The Huntress E-Book

Hulbert Footner

• Herausgeber: Ktoczyta.pl
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022

Beschreibung

„The Huntress” written by Hulbert Footner who was a Canadian writer of non-fiction and detective fiction. His first published works were travelogues of canoe trips on the Hudson River and in the Northwest Territory along the Peace River, Hay River and Fraser River. He also wrote a series of northwest adventures during the period 1911 through 1920. Published in 1922, here a frontier love story with a tough, but intriguing heroine and a reluctant, at first weak, but eventually worthy lover.

Leseprobe

Contents

I. THE FISH-EATERS' VILLAGE

II. MUSQ'OOSIS ADVISES

III. AT NINE-MILE POINT

IV. THE VISITOR

V. THE DICE DECIDE

VI. A FRESH SURPRISE

VII. THE SUITORS

VIII. THE LITTLE MEADOW

IX. BELA'S ANSWER

X. ON THE LAKE

XI. THE ISLAND

XII. THE NEXT DAY

XIII. ON THE RIVER

XIV. AT JOHNNY GAGNON'S

XV. THE NORTH SHORE

XVI. AT THE SETTLEMENT

XVII. AN APPARITION

XVIII. THE "RESTERAW"

XIX. THE NEW BOARDER

XX. MALICIOUS ACTIVITY

XXI. SAM IS LATE

XXII. MUSCLE AND NERVE

XXIII. MAHOOLEY'S INNINGS

XXIV. ON THE SPIRIT RIVER

XXV. CONCLUSION

I. THE FISH-EATERS’ VILLAGE

FROM within the teepee of Charley Whitefish issued the sounds of a family brawl. It was of frequent occurrence in this teepee. Men at the doors of other lodges, engaged in cleaning their guns, or in other light occupations suitable to the manly dignity, shrugged with strong scorn for the man who could not keep his women in order. With the shrugs went warning glances toward their own laborious spouses.

Each man’s scorn might well have been mitigated with thankfulness that he was not cursed with a daughter like Charley’s Bela. Bela was a firebrand in the village, a scandal to the whole tribe. Some said she was possessed of a devil; according to others she was a girl born with the heart of a man.

This phenomenon was unique in their experience, and being a simple folk they resented it. Bela refused to accept the common lot of women. It was not enough for her that such and such a thing had always been so in the tribe.

She would not do a woman’s tasks (unless she happened to feel like it); she would not hold her tongue in the presence of men. Indeed, she had been known to talk back to the head man himself, and she had had the last word into the bargain.

Not content with her own misbehaviour, Bela lost no opportunity of gibing at the other women, the hard-working girls, the silent, patient squaws, for submitting to their fathers, brothers, and husbands. This naturally enraged all the men.

Charley Whitefish was violently objurgated on the subject, but he was a poor-spirited creature who dared not take a stick to Bela. It must be said that Bela did not get much sympathy from the women. Most of them hated her with an astonishing bitterness.

As Neenah, Hooliam’s wife, explained it to Eelip Moosa, a visitor in camp: “That girl Bela, she is weh-ti-go, crazy, I think. She got a bad eye. Her eye dry you up when she look. You can’t say nothing at all. Her tongue is like a dog-whip. I hate her. I scare for my children when she come around. I think maybe she steal my baby. Because they say weh-ti-gosgot drink a baby’s blood to melt the ice in their brains. I wish she go way. We have no peace here till she go.”

“Down the river they say Bela a very pretty girl,” remarked Eelip.

“Yah! What good is pretty if you crazy in the head!” retorted Neenah. “She twenty years old and got no husband. Now she never get no husband, because everybody on the lake know she crazy. Two, three years ago many young men come after her. They like her because she light-coloured, and got red in her cheeks. Me, I think she ugly like the grass that grows under a log. Many young men come, I tell you, but Bela spit on them and call fools. She think she better than anybody.

“Last fall Charley go up to the head of the lake and say all around what a fine girl he got. There was a young man from the Spirit River country, he say he take her. He come so far he not hear she crazy. Give Charley a horse to bind the bargain. So they come back together. It was a strong young man, and the son of a chief. He wear gold embroidered vest, and doeskin moccasins worked with red and blue silk. He is call Beavertail.

