CHAPTER VII
JEAN PUTS IT UP TO HER FATHER
Jean Fitzpatrick rose from the breakfast-table at Fort Severn, and
asked for the Winnipeg papers. Three days before, the mail-carrier
had dashed in with dogs on the gallop, and ever since the white
folk at the fort had been having a riot of joy. Months-old letters
from almost forgotten friends, and papers many weeks behind their
dates had been perused over and over again, until they could almost
be recited from memory.
Tongues wagged in gossip over personages perhaps dead by this time,
and sage opinions settled questions that had long since passed from
the minds of men in the glamourous cities of far-off civilization.
Jean passed from the dining-room into the drawing-room, where many
days before she had sent Donald McTavish from her presence. Her
father, who, had eaten earlier, had retired into his private study,
pleading business matters of urgency, and the girl settled herself
luxuriously near a square, snow-edged window, with a pile of
newspapers beside her easy chair.
She had not been reading long when voices raised in argument at
the front door distracted her attention.
“No,” the servant of the house was saying, “you can't see the
factor. He has given orders that he cannot be disturbed.”
“But I must see him!” replied a croaking voice, using the Ojibway
dialect. “I have come many miles to see him, and must go away
to-day.”
“Who are you?” asked Butts, the British butler, who served the
factor's table with all the ceremony to be found in an English
manor.
“Maria.”
“Maria who?
“Just Maria. I don't need any other name.”
“Tell me your message, and I'll give it to him. Then, you can come
around later in the day for your answer.”
“No, I can't do that. This is something I must say to him myself,
and in private,” croaked the voice.
“Well, you can't see him, and that's all there is about it,” snapped
Butts with finality, and he slammed the door full in the old Indian
woman's face.
At that, Jean sprang up and hurried from the drawing-room into the
hallway, her eyes flashing with resentment.
“Here, Butts,” she said sharply, “call that woman back, and bring
her to me in the sitting-room. I will hear what she has to say,
if she will tell me.
“Yes, miss,” and the butler, showing vast disapproval in his tone,
opened the door.
A minute later, Jean looked up to see a bent, wizened old hag
standing in the doorway, bobbing respectfully.
“Come in close to the fire. You must be cold,” suggested the girl
kindly, noting the pinched brown features. “Then I will talk to you.”
A leer of thanks and gratitude spread over the ugly, wrinkled face,
and the creature acted on the suggestion.
“Can't you wait to see my father until later? asked Jean.
“No, I go with my son to the hunting-grounds this afternoon,” the
woman answered.
“Well, if you will tell your message to me, I will see that he gets
it.”
The squaw made no reply, but searched Jean's face with her bright
little eyes. Then, she said suddenly:
“So, you're the one he is in love with?” The girl, taken aback,
bristled at the words and tone.
“To whom do you refer?” she asked.
“Captain McTavish. Ha, you start and blush! Then, there are two
sides of the matter. It's a pity! It's a pity!”
Jean, now thoroughly angered, both by the woman's temerity and her
own involuntary coloring at the mention of Donald McTavish's name,
turned on her visitor sharply.
“You will kindly keep to the matter that brought you here, Maria,”
she said, “and leave both myself and Captain McTavish out of it.”
“I can leave you out of it, but not McTavish,” was the stolid reply.
“What do you mean?”
“Ha, ha! That's it. What do I mean? Sometimes I hardly know myself,
but at others it conies back to me clearly enough. But I warn you,
pretty miss,” and the squaw suddenly pointed a shaking finger at
the girl. “Never marry him, this McTavish. Never marry him!
“I haven't the slightest intention of doing so,” returned the girl
coldly; “but I would like to know why you say what you do, and why
you wanted to see my father and tell him all this nonsense.”
“Nonsense, you say!” The old woman chuckled. “No, it ain't nonsense.
Your father knows something already, but probably he won't tell
you; such things aren't for the ears of young girls, particularly
when they blush and grow angry at the mention of a man. But he'll
marry you if he can, stain or no stain. That's a man's way.”
Jean Fitzpatrick's hands wandered to her throat as though to ease
her dress. Her eyes were wide with wonder and her fear of something
half-hinted, and the color had gone out of her face. Here they were
again, these rumors that had disturbed her mind from time to time.
