CHAPTER XII
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MARIA TAKES ACTION
“Good-evening,” said Donald, courteously, in the Ojibway tongue.
With all his impatience, he knew better than to be precipitate.
Tom and Maria responded in kind to his salutation, and the usual
amenities of those who find themselves at a camping-place together
were exchanged. Of course, the newcomers would not think of occupying
the cabin, since the others had reached it first, even though
Donald's rank in the Hudson Bay Company entitled him to the best
to be had.
They were fortunate, he said, in the locating of such an admirable
shelter; in fact, it was one of the best he had seen, warm, well
made, with room for the dogs. Whose was it? They told him an Indian
name, and he continued his complimentary talk, approaching the door
all the time.
Truly, this good Indian would have to be recommended to the factor
for keeping his place in such fine order. See! Even the door fitted
in its frame, and did not sag on its hinges when he opened it.
There would be—He entered.
The monologue suddenly ceased, and, after a silent moment, a groan
from the heart of the agonized man came to the ears of those outside.
Presently, he emerged, white and wretched-looking, his face drawn
with weariness and disappointment.
Yet, in his eyes there was something that made the two rascally
Ojibways shift uneasily. Donald was not sure whether or not he had
heard a smothered snicker, during the moment that he found himself
alone in the cabin, but he intended to find out.
“Tom,” he said, “where are the hunting-grounds to which you are
going?
“By Beaver Lake.”
“You are much too far south to be on the way to Beaver Lake.
Something else has brought you here.”
“My mother is getting old; she prefers to travel the forest, and
not the muskeg trails. For that we came south.”
Mogwai - Travel Is Dangerous
Tags: Mogwai - Travel Is Dangerous
“Every other winter, she has traveled them safely, Tom. Something
else has brought you here.”
“I swear it is not so, Captain,” said the Indian, in a tone of
defiance rather than of humility—a tone that proved him untruthful
then and there.
“You lie, Tom Seguis!” cried McTavish fiercely. All the
disappointments of the day leaped into rage at this provoking
answer.
“If I do, I learned it from white men,” came the insulting answer.
Inasmuch as the only white men of his acquaintance were Hudson Bay
officials, this constituted a slurring piece of impudence that
demanded instant retribution.
Without a word, Donald slipped the gloves from his hands, and leaped
upon Tom, smashing him to right and left with one well-directed
blow after the other. The Indian was unarmed, and no match for the
captain. But not so his mother. Almost imperceptibly, the leering
hag crept closer to the combat, one hand glued to her side.
So intent was she in watching for an opening that she did not hear
Peter Rainy approaching. Suddenly, Tom, thrusting out his fists in
desperation from the merciless beating, caught his assailant under
the chin, and halted him a second. In that second, the old hag
sprang, the cold steel glinting in her hand.
But Peter, with a shout, was upon her, wrenching away the weapon
and hurling her, squawking, toward the cabin, where, cursing like
a medicine-man, she searched blindly for a rifle until Rainy took
that also away from her, and shut her in the cabin. Meanwhile,
the thrashing of Tom went methodically on, until he was unable to
rise from the snow, and could scarcely bawl an apology between his
swollen, bleeding lips.
Such is the discipline of a region where law is a remote thing,
and the mention of a name must carry terror for thousands of miles.
McTavish, as he punished Indian Tom with merciless severity, was
no longer McTavish. He was the Company; he was discipline; he was
the “inevitable white man.” And, by the same token, Tom was the
conquered race that had dared to doubt the power of its conqueror.
This battle in the snow enacted the drama of America's Siberia as
it has been enacted for two hundred years.
Tom not only delivered himself of an apology at Donald's demand,
but expressed a willingness, even a desire, to atone for his
wrong-doing by telling the truth of the matter that had given rise
to the trouble. Having the situation well in hand, the Hudson Bay
man set Peter to making the camp outside, while he entered the
cabin with Tom.
“Where is the factor's daughter?” he fiercely demanded.
“She left us two days ago,” mumbled the Indian.
“And you will never see her again,” snarled Maria, crouching before
the fire.
“What do you mean by that?”
“Ha, ha! She is in good company. She has a man now—a good man—a
man such as a woman ought to love,” croaked the venomous crone,
glaring.
“In heaven's name, speak out, old woman! Who's she with?”
“Charley Seguis. He is a good man. The women all love him.” And
she rocked herself to and fro, like some horrible old witch. Donald
stared at her, wild-eyed.
“When did he get her?” he groaned. “How? Where?”
“Two days ago, at the other cabin,” broke in Tom, hastily. “We
waited for him there, and he came and got her.”
“Was there anyone with him, or did he come alone?”
“Two others, an Indian and a French trapper,” was the answer.
“Where did they go?” The little, close cabin seemed to reel about
the distraught lover.
“To Sturgeon Lake.”
“The truth!” cried Donald, frantically. “Tell me the truth, or, by
heaven, I'll break every bone in your body!” With hands opening
and closing convulsively, he advanced upon Tom.
But the latter had had enough, and he cowered away from his
interrogator, protesting his good faith. So genuine were his
terrified protestations that the questioner was convinced.
“But he shall have her, Charley Seguis shall have her,” chanted
old Maria, still rocking to and fro.
McTavish, sick at heart and at a loss what to do next, went out of
the cabin and over to the camp that Rainy had made in the snow near
the foot of a big tree. There, he told the old Indian what he had
learned, and appealed to him for counsel. For an hour, the latter
kept silent, and in that time they fed the dogs, and cooked their
own supper of fish, flat flour cakes, and tea. At last, when all
was done and the young man's spirits had risen with the strength
the hot food brought him, Peter Rainy spoke.