“He glad when he see Bela’s pale forehead and red cheeks. Men are like that. Nobody here tell him she crazy, because all want him take her away. So he speak very nice to her. She show him her teeth back and speak ugly. She got no shame at all for a woman. She say: ‘You think you’re a man, eh? I can run faster than you. I can paddle a canoe faster than you. I can shoot straighter than you!’ Did you ever hear anything like that?

“By and by Beavertail is mad, and he say he race her with canoes. Everybody go to the lake to see. They want Beavertail to beat her good. The men make bets. They start up by Big Stone Point and paddle to the river. It was like queen’s birthday at the settlement. They come down side by side till almost there. Then Bela push ahead. Wa! she beat him easy. She got no sense.

“After, when he come along, she push him canoe with her paddle and turn him in the water. She laugh and paddle away. The men got go pull Beavertail out. That night he is steal his horse back from Charley and ride home.

“Everybody tell the story round the lake. She not get a husband now I think. We never get rid of her, maybe. She is proud, too. She wash herself and comb her hair all the time. Foolishness. Treat us like dirt. She is crazy. We hate her.”

Such was the conventional estimate of Bela. In the whole camp this morning, at the sounds of strife issuing from her father’s teepee, the only head that was turned with a look of compassion for her was that of old Musq’oosis the hunchback.

His teepee was beside the river, a little removed from the others. He sat at the door, sunning himself, smoking, meditating, looking for all the world like a little old wrinkled muskrat squatting on his haunches.

If it had not been for Musq’oosis, Bela’s lot in the tribe would long ago have become unbearable. Musq’oosis was her friend, and he was a person of consequence. The position of his teepee suggested his social status. He was with them, but not of them. He was so old all his relations were dead. He remained with the Fish-Eaters because he loved the lake, and could not be happy away from it. For their part they were glad to have him stay; he brought credit to the tribe.

As one marked by God and gifted with superior wisdom, the people were inclined to venerate Musq’oosis even to the point of according him supernatural attributes. Musq’oosis laughed at their superstitions, and refused to profit by them. This they were unable to understand; was it not bad for business?

But while they resented his laughter, they did not cease to be secretly in awe of him, and all were ready enough to seek his advice. When they came to him Musq’oosis offered them sound sense without any supernatural admixture.

In earlier days Musq’oosis had sojourned for a while in Prince George, the town of the white man, and there he had picked up much of the white man’s strange lore. This he had imparted to Bela–that was why she was crazy, they said.

He had taught Bela to speak English. Bela’s first-hand observations of the great white race had been limited to half a score of individuals–priests, policemen, and traders.

The row in Charley’s teepee had started early that morning. Charley, bringing in a couple of skunks from his traps, had ordered Bela to skin them and stretch the pelts. She had refused point blank, giving as her reasons in the first place that she wanted to go fishing; in the second place, that she didn’t like the smell.

Both reasons seemed preposterous to Charley. It was for men to fish while women worked on shore. As for a smell, whoever heard of anybody objecting to such a thing. Wasn’t the village full of smells?

Nevertheless, Bela had gone fishing. Bela was a duck for water. Since no one would give her a boat, she had travelled twenty miles on her own account to find a suitable cottonwood tree, and had then cut it down unaided, hollowed, shaped, and scraped it, and finally brought it home as good a boat as any in the camp.

Since that time, early and late, the lake had been her favourite haunt. Caribou Lake enjoys an unenviable reputation for weather; Bela thought nothing of crossing the ten miles in any stress.

When she returned from fishing, the skunks were still there, and the quarrel had recommenced. The result was no different. Charley finally issued out of the teepee beaten, and the little carcasses flew out of the door after him, propelled by a vigorous foot. Charley, swaggering abroad as a man does who has just been worsted at home, sought his mates for sympathy.

He took his way to the river bank in the middle of camp, where a number of the young men were making or repairing boats for the summer fishing just now beginning. They had heard all that had passed in the teepee, and, while affecting to pay no attention to Charley, were primed for him–showing that men in a crowd are much the same white or red.

Charley was a skinny, anxious-looking little man, withered and blackened as last year’s leaves, ugly as a spider. His self-conscious braggadocio invited derision.