But, now, they were almost definite—and they were not pleasant!
And her father knew I She had suspected the fact, and yet he had
not told her anything, even denying his knowledge when forced to
the point.
What was it, this thing that was the prized property of a
glittering-eyed Indian hag? She dared hear no more from the crafty,
insinuating creature. She would go to her father himself, and find
out. She turned to the old woman, who was watching her closely.
“Maria,” she said, “I will do what I can to have my father see you
before you leave this afternoon. If he will not, then you may know
that everything possible has been done. If he will see you, I'll
send a boy to find you.”
The squaw knew enough of white etiquette to realize that this was
a dismissal, and started toward the door.
“He knows, he knows!” she croaked. “Tell him this time that there
is money in it, and, if he won't see me now, I'll be back in the
spring.”
She went out, leaving Jean bewildered and spent with emotion, trying
to collect her scattered thoughts. Knowing that her father was
busy, she returned to the papers, and tried to read. But the words
passed in front of her eyes without meaning, and, after fifteen
minutes of this, she rose determinedly.
The knock on her father's study door elicited a growl of inquiry,
and she went in without answering. Old Angus Fitzpatrick sat bent
over his desk writing, his white beard sweeping the polished wood.
He wore large horn spectacles.
“Father,” began the girl, coming straight to the point, “do you
know an old Ojibway squaw by the name of Maria?”
Neither the bulk of the man nor his stolidity could hide the
involuntary start the words gave him. He looked searchingly at his
daughter from beneath his beetling brows.
“Yes, I have seen her, I think,” he replied cautiously after a
moment. “Why?”
“She came here to-day, and insisted, almost violently, on seeing
you. Butts was about to send her away when I interfered and talked
to her myself. I don't like her; she frightens me.”
“You talked with her?” asked the factor hastily, his agitation
undisguised this time.
“Yes, but I couldn't learn anything definite. She has a lot of
nasty rumors in her head. Maybe they're facts, but she only spoke
in hints. She said the facts she would tell only to you.”
Angus Fitzpatrick heaved an inaudible sigh of relief. The old
squaw, then, had been discreet.
“What was the subject of her conversation?” he asked, sharply.
The girl hesitated and flushed.
“Horrid hints regarding Don—Captain McTavish,” she said, finally.
Then, her indignation rising once more, she went on swiftly: “Just
the sort of thing I have heard from you, from Tee-ka-mee, from
every one who has a right or privilege to mention such things. Now,
father, I have come in here to find out just what this thing is.
You can tell me in five minutes, if you will. Ah, yes, you can,”
she insisted, as the factor started to deny. “Yes, you can; old
Maria said so, and I believe her. After last summer when he was
here, and I—when I grew to be very fond of his company, you
suddenly began putting things into my mind, uncertain hints, slurring
intimations, significant gestures—all the things that can damage
a character without positively defaming it. Something had happened!
Something had come to your notice that made you do all that. You
never liked Donald, but you didn't really oppose him before that
time. Now, I want to know what this is.” Her voice hardened. “I'm
tired of being treated like a schoolgirl; I'm twenty-four, and old
enough to think for myself, and I demand to know what mystery has
forced a black shadow between us.”
She stopped, breathless, the color going and coming in her cheeks
like the ebb and flow of northern lights in the sky.
Old Angus Fitzpatrick, amazed at the vehemence of his usually
passive daughter, had risen to his feet. To make him furious, it
was only necessary to demand something. This the girl, in excellent
imitation of his own manner, had done, and he resented it highly,
glaring at her through his spectacles.
“Do you mean to stand there and say that you demand that I tell
you something?” he roared. “Well, I refuse, that's all.”
And he turned angrily away from her. The girl mastered herself,
and asked in a cold, even voice:
“Will you tell me this? Is there anything definite against Donald
McTavish?
“Do you demand to know?
“No, I ask it.”
“Well, then, there is. A perfectly good reason why you can never
marry him.”
“What is it?”
“I can't tell you. And, if I can't, no one else can. Respect him
all you will for himself, but don't love him. I tell you this to
spare you pain later. And, if you please, Jean,” he added more
gently as his temper went down, “never let us speak of this painful
subject again.”
