surely it is hers,” said Peter Rainy, examining the object. “But
see, Captain. It's now six days since they took her away. The trail
going from here was made day before yesterday. Why should they have
stayed here so long?”
“I don't know—I don't know!” muttered Donald, walking up and down
outside the door excitedly. “But we have no other clew; we must
follow this one. With two women they are traveling slowly. We can
overtake them.”
During the night, the sky cleared, and, when McTavish woke after
several hours of troubled sleep, the stars were bright. It was four
o'clock; but he routed out his whole establishment, and in less
than an hour they were on their way, so that by daylight they had
put fifteen miles behind them.
They traveled as they had never done before, following the dim
trail before them with the speed and instinct of wild things.
Tireless, elastic, winged with snowshoes, the miles flowed under
them.
At eleven o'clock, they came upon the ruins of a camp-fire, which
had evidently been scattered that morning, and, encouraged by this,
Donald could barely stop to make tea. The afternoon was a race with
darkness. Could he have done so, he would have commanded the sullen
sun to stand still. Now, with a vicious cut at the faltering dogs,
now with a cry of encouragement to Peter Rainy, he ran on, his
shirt open at the front, his throat bare.
Hour by hour, the trail grew fresher. Now, they paused at the open
glades before crossing them. They listened for the jingle of bells
in the distance, and took their own off the harness, an act that
nearly ended their day's journey, for the dogs could scarcely be
induced to travel without this musical accompaniment. Darkness,
at last, began to settle.
Suddenly, the force of inspiration that had held him up so long,
deserted the young man, and he wavered where he stood, shading his
eyes across an open space.
“What do you see, Peter?” he gasped, sitting down abruptly, for
very weakness.
The Indian stood gazing for a long time in silence.
“Far off, I see a shanty and a dog-train in front of it,” he said,
slowly. “And, now, I see smoke coming from the chimney.”
“How many people are there?” cried Donald excitedly, getting to
his feet again. “Tell me, quick! How many?
“That I cannot see,” answered the Indian, after a moment's piercing
scrutiny.
“Mush! Mush on!” cried McTavish, curling the long whip over the
dogs' backs, and once more the mad race was under way.
Over the smooth, glazed crust, into low, powdery drifts, under
windfalls or around them, down the forest aisles, or across bare,
open spaces, they whirled, the men at a tireless, gliding lope,
the dogs at a fast trot.
Nearer came the shanty and its curl of smoke. Now, it was but a
quarter of a mile away, and the going was all down-hill and clear.
The men jumped aboard the sledge, and called to the dogs, which
responded by breaking into a gallop. Thus silently, without bells,
the equipage descended upon the unknown travelers in the shanty.
A hundred yards away, the strange dogs sounded the alarm, and, ten
seconds later, Donald's team was engaged in a free fight that
threatened to put an end to every strip of harness.
While Peter Rainy stayed to separate the combatants, Donald sprang
off, and rushed ahead to the shanty. At that moment, two persons
stepped out of the door, a man and a woman.
Even at fifty yards, there could be no doubt as to their identity:
They were the old hag Maria and her Indian son, Tom.