“Huh!” cried one. “Here come woman-Charley. Driven out by the man of the teepee!”

A great laugh greeted this sally. The soul of the little man writhed inside him.

“Did she lay a stick to your back, Charley?”

“She give him no breakfast till he bring wood.”

“Hey, Charley, get a petticoat to cover your legs. My woman maybe give you her old one.”

He sat down among them, grinning as a man might grin on the rack. He filled his pipe with a nonchalant air belied by his shaking hand, and sought to brave it out. They had no mercy on him. They out vied each other in outrageous chaffing.

Suddenly he turned on them shrilly. “Coyotes! Grave-robbers! May you be cursed with a woman-devil like I am. Then we’ll see!”

This was what they desired. They stopped work and rolled on the ground in their laughter. They were stimulated to the highest flights of wit.

Charley walked away up the river-bank and hid himself in the bush. There he sat brooding and brooding on his wrongs until all the world turned red before his eyes. For years that fiend of a girl had made him a laughing-stock. She was none of his blood. He would stand it no longer.

The upshot of all his brooding was that he cut himself a staff of willow two fingers thick, and carrying it as inconspicuously as possible, crept back to the village.

At the door of his teepee he picked up the two little carcasses and entered. He had avoided the river-bank, but they saw him, and saw the stick, and drew near to witness the fun.

Within the circle of the teepee Charley’s wife, Loseis, was mixing dough in a pan. Opposite her Bela, the cause of all the trouble, knelt on the ground carefully filing the points of her fish-hooks. Fish-hooks were hard to come by.

Charley stopped within the entrance, glaring at her. Bela, looking up, instantly divined from his bloodshot eyes and from the hand he kept behind him what was in store. Coolly putting her tackle behind her, she rose.

She was taller than her supposed father, full-bosomed and round-limbed as a sculptor’s ideal. In a community of waist less, neckless women she was as slender as a young tree, and held her head like a swan.

She kept her mouth close shut like a hardy boy, and her eyes gleamed with a fire of resolution which no other pair of eyes in the camp could match. It was for the conscious superiority of her glance that she was hated. One from the outside would have remarked quickly how different she was from the others, but these were a thoughtless, mongrel people.

Charley flung the little beasts at her feet. “Skin them,” he said thickly. “Now.”

She said nothing–words were a waste of time, but watched warily for his first move.

He repeated his command. Bela saw the end of the stick and smiled.

Charley sprang at her with a snarl of rage, brandishing the stick. She nimbly evaded the blow. From the ground the wife and mother watched motionless with wide eyes.

Bela, laughing, ran in and seized the stick as he attempted to raise it again. They struggled for possession of it, staggering all over the teepee, falling against the poles, trampling in and out of the embers. Loseis shielded the pan of dough with her body. Bela finally wrenched the stick from Charley and in her turn raised it.

Charley’s courage went out like a blown lamp. He turned to run. Whack! came the stick between his shoulders. With a mournful howl he ducked under the flap, Bela after him. Whack! Whack! A little cloud arose from his coat at each stroke, and a double wale of dust was left upon it.

A whoop of derision greeted them as they emerged into the air. Charley scuttled like a rabbit across the enclosure, and lost himself in the bush. Bela stood glaring around at the guffawing men.

“You pigs!” she cried.

Suddenly she made for the nearest, brandishing her staff. They scattered, laughing.

Bela returned to the teepee, head held high. Her mother, a patient, stolid squaw, still sat as she had left her, hands motionless in the dough. Bela stood for a moment, breathing hard, her face working oddly.

Suddenly she flung herself on the ground in a tempest of weeping. Her startled mother stared at her uncomprehendingly. For an Indian woman to cry is rare enough; to cry in a moment of triumph, unheard of. Bela was strange to her own mother.

“Pigs! Pigs! Pigs!” she cried between sobs. “I hate them! I not know what pigs are till I see them in the sty at the mission. Then I think of these people! Pigs they are! I hate them! They not my people!”

Loseis, with a jerk like an automaton, recommenced kneading the dough.

Bela raised a streaming, accusing face to her mother.

“What for you take a man like that?” she cried passionately. “A weasel, a mouse, a flea of a man! A dog is more of a man than he! He run from me squeaking like a puppy!”