“Very well, father,” she replied, calmly. “Oh, by the way, do you
wish to see that woman? She leaves this afternoon.”
“No, I never want to see her again.”
“She said for me to tell you there was money in it this time,”
added the girl, a slight note of contempt in her tone.
The factor hesitated.
“No,” he said finally; and, without another word, Jean left the
room.
CHAPTER VIII
THE ALARM
Darkness had just fallen over the snow-enshrouded fort. Three hours
ago, Maria, with her stoical Indian son, had pulled out behind a
dog-train with fresh supplies. The old squaw had been balked in
her attempt to see the factor. Since she had not been sent for,
she did not dare try to force another entrance.
Angus Fitzpatrick and his daughters, Laura and Jean, were having
tea in the drawing-room; preparations were under way for dinner in
the kitchen. Outside, a couple of huskies got into a fight, the
bell of the chapel rang for mid-week even-song, a couple of Indians
called in Ojibway to each other across the snowy expanse of the
courtyard.
Suddenly, from somewhere out on the frozen Severn, there came faint
yells, followed by the staccato of revolver and rifle shots. Just
as suddenly, all the life in the factory came to a dead stop, as
everyone listened for more shots by which to make sure of the
direction. Three minutes later, the additional reports sounded
sharply.
With lightning speed, snowshoes were strapped on, rifles and
cartridge-belts gathered up, and, almost in less time than it takes
to tell, twenty men were racing across the ice to help.
It was the familiar winter's tragedy near the fort—a man traveling
fast and nearing his destination at nightfall. Perhaps, he had five
miles to go for food, warmth, light, and companionship. He took
the risk, and pressed on in the dark. And, then, the wolf-pack,
that had been dogging him over many leagues, closed in for the
kill, since the lone man's one security is his fire.
“When will these Indians learn that lesson?” asked the factor
irritably, sipping his tea. The shots had reached his ears, and
the swift departure of the rescuers had been heard from the courtyard.
It was, perhaps, an hour later when a tramping of feet and chorus
of voices announced the return of the men. As there was no sad
procession, it was evident that the trapper had been saved. Presently,
Butts entered the lamplit room.
“The trapper they just rescued is asking to see you, sir,” he said.
“Claims his message to be most important, sir, 'e does.”
“Life and death?”
“Might as well say so, sir, from the way he carries on.”
“Show him in.”
Five minutes later, Cardepie, the Frenchman from Fort Dickey, stood
in the presence of the factor's family, vastly embarrassed, but
bursting with news.
“Ah, by gar!” he cried when permission to speak had been given;
“dere is gran' trouble in de distric'. Everywhere, de trapper is
gone away—everywhere de shanty is desert'. B-gosh! For sure, dere
is somet'ing wrong! One, two, ten, dirteen days ago, dat brave
Captain McTavish go on de long trail for Charley Seguis, an' have
not been heard of since. Diable! Perhaps, he no find heem in
dat time; anyway, he sen' word to de fort. But dis time? Non! We
haf no word, an' by gar! I know somet'ing wrong.
“I call my dogs, Ba'tiste an' Pierre an' Raoul an' Saint Jean, an'
pack de sleigh. I cannot stan' my brother lost, so I go after heem.
Bien donc! I hunt de distric' careful, but I fin' not wan track
of heem. I go to trapper shanty one after de other. Peter Rainy,
he gone four days before me, but I not even see heem. Tonnerre,
sacr�! De hair stan' on my head wit' fear of somet'ing I do not
know. Mebbe wan beeg loup-garou eat every man in de distric',
an' have his eye on me.
“I go into a shanty, an' fin' paper not burn' In stove just wan
end. I pick it up; I read de English good, like I talk. McTavish
teach me dat on long nights. B-gosh! m'sieur, I read dat fas',
once, twice. Den I go out, an' jump into de sleigh, an' point
Ba'tiste's nose to Fort Severn. Pauvre Saint Jean, he die I run
heem so hard, an' now I got only t'ree dogs.”
“Stop! Stop!” yelled the factor at the top of his voice, interrupting
with difficulty the tumbling cascade of Cardepie's speech. “Have
you that paper with you?”
