CHAPTER XXII
SECRETED EVIDENCE
It was an hour before sunset, but so uniform had been the darkness
all day that neither Donald nor his two companions realized that
night was close upon them. Hour after hour they had struggled onward
through the blinding, bewildering storm, shelterless and without
food, straining forward to the only place where these things might
be obtained—Sturgeon Lake. Now, when the blanketing night was
almost fallen, they sighted the charred ruins that had once been
the warehouse of the free-traders, with a sigh of relief. A shout
from one of Donald's companions brought the five men who had been
left out of their tents. A shriveled female form joined them, and
with a clutch at his heart the prisoner recognized old Maria.
Fortune, whose plaything he had been all this day, was indeed kind
to him at last, he thought. He remembered certain trite observations
concerning opportunity knocking at a man's door, and the obvious
duty of a man to seize such opportunity, and bend it to his own
use. If this were opportunity, he said to himself, he would make
the most of it.
During that all-day struggle with the storm, Donald McTavish had
come into his own again. The passive acceptance of fate that had
buoyed him even to the shadow of the gallows, had gone from him
now. He was all energy and aggressiveness. He resolved to bring
matters to a head within the next few days, or know the reason why.
What motive had moved Charley Seguis to send him to Sturgeon Lake,
he did not know, nor did he care. He only remembered that he was
at liberty once again, in a certain sense of the word, and that he
had a fighting chance. The sight of old Maria recalled to his mind
the words of Angus Fitzpatrick in regard to the marriage certificate
that existed as proof of his father's youthful indiscretion. On
the instant, he vowed that the hag should give up the truth of the
matter before she was many hours older.
As the little party entered the camp, the men who had remained
there plied them with questions as to the success of the foraging
party. When the meager story had been told, they shook their heads
dolefully at the lack of information, and set about the work of
preparing the evening meal of fish.
McTavish, as he joined the circle with a ravenous appetite, could
scarcely credit the desolation he saw on all sides of him. Now that
the main loghouse was down, the settlement presented a dreary and
hopeless aspect. The one redeeming feature was the huge pile of
rescued fur-bales. The quantity and quality of these impressed him
strongly. One of the men, observing his interest in them, remarked:
“If you fellows would get down to business, instead of wasting all
winter fussing about us, you might have something like that brought
into the fort when spring comes, yourselves.”
“Well, you see,” returned Donald good-humoredly, “our idea is to have
those brought in when spring comes. That's all we're fighting for.”
“Deuce of a chance you've got of getting those furs!” retorted the
other, contemptuously. “We're sick of the H. B.'s starvation trading,
and we've quit for good and all.”
“The Hudson Bay may give starvation trading, but I'd like to know
where else you'll get as much.”
Donald was leading the man on, for here was very valuable information,
and this babbler evidently did not know the worth of a tight mouth.
“As much!” the trapper snorted. “Why, these Frenchies'll give us
half again as much for a 'beaver' as you chaps ever thought of
giving. And there's no use you fellows trying to keep them out,
either. This is free territory, you know, even if old Fitz' doesn't
think so. I've told Seguis often enough that, if he'd wipe old
Fitz' off the map, he'd do the brotherhood more good than any other
hundred men.”
“I know, my good friend. But when do you suppose these Frenchies
will ever connect with you? Maybe never and—”
The other burst into derisive laughter.
“Why, you poor fool!” he cried. “If it hadn't been for this blizzard
to-day, we'd have been bargaining with 'em here to-night. Ten big
trains of supplies are within thirty miles of us—and you ask me
if they'll ever connect! That's good!” And he roared with laughter.
McTavish bridled, but kept his temper, for it was evident who was
the fool. He continued pressing the subject for some little time
further, but elicited no more really valuable information. Judging
his man, he came to the conclusion that the fellow knew nothing
more.
Being ignorant of the events that had occurred in the Hudson Bay
camp after his departure, Donald was unaware of the desperate
pursuit that was going on through the howling storm, but it was no
surprise that none of Seguis's party returned to the camp.
“Can't travel in this weather,” said one man, dolefully. “If this
keeps up long, we won't see 'em till it's over. Honest, after this
winter, I'll be surprised if I don't sprout fins, I've eaten so
much fish.”
The camp was about to turn in early when a faint cry sounded outside
the circle of tents. Immediately, every one turned out, hoping it
was the foragers back. Rushing in the direction of the sound, the
men returned, accompanying a bedraggled old man with a gray beard,
after whom limped a train of spiritless, wolfish dogs attached to
a battered sledge.
“Thought I was done for in that storm, boys,” said the aged voyageur
wagging his head, “but I remembered this cove around the headland,
and made for it. Got anything to eat?”