“These people have done wrong,” he said, indicating the shanty.
“They must be punished. They must go back to Fort Severn to hear
the factor's judgment. One of us must take them. It should not be
you; your heart yearns onward for the thing that is dearest to it,
and you must follow that call.
“Give me authority, and I will take them back, so they can make no
more trouble. Tom is a good Indian, except with his mother. Him I
trust, but that old squaw”—he shook his head gravely—“if she
lived on the plains, she would cut down a burial-tree to build a
fire. That's the kind she is. I'll not feel safe until she's in
jail.”
“If you are going back with them,” broke in Donald, “you can use
their dog-train, and I'll keep this one.”
“It is Buller's, and should be at Fort Dickey,” Rainy replied.
“Cardepie's is the only one left there now. But there's no other
way, I guess.”
“None. And, Peter, we must set watch to-night, so they can't escape
us. Four hours on and off; I'll stand the first one.”
“Master, you are very weary, and need sleep, for we have traveled
far. Let me watch first.”
But Donald respected the years of his companion, and gently maintained
his purpose. When they were ready for the night, he went to the
cabin, and placed Maria and Tom under arrest. Before taking his
watch, he tore a page from his note-book, and wrote a signed
statement, authorizing Peter Rainy as deputy to conduct the Indians
to Fort Severn.
Building a fire before the cabin door, he began walking up and
down, fighting desperately the almost overpowering sleep that
weighed upon his eyelids. Doubly exhausted by the day's efforts
and disclosures, every moment was a renewed struggle, and every
hour an eternity.
A rising wind, roared with hollow sound among the trees, and drove
the snow-powder into his face. The stars, glinting diamonds in
the blue-black vault over-head, twinkled and coruscated with brittle
fires. Now and then, a report like a rifle stabbed the stillness
when a tree cracked with its freezing sap... Donald sat down on
a log.
His mind was filled with bitter thoughts, and he remembered for
the first time that he was in reality nothing but an escaped
prisoner. But all that trouble could be attended to later. It had
sunk into insignificance beside the hideous verities that the day
had revealed.
Into his mind flashed a picture of Jean as he had seen her last.
The sweet, virginal face, the red-bronze aureole of her soft hair,
the gray wool dress with touches of red warming it at throat and
waist and wrist—all these were in the picture.
Would he ever see her again as she had been that bitter day? Would
there be something gone from that innocent face, some of its sweet
purity? Or would there be something added, a flicker of eternal
fear in the wide, blue eyes, or the stamp of hell across the fair
brow? The face merged slowly into a general indistinctness until
with a shock it all cleared away, and he felt a sharp pain in the
back of his neck.
Then he realized that sleep had stolen upon him and that his head
had rolled forward uncontrolled. With a curse, he sat up and looked
at his watch. Two hours yet before he could call Peter Rainy. He
put some more wood on the fire, but dared not look at the fascination
of the dancing flames. He felt a sort of resentment that these two
dirty Indians must be watched, and so break into his much needed
rest. He riveted his attention upon the stars, and began to name
over the constellations he could see. There was the Great Bear,
the trapper's timepiece in the wilderness; and there, almost directly
above him and very bright, the North Star, the hunter's compass.
Then, there was the Big Dipper, very high, and the Little Bear.
Southerly, through the trees, and looking like an arc-lamp suspended
there, Sirius gleamed, while very low and to the left was the belt
of Orion.
Suddenly, the entire solar system described violent circles of fire
before his eyes, and a dull shock seemed to shake him. He knew
something was wrong, and strove to gain his feet, or cry out, before
it was too late. But, in an instant, he realized that he was
powerless to move, and, in the next, the whirling constellations
gave place to utter, velvet blackness.
When he struggled back to consciousness, the first thing Donald
sensed was that something pleasantly warm lay upon his face. After
a while, he discovered that this gentle glow must be from the sun.
“How's this?” he said to himself. “The whole camp must have slept
late,” and he struggled to a sitting posture, only to give vent to
a groan of agony.
His head throbbed and pained him horribly, and he pressed his hand
to the aching place only to find that a huge bruise and swelling
had appeared overnight. Then, disjointed thoughts began to link
themselves together, and his addled brain cleared itself with a
violent effort. He looked about staringly, and took in the scene:
the cabin, the hole where Peter had camped, his own fire.
“Nobody's here,” he said, blankly; “that's funny.”
Flashes of half-truth commenced to lighten the darkness of his
mind, and he pressed his hands against his temples hard, telling
himself not to go mad—that everything would come out all right.
No one was in sight, the fires were almost dead, the cabin door
was open, so that he could see that the place was unoccupied. Then,
he looked for stars, and laughed, because the sun was up.
But the thought of the stars set him on the right track, and,
closing his jaws tightly on the fear that now took possession of
him, he staggered about from one spot to another, working out the
situation piece by piece. At last, the whole truth and every event
of the day and night before came back to him with a rush. He sat
down abruptly, and dry sobs shook him... He was weary and hungry
and weak, but his mind was clear again, and he thanked God for
that. So near had he come to concussion of the brain from old
Maria's vicious club!
When he had recovered a little, he made another circuit of the
camp. Like a child in the midst of a group of grinning wolves, he
was helpless in the center of absolute desolation. Neither dog,
sledge, food, nor covering had they left him. He was stripped of
everything except a hunting-knife, which he luckily wore beneath
his caribou shirt. Like Andre stepping from his balloon in the
snowy arctic wastes, McTavish might have been dropped solitary
where he was by some huge, passing bird.