“My mother gave me to him,” murmured the squaw apologetically.

“You took him!” cried Bela. “You go with him! Was he the best man you could get? I jump in the lake before I shame my children with a coyote for a father!”

Loseis looked strangely at her daughter. “Charley not your father,” she said abruptly.

Bela pulled up short in the middle of her passionate outburst, stared at her mother with fallen jaw.

“You twenty year old,” went on Loseis. “Nineteen year I marry Charley. I have another husband before that.”

“Why you never tell me?” murmured Bela, amazed.

“So long ago!” Loseis replied with a shrug. “What’s the use?”

Bela’s tears were effectually called in. “Tell me, what kind of man my father?” she eagerly demanded.

“He was a white man.”

“A white man!” repeated Bela, staring. There was a silence in the teepee while it sunk in. A deep rose mantled the girl’s cheeks.

“What he called?” she asked.

“Walter Forest.” On the Indian woman’s tongue it was “Hoo-alter.”

“Real white?” demanded Bela.

“His skin white as a dog’s tooth,” answered Loseis, “his hair bright like the sun.” A gleam in the dull eyes as she said this suggested that the stolid squaw was human, too.

“Was he good to you?”

“He was good to me. Not like Indian husband. He like dress me up fine. All the time laugh and make jokes. He call me ‘Tagger-Leelee.’”

“Did he go away?”

Loseis shook her head. “Go through the ice with his team.”

“Under the water–my father,” murmured Bela.

She turned on her mother accusingly. “You have good white husband, and you take Charley after!”

“My mother make me,” Loseis said with sad stolidity.

Bela pondered on these matters, filled with a deep excitement. Her mother kneaded the dough.

“I half a white woman,” the girl murmured at last, more to herself than the other. “That is why I strange here.”

Again her mother looked at her intently, presaging another disclosure. “Me, my father a white man too,” she said in her abrupt way. “It is forgotten now.”

Bela stared at her mother, breathing quickly.

“Then–I ‘most white!” she whispered, with amazed and brightening eyes. “Now I understand my heart!” she suddenly cried aloud. “Always I love the white people, but I not know. Always I ask Musq’oosis tell me what they do. I love them because they live nice. They not pigs like these people. They are my people! All is clear to me!” She rose.

“What you do?” asked Loseis anxiously.

“I will go to my people!” cried Bela, looking away as if she envisaged the whole white race.

The Indian mother raised her eyes in a swift glance of passionate supplication–but her lips were tight. Bela did not see the look.

“I go talk to Musq’oosis,” she said. “He tell me all to do.”

II. MUSQ’OOSIS ADVISES

THE village of the Fish-Eaters was built in a narrow meadow behind a pine grove and the little river. It was a small village of a dozen teepees set up in a rough semicircle open to the stream.

This stream (Hah-Wah-Sepi they call it) came down from the Jack-Knife Mountains to the north, and after passing the village, rounded a point of the pines, traversed a wide sand-bar and was received into Caribou Lake.

The opposite bank was heavily fringed with willows. Thus the village was snugly hidden between the pines and the willows, and one might have sailed up and down the lake a dozen times without suspecting its existence. In this the Indians followed their ancient instinct. For generations there had been no enemies to hide from.

It was at the end of May; the meadow was like a rug of rich emerald velvet, and the willows were freshly decked in their pale leafage. The whole scene was mantled with the exquisite radiance of the northern summer sun. Children and dogs loafed and rolled in aimless ecstasy, and the whole people sat at the teepee openings blinking comfortably.

The conical teepees themselves, each with a bundle of sticks at the top and its thread of smoke, made no inharmonious note in the scene of nature. Only upon a close look was the loveliness a little marred by evidences of the Fish-Eaters’ careless housekeeping.

Musq’oosis’s lodge stood by itself outside the semicircle and a little down stream. The owner was still sitting at the door, an odd little bundle in a blanket, as Bela approached.

“I t’ink you come soon,” he said. These two always conversed in English.

“You know everyt’ing,” stated Bela simply.

He shrugged. “I just sit quiet, and my thoughts speak to me.”