According to the unwritten law of Northern hospitality, Bill
Thompson, for so he gave his name, was taken in, and given what
the camp afforded. He seemed to be a harmless old vagrant, whose
point of departure and intended point of arrival on this journey
were difficult to ascertain. He talked unceasingly of nothing in
particular, and delivered endless narratives of adventures that
had befallen him in his lurid and distant youth.
All that night, the storm continued unabated, and the next morning
when the camp aroused itself, Bill Thompson gave out the dictum
that it would continue for two days more at least. McTavish and
his companions congratulated themselves that they had made the camp
the night before, for in such weather traveling was almost an
impossibility.
At the meager breakfast Donald realized for the first time that
Maria had not appeared since the night before, when he had seen
her upon their arrival. When he had pulled up his belt a notch,
and lighted his pipe, the trapper's substitute for a full meal, he
wandered back to the tent where he had slept. He was allowed perfect
liberty among these men, first, because the weather made it impossible
for him to attempt escape, and, second, because they had received
no orders to keep him under strict guard. Despite his wretched
situation, this morning the spirit of happiness and determination
that had seized him the night before was strong upon him, and he
settled himself to formulating his plans. Suddenly, right beside
him at the tent door, he discovered the bent form of old Maria.
How she had got there he did not know, for she seemed to have risen
directly out of the earth. Her presence both startled him, and
filled him with a quick hatred.
This was the creature who held in her filthy, withered hand the
happiness of so many persons; this was the creature that his father
had lov—No! Not that, for he could only have loved the beautiful
girl he had married in Montreal.
Donald looked at the old woman with a kind of pitying loathing.
What a terrible thing it was that such a worthless bit of humanity
should hold so much power! She was within reach of his hands. A
quick clutch, a stifled squawk, a brief struggle, and she would be
dead. And how much that was to come might be averted! He laughed
a little at such a method of cutting the Gordian knot.
“Laugh while you can, young McTavish,” Maria croaked, suddenly.
“It won't be for long.”
“Why not, old raven?” he asked, regarding her interestedly.
The certificate! That was it. She had the certificate, and he must
get it.
“The right man is coming,” she replied. “The pride of his father's
heart! Ha, ha! Yes, the pride of his father's heart! He'll be rich,
and have the honors heaped high. You'd better go, young McTavish—go
while there's yet time.”
“Why should I go? What are you talking about, anyway, old woman?
“You lie!” she yelled at him suddenly, being close. “I see it in
your eyes. You know all. You know why you should go. And I warn
you to go.”
“Warn me? What about?”
“If there should be blood, it would do no hurt,” she muttered,
vaguely. “Then, he would come into his own, the rightful heir, my
son.”
Donald glanced at the beldam with a certain uneasiness now. He felt
a veiled threat, although, he told himself, she was mad. And, yet
if she felt that Seguis must be recognized, what would keep her
from doing incalculable harm?
“You talk a lot, but you say little,” he retorted, with a sneer.
“You make plenty of moves, but you accomplish nothing. That's a
squaw every time.”
The little eyes blazed upon him red, and her withered face shook
with fury.
“Accomplish nothing, eh, young McTavish? We shall see. Ha! You'll
wish you'd never been born—you and your father and mother,
and all!”
“More talk!” he gibed. “I want proofs. If you can show me proofs
of what you claim, I'll do all I can to help your son to his rightful
place.”
“My son!” she taunted, in turn. “Your brother? Your brother, young
McTavish! Call him brother, next time you see him.” Her shrieking
mirth mingled fittingly with the anguish of the wind among the
trees. But suddenly, she stopped short, and looked at him with
questioning eyes.
“You'll help him, you say, if I can give the proof that I was
McTavish's wife?”
“Yes.”
Donald lied heartily: the occasion demanded it. Long since, he
had decided for himself that truth was not a garment to be worn on
all occasions. To those he loved, he would tell the truth if it
killed him, but others must depend upon the circumstances of the
case. Now, he knew that, if he could get documentary proof within
arm's reach, he would destroy it, though it earned him a knife
between the ribs. He watched her like a hawk, although apparently
totally indifferent to the conversation.
“You promise you'll help him—my son?
“Yes.”
Donald's vision suddenly became riveted upon the clawlike right
hand of the hag. An involuntary muscle, following the half-ordained
bidding of the brain, had moved perhaps three inches toward her
breast. There, it stopped, and slipped down again.
“Look in my eyes,” the witch commanded, bending down and putting
her face close.