“Oui, by gar!” cried the Frenchman proudly, digging into his fur
coat, and finally producing a half-sheet of rough paper, charred
at the upper edge.
Fitzpatrick puzzled over it for a full minute. Then, his eyes
began to bulge, and the veins in his neck to swell as he read aloud:
The brotherhood meets in five days at Sturgeon Lake. Bring your
early furs to the post there.
SEGUIS, Chief Free-Trader.
“Free-traders! Free-traders!” he gasped. “By heaven, this is too
much! For thirty years, I have been factor in this district, and
kept the hunters in line. But, now, there's a brotherhood of
free-traders. They'll flout the Company, will they? They'll flout
me, eh? I'll show them, by heaven! I'll show them!”
The factor heaved himself out of his chair, and lumbered excitedly
up and down the room.
“And Seguis is at the head of it. I wonder where that man, McTavish,
is? If he has done his duty, that sneaking half-breed is either
dead or tied to a sledge on his way here. That'll break 'em up
quick enough—taking their leader! It's up to him, now... Cardepie,
send the chief trader of the fort and the doctor to me, at once.
We'll have to organize to meet this situation.”
The Frenchman, frightened at the anger of the fierce old man, was
glad enough to make his escape. Fitzpatrick turned to his daughters.
“Girls, please have your dinners brought upstairs to you to-night.
I want to talk business with my chiefs at the table.”
Obediently, the two young women rose and left the room, glad, in
their turn, to avoid the tantrum of the irate factor.
Morning found Fort Severn in a tumult of excitement. The news of
the free-trading organization had spread until even the dullest
Indian had been made aware of it.
The council of department heads, at dinner the night before, had
unanimously decided that but one course lay open to them—to crush
the rebellion against the Company before it could reach any larger
proportions. At the same time, it was agreed that a wait of a few
days would be judicious, for in that time McTavish might come in
with Charley Seguis as his prisoner.
No one doubted for a moment that, if McTavish came at all, it would
be either to announce the death of the man he had set out to capture,
or to hand his prisoner over to the authorities. Such was Donald's
reputation in the district.
Nevertheless, all necessary preparations for a military expedition
were made. Storekeeper Trent drew liberally on his supplies, and
kept his helpers busy making up packs for traveling. Also, he opened
cases of cartridges, that he might serve them out to the men on a
moment's notice. Sledges were overhauled and repaired.
About noon of the third day, a dog-train and sledge, with one man
walking beside it, were sighted far across the frozen Severn, headed
toward the fort. Half an hour later, a man stationed in one of
the bastions with a field-glass announced that a second man lay on
the sledge.
“That settles it,” said he. “It's McTavish bringing in Charley
Seguis.”
A sigh of relief went up, for all knew their task would now be
easier. After another space, however, the man with the glass began
to focus industriously and mutter to himself.
“That's not McTavish walking at all!” he suddenly cried. “It's an
Indian.” And five minutes later: “By heaven! That's McTavish on
the sleigh.”
Thus did the fort first know of the happening to the captain of
Fort Dickey. When the dogs, with a final burst of speed and music
of bells, swept through the tunneled snow of the main gate, the
whole settlement gathered around curiously.
With a wry grin, McTavish rose from the furs that wrapped him, and,
with a wave of his hand, but no word, started directly for the
factor's house. One hand was bound in strips of fur and a fold of
his capote shielded his eyes from the glare. He was beginning to
see again, however, and went straight toward his object, turning
aside all questions with a shake of his head.
Not so with Peter Rainy. The center of an admiring and curious
group, he narrated his adventures with many a flourish and
exaggeration. Reduced to a few words, the facts were these:
When McTavish had refused to take his old servant on the hunt for
Charley Seguis, Rainy had moped disconsolate for almost a week. It
was the first time they had ever been separated on a dog or canoe
journey. At the end of that period, when no runner had brought word
of his master, the Indian became restless and anxious.
Finally, having nothing himself, he had mended an old sleigh at
the fort, borrowed Buller's dog-team, and set out to locate McTavish,
against the desire and advice of Cardepie and Buller.