She dropped on her knees before him, and rested sitting on her heels, hands in lap. Without any preamble she said simply: “My fat’er a white man.”

Musq’oosis betrayed no surprise. “I know that,” he replied.

“My mot’er’s fat’er, he white man too,” she went on.

He nodded.

“Why you never tell me?” she asked, frowning slightly.

He spread out his palms. “What’s the use? You want to go. Got no place to go. Too much yo’ng to go. I t’ink you feel bad if I tell.”

She shook her head. “Mak me feel good. I know what’s the matter wit’ me now. I understand all. I was mad for cause I think I got poor mis’able fat’er lak Charley.”

“It is well,” said Musq’oosis.

“You know my fat’er?” asked Bela eagerly.

He nodded gravely.

“Tell me.”

Musq’oosis seemed to look within. “Long tam ago,” he began, “though I am not yo’ng then neither. It was in the Louis Riel war I see your fat’er. He a soldier in that war, wear red coat, ver’ fine. Ot’er soldier call him Smiler Forest. Red people call him Bird-Mouth for cause he all tam mak’ music wit’ his wind, so”–here Musq’oosis imitated a man whistling. “He is one good soldier. Brave. The Great Mother across the water send him a medal wit’ her face on it for cause he so brave.”

“What is medal?” interrupted Bela.

“Little round piece lak money, but not to spend,” explained Musq’oosis. “It is pin on the coat here, so everybody know you brave.

“Always I am a friend of the white people,” Musq’oosis went on, “so I fight for them in that war. I can’t march me, or ride ver’ good. I canoe scout on the Saskatchewan River. Your fat’er is friend to me. Moch we talk by the fire. He mak’ moch fun to me, but I not mad for cause I see he lak me just the same. Often he say to me, ‘Musq’oosis, my boy, I bad lot.’”

“Bad lot?” questioned Bela,

“He mean no good,” Musq’oosis explained. “That is his joke. I not believe ev’ryt’ing he tell me, no, not by a damnsight. He say, ‘Musq’oosis, I no good for not’ing ‘t’all but a soldier.’ He say, ‘When there ain’t no war I can’t keep out of trouble.’ He ask moch question about my country up here. He say, ‘When this war over I go there. Maybe I can keep out of trouble up there.’

“Me, I all tam think that just his joke. Bam-by the fighting all over, and Louis Riel sent to jail. Me, I got brot’ers up here then. I want to see my brot’ers after the war. So I go say good-bye to my friend. But he say, ‘Hold on, Musq’oosis, I goin’ too.’ I say, ‘W’at you do up there? Ain’t no white men but the comp’ny trader.’ He say, ‘I got fight somesing. I fight nature.’”

“Nature?” repeated Bela, puzzled.

Musq’oosis shrugged. “That just his fonny way of talk. He mean chop tree, dig earth, work. So he come wit’ me. He ver’ good partner to trip. All tam laugh and sing and mak’ music wit’ his wind. He is talk to me just the same lak I was white man, too. Me, I never have no friend lak that. I lak Walter Forest more as if he was my son.”

The old man’s head drooped at this point, and the story seemed to have reached its end.

“What do you do when you come here, you two?” Bela eagerly demanded.

Musq’oosis sighed and went on. “The Fish-Eaters was camp down the lake by Musquasepi then. Your mot’er was there. She ver’ pretty girl. Mos’ pretties’ girl in the tribe, I guess.”

“Pretty?” said Bela, amazed.

“She is the first one we see when we come. We are paddling up the river and she is setting muskrat trap on the bank. Your fat’er look at her. Her look at your fat’er. Both are lak wood with looking. Wa! I think me, Bird-Mouth ain’t goin’ to keep out of trouble up here neither! Well, he is lak crazy man after that. All night he want stay awake and talk me about her. He ask me what her name mean. I tell him Loseis mean little duck. He say, ‘Nobody ever got better name.’ ‘Better wait,’ I say, ‘plenty ot’er girl to see.’ ‘Not for me,’ he say.

“In a week he marry her. Marry her honest wit’ priest and book. He build a house at Nine-Mile Point and a stable. Say he goin’ to keep stopping-house for freighters when they bring in the company’s outfit in the winter. He cut moch hay by Musquasepi for his stable. He work lak ten red men. When the ice come, right away he start to freight his hay across. I say ‘Wait, it is not safe yet.’ He laugh.