He removed his pipe, and turned to meet her gaze. Then, he realized
that never in his life had he looked into human eyes that in cruelty,
keenness, and suspicion equaled these. That glare went through the
retina, into the brain, and down, down to the hidden and
undiscoverable recess of the soul, plumbing, searching, proving.
He began to feel as though he were looking at a dazzling light...
Suddenly, the light was turned off, and he heard a snarl.
“Liar! I can see the treachery in your heart! Fool, to try to
deceive me! I might have put trust in your words once; but now I
know!” In her fury, she seemed saner than he had ever known her
hitherto, and it was then, for the first time, that he got an idea
of Maria's abnormal powers of analysis. Any person who could rivet
one with a gaze like that, he thought, was worth watching. For
fully ten minutes, she raved, scattering words with prodigal
recklessness. McTavish did not listen to the abuse. He was thinking
of other things. Presently, she flung herself out of the tent, with
a final shriek, and the man acted at once.
He fastened on his snowshoes and crawled awkwardly out on all-fours
after her. In the driving, blinding snow, he could just see her
small figure, dimly. He followed it. The involuntary motion of
Maria's hand to her bosom was the one thing that he had needed. He
had been afraid that some split tree, or hollow beneath a rock,
might contain the thing he wanted; now, he was certain that she
carried it upon her person.
On he went, away from the camp, of which the circle of tents was
almost buried. Donald, veering from the path, since it might lead
to an embarrassing encounter, kept his quarry always in sight, and
followed. Was the woman crazy, he wondered, that she should wander
aimlessly out into a death-dealing storm? But, at last, when he
was on the point of turning back for fear of losing his location
entirely, Maria came to the foot of an unusually large tree, and
halted. The pursuer dropped behind a little drift he had just
started to mount, and waited. If this were her destination, he knew
she would peer about. A moment later, his suspicions were verified.
But, In the quick glance of her keen eyes, she passed over the
practically invisible snow-covered form that lay so near her. When
the man raised his head again, she had turned her attention to the
tree, and had pulled open a little, low door that allowed her to
crawl into the very heart of the trunk. A moment later, the door
swung to, and Maria apparently was no more.
McTavish did not wonder now why he had seen her so seldom in the
camp. No doubt, she had her own supply of food safe inside, and
did not come out until hunger or her inclination prompted. He looked
at the tree to mark it in his mind, and observed that it was tall
and bare, with practically no needles or foliage of any sort. Huge
bumps and broken limbs made it one in a thousand. On the leeward
side of the tree, he thought he noticed a glow of light. He brushed
the snow from his eyes, and looked again. This time, he was sure.
He guessed that this was an air-hole bored through the wall of the
trunk, and that Maria was building a fire inside. For a moment, he
envied her coziness. Then, he crawled stealthily forward, until
within ten feet of the big hollow pine. The air-holes, he noticed
now, were not made on the north and west sides of the tree. Evidently,
she counted on the suction of the wind to draw out the smoke and
foul air.
The noise of the storm easily drowned any sounds the observer might
make, and he moved with considerable freedom, now that the woman
could not see him. Plainly, the air-holes had been made by other
hands than hers, for they were higher than her head; in fact Donald
himself would have to stretch to look down. He selected a hole
about three inches in diameter, and peered in. The smoke filled
his eye, but he saw enough to know that the old squaw was seated
on the floor of her habitation, nursing her little fire. He could
not quite see all her actions, so he moved to a larger hole.
Presently, the fire burned brightly, and Maria began to rock back
and forth, and sing to herself. Suddenly, she burst out into a
weird laugh, and cried:
“Ha! The fool! The fool! If he only knew I almost showed him!”
Chuckling and muttering incoherently, she put a stealthy hand into
her bosom, and drew forth a little bag of muskrat skin. Donald,
cursing softly the smoke that filled his eyes, did his best to
stand on tiptoe.
The bag was suspended around Maria's neck by a leathern thong, and
was operated by pull-strings. Still rocking back and forth, the
crone loosened the strings, and opened the bag. Then, she drew
forth a paper, old and dirty and yellow. It was so worn in the
creases that it almost fell apart, but over it ran fine writing,
in a good hand. Donald, strain his eyes as he might, could not make
out a single word of it.
Now came the impulse to rush inside, seize the paper, jerk loose
the bag, and make away with both. Donald had indeed slipped off
his snowshoes preparatory to entrance when a great yelling and
hallooing in the forest near by caused him to change his plan of
action. Slipping on his rackets again, he sped swiftly back toward
the camp. He had hardly disappeared, when the old squaw pushed
aside the home-made doorway of her strange dwelling, and looked
curiously in the direction of the noises.