How he had followed the blind trail, how he had escaped capture at
Lake Sturgeon by a hair's breadth and a snowfall that obliterated
his tracks, and how he had, finally, in despair, started for Fort
Severn for help, took long in the telling.
But the same snowfall that saved him, saved McTavish, for, in taking
a cut through the woods, Rainy had come upon the erratic tracks of
the blind man, and followed them without the slightest suspicion
of whose they were, only knowing that someone was in distress.
The meeting between man and master, just barely in time to save
the latter's life, had been fervent, but reserved. McTavish gave
himself up to the ministrations of the other like a child, and
obediently rode almost all the way to the fort on the sledge, his
eyes covered. Food there had been in plenty, so that, by the time
the snowy masses of Fort Severn showed themselves, he had regained
nearly all his strength.
But, while Peter Rainy was satisfying curious ears outside, a far
different scene was taking place in the factor's private office.
Donald, the covering removed from his eyes in the darkened room,
faced Angus Fitzpatrick across the latter's desk, and briefly told
the story of his adventures.
When he had finished the account, there was silence in the room
for a minute. Fitzpatrick scowled. Something about this young man,
even his presence itself, seemed to irritate him.
“Where is the man you went out to get, McTavish?” asked the factor.
“At Sturgeon Lake.”
“He ought to be here in jail.”
“I know it, sir. I did the best I could.”
“The Hudson Bay Company doesn't take that for an excuse. It wants
the man. This is a hard country and a hard rule, but no other rule
will keep a respect for law in our territories. A shot, a
dagger-thrust, anything to punish Seguis for his crime, and this
ruffianly collection of free-traders would have disbanded,
leaderless.”
“But,” expostulated McTavish, “surely you do not counsel murder as
a punishment for murder.”
“I counsel measures to fit needs. In this vast desolation, I am
the law; I represent the inevitable result of a cause, the inexorable,
never-failing punishment of a wrong. As my lieutenant, you also
represent it. Charley Seguis should either be dead or a prisoner
here.”
Donald did not answer. Theoretically, the factor was right; according
to all the traditions of the Company, he spoke the truth. But he
had evidently forgotten that even the Company he worshiped was made
up of men, who were human and not omnipotent. Carried too far,
his premises were unjust, ridiculous, and untenable. But of what
good were arguments?
“Then, I have failed in my duty?” McTavish asked, wearily.
“Judge for yourself.”
“What are your next orders for me?”
“A hundred dollars fine and a month's confinement in the fort here.”
McTavish shrank back as though a blow had been aimed at him.
“You can't mean it, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he cried, passionately. “I
have earned no such disgrace. Command anything but that; send me
to the ends of the district; let me go back to Sturgeon Lake, and
throw my life away there, if you must have it; send me to the
loneliest trading-post in Keewatin, but don't disgrace me needlessly,
unjustly.”
“I can only do what my conscience dictates,” said the factor coldly.
“Well, all I can say is, that, if heaven has a conscience like
yours, God help you when you die, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”
The factor touched a bell, and, an instant later Tee-ka-mee stepped
noiselessly into the room.
“Take Mr. McTavish to his room in the old barracks,” Fitzpatrick
directed. “And, by the way, please ask Miss Jean to come here a
moment. I wish to speak with her.”
At the innocent request, Tee-ka-mee almost fell to the floor with
terror.
“What's the matter with you, you demon?” growled the factor. “Have
you been drinking again?”
“No, no, no,” cried the Indian, hastily. “I am afraid—I must tell
you—Miss Jean—Oh, what can I say?”
“In heaven's name, what's the matter? What's this about Miss Jean?”
shouted the factor.
“She is gone, sir, disappeared completely!” cried the frightened
Indian. “Her serving-woman has been searching for hours. She went
tobogganing out behind the fort at ten o'clock, with the missionary's
wife. Mrs. Gates came in at noon, but Miss Jean said she would
slide once or twice more, alone. She hasn't come in, and we can
find no trace of her.”
“Why wasn't I told of this?” cried the factor, in a weak, pitiful
voice.
“We didn't want to alarm you unnecessarily, sir,” Said Tee-ka-mee.
“Oh, get out of here! Leave me alone,” groaned Fitzpatrick; and
the two men quietly went out, and closed the door on the old man's
grief.