“One day come big storm wit’ snow. He got lost out on the ice wit’ his team and drive in airhole. We find the hay floating after. He never see you. You come in the spring. He was a fine man. That is all.”

After a silence Musq’oosis said: “Well, what you think? What you goin’ do?”

“I goin’ outside,” Bela promptly answered. “To my fat’er’s country.”

Musq’oosis shook his head heavily. “It is far. Many days’ journey down the little river and the big river to the landing. From the landing four days’ walk to town. I am too old to travel so far.”

“I not afraid travel alone,” exclaimed Bela.

Musq’oosis continued to shake his head. “What you goin’ do in town?” he asked.

“I marry a white man,” replied Bela coolly.

Musq’oosis betrayed no astonishment. “That is not easy,” he observed with a judicial air. “Not easy when there are white women after them. They know too moch for you. Get ahead of you.”

“I am a handsome girl,” said Bela calmly. “You have say it. You tell me white men crazy for handsome girls.”

“It is the truth,” returned Musq’oosis readily. “But not for marry.”

“My fat’er marry my mot’er,” persisted Bela.

“Ot’er white men not same lak your fat’er.”

Bela’s face fell. “Well, what must I do?” she asked.

“There is moch to be said. If you clever you mak’ your white man marry you.”

“How?” she demanded.

Musq’oosis shrugged. “I can’t tell you in one word,” he replied.

“I can’t stay with these people,” she said, frowning.

“All right,” said Musq’oosis. “But stay in the country. This is your country. You know the way of this country. I tell you somesing else. You got some money here.”

“Money?” she echoed, opening her eyes wide.

“When your fat’er die, he have credit wit’ the company. Near six hundred dollars. Beaton, the old company trader, he talk wit’ me for cause I your fat’er’s friend. He say this money too little to go to law wit’. The law is too far from us. He say ‘I not give it to Loseis, because her people get it. They only poor, shiftless people, just blow it in on foolishness.’ He say, ‘I goin’ keep it for the child.’ I say, ‘All right.’

“Well, bam-by Beaton leave the company, go back home outside. He give me an order on the new trader. He say keep it till Bela grow up. I have it now. So I say to you, this money buy you a team, mak’ you rich in this country. But outside it is nothing. I say to you, don’t go outside. Marry a white man here.”

Bela considered this. “Which one?” she asked. “There is only Stiffy and Mahooly, the traders. The gov’ment won’t let the police to marry.”

“Wait,” said Musq’oosis impressively. “More white men are coming. Many white men are coming.”

“I can’t wait,” complained Bela rebelliously. “Soon I be old.”

“Some are here already,” he added.

She looked at him questioningly.

“Las’ week,” he went on, “the big winds blow all the ice down the lake. It is calm again. The sun is strong. So I put my canoe in the water and paddle out. Me, I can’t walk ver’ good. Can’t moch ride a horse. But my arm’s strong. When I yo’ng, no man so strong lak me on a paddle. So I paddle out on the lake. Smell sweet as honey; shine lak she jus’ made to-day. Old man feel lak he was yo’ng too.

“Bam-by far across the lake I see little bit smoke. Wa! I think, who is there now? I look, I see the sky is clean as a scraped skin. I think no wind to-day. So I go across to see who it is. I go to Nine-Mile Point where your fat’er built a house long time ago. You know it. Wa! Wa! There is five white men stopping there, with moch horses and wagons, big outfit. Rich men.

“So I spell wit’ them a while. They mak’ moch fun. Call me ol’ black Joe. Feed me ver’ good. We talk after. They say gov’ment goin’ measure all the land at the head of lake this summer and give away to farmers. So they come to get a piece of land. They are the first of many to come. Four strong men, and anot’er who cooks for them. They got wait over there till ice on the shore melt so they drive around.”

“All right. I will marry one of them,” announced Bela promptly.

“Wait!” said Musq’oosis again, “there is moch to be said.”

“Why you not tell me when you come back?” she demanded.

“I got think first what is best for you.”

“Maybe they got girls now,” she suggested, frowning.

“No girls around the lake lak you,” he stated.

She was mollified.

“Do everything I tell you or you mak’ a fool!” he remarked impressively.

“Tell me,” she asked amenably.

“Listen. White men is fonny. Don’t think moch of somesing come easy. If you want get white man and keep him, you got mak’ him work for you. Got mak’ him wait a while. I am old. I have seen it. I know.”

Bela’s eyes flashed imperiously. “But I want him now,” she insisted.

“You are a fool!” said Musq’oosis calmly. “If you go after him, he laugh at you. You got mak’ out you don’ want him at all. You got mak’ him run after you.”

Bela considered this, frowning. An instinct in her own breast told her the old man was right, but it was hard to resign herself to an extended campaign. Spring was in the air, and her need to escape from the Fish-Eaters great.

“All right,” she agreed sullenly at last.

“How you goin’ pick out best man of the five?” asked Musq’oosis slyly.

“I tak’ the strongest man,” she answered promptly.

He shook his head in his exasperating way. “How you goin’ know the strongest?”

“Who carries the biggest pack,” she said, surprised at such a foolish question.

Musq’oosis’s head still wagged. “Red man carry bigger pack than white man,” he said oracularly. “Red man’s arm and his leg and his back strong as white man. But white man is the master. Why is that?”

She had no answer.

“I tell you,” he went on. “Who is the best man in this country?”

“Bishop Lajeunesse,” she replied unhesitatingly.

“It is the truth,” he agreed. “But Bishop Lajeunesse little skinny man. Can’t carry big pack at all. Why is he the best man?”

This was too much of a poser for Bela. “I don’t want marry him,” she muttered.

“I tell you,” said Musq’oosis sternly. “Listen well. You are a foolish woman. Bishop Lajeunesse is the bes’ man for cause no ot’er man can look him down. White men stronger than red men for cause they got stronger fire in their eyes. So I tell you when you choose a ‘osban’, tak’ a man with a strong eye.”

The girl looked at him startled. This was a new thought.

Musq’oosis, having made his point, relaxed his stern port. “To-morrow if the sun shine we cross the lake,” he said amiably. “While we paddle I tell you many more things. We pass by Nine-Mile Point lak we goin’ somewhere else. Not let on we thinkin’ of them at all. They will call us ashore, and we stay jus’ little while. You mus’ look at them at all. You do everyt’ing I say, I get you good ‘osban’.”

“Bishop Lajeunesse coming up the river soon,” suggested Bela. “Will you get me ‘osban’ for him marry? I lak marry by Bishop Lajeunesse.”

“Foolish woman!” repeated Musq’oosis. “How do I know? A great work takes time!”

Bela pouted.

Musq’oosis rose stiffly to his feet. “I give you somesing,” he said.

Shuffling inside the teepee, he presently reappeared with a little bundle wrapped in folds of dressed moose hide. Sitting calm he undid it deliberately. A pearl-handled revolver was revealed to Bela’s eager eyes.

“The white man’s short gun,” he said. “Your fat’er gave it long tam ago. I keep her ver’ careful. Still shoot straight. Here are shells, too. Tak’ it, and keep her clean. Keep it inside your dress. Good thing for girl to have.”

Bela’s instinct was to run away to examine her prize in secret. As she rose the old man pointed a portentous finger.

“Remember what I tell you! You got mak’ yourself hard to get.”

During the rest of the day Bela was unobtrusively busy with her preparations for the journey. Like any girl, red or white, she had her little store of finery to draw on. Charley did not show himself in the tepee.

Her mother, seeing what she was about, watched her with tragic eyes and closed mouth. At evening, without a word, she handed her a little bag of bread and meat. Bela took it in an embarrassed silence. The whole blood of the two women cried for endearments that their red training forbade them.

More than once during the night Bela arose to look at the weather. It was with satisfaction that she heard the pine-trees complaining. In the morning the white horses would be leaping on the lake outside.

She had no intention of taking Musq’oosis with her. She respected the old man’s advice, and meant to apply it, but an imperious instinct told her this was her own affair that she could best manage for herself. In such weather the old man would never follow her. For herself, she feared no wind that blew.

At dawn she stole out of the teepee without arousing anybody, and set forth down the river in her dugout alone.

III. AT NINE-MILE POINT

THE camp at Nine-Mile Point was suffering from an attack of nerves. A party of strong men, suddenly condemned in the heat of their labours to complete inaction, had become a burden to themselves and to each other.

Being new to the silent North, they had yet to learn the virtue of filling the long days with small, self-imposed tasks. They had no resources, excepting a couple of dog-eared magazines–of which they knew every word by heart, even to the advertisements–and a pack of cards. There was no zest in the cards, because all their cash had been put into a common fund at the start of the expedition, and they had nothing to wager.

It was ten o’clock at night, and they were loafing indoors. Above the high tops of the pines the sky was still bright, but it was night in the cabin. They were lighted by the fire and by a stable lamp on the table. They had gradually fallen into the habit of lying abed late, and consequently they could not sleep before midnight. These evening hours were the hardest of all to put in.

Big Jack Skinner, the oldest and most philosophic of the party–a lean, sandy-haired giant–sat in a rocking chair he had contrived from a barrel and stared into the fire with a sullen composure.

Husky Marr and Black Shand Fraser were playing pinocle at the table, bickering over the game like a pair of ill-conditioned schoolboys.

On the bed sprawled young Joe Hagland, listlessly turning the pages of the exhausted magazine. The only contented figure was that of Sam Gladding, the cook, a boyish figure sleeping peacefully on the floor in the corner. He had to get up early.

It was a typical Northern interior: log walls with caked mud in the interstices, a floor of split poles, and roof of poles thatched with sods. Extensive repairs had been required to make it habitable.

The door was in the south wall, and you had to walk around the house to reach the lake shore. There was a little crooked window beside it, and another in the easterly wall. Opposite the door was a great fire-place made out of the round stones from the lake shore.

Of furniture, besides Jack’s chair, there was only what they had found in the shack, a rough, home-made bed and a table. Two shared the bed, and the rest lay on the floor. They had some boxes for seats.

Something more than discontent ailed the four waking men. Deep in each pair of guarded eyes lurked a strange uneasiness. They were prone to start at mournful, unexpected sounds from the pine-tops, and to glance apprehensively toward the darker corners. Each man was carefully hiding these evidences of perturbation from his mates.

The game of pinocle was frequently halted for recriminations.

“You never give me credit for my royal,” said Shand.

“I did.”

“You didn’t.”

Husky snatched up the pencil in a passion. “Hell, I’ll give it to you again!” he cried.

“That’s a poor bluff!” sneered Shand.

Big Jack suddenly bestirred himself. “For God’s sake, cut it out!” he snarled. “You hurt my ears! What in Sam Hill’s the use of scrapping over a game for fun?”

“That’s what I say,” said Shand. “A man that’ll cheat for nothing ain’t worth the powder and shot to blow him to hell!”

“Ah-h! What’s the matter with you?” retorted Husky. “I only made a mistake scoring. Anybody’s liable to make a mistake. If it was a real game I’d be more careful like.”

“You’re dead right you would,” said Black Shand grimly. “You’d get daylight let through you for less.”

“Well, you wouldn’t do it!” snarled Husky.

Shand rose. “Go on and play by yourself,” he snarled disgustedly. “Solitaire is more your style. Idiot’s delight. If you catch yourself cheating yourself, you can shoot yourself for what I care!”

“Well, I can have a peaceful game, anyhow,” Husky called after him, smiling complacently at getting the last word.

He forthwith dealt the cards for solitaire. Husky was a burly, red-faced, red-haired ex-brakeman, of a simple and conceited character. He was much given to childish stratagems, and was subject to fits of childish passion. He possessed enormous physical strength without much staying power.

Black Shand carried his box to the fire and sat scowling into the flames. He was of a saturnine nature, in whom anger burned slow and deep. He was a man of few words. Half a head shorter than big Jack, he showed a greater breadth of shoulders. His arms hung down like an ape’s.

“How far did you walk up the shore to-day?” big Jack asked.

“Matter of two miles.”

“How’s the ice melting?”

“Slow. It’ll be a week before we can move on.” Jack swore under his breath. “And this the 22nd of May!” he cried. “We ought to have been on our land by now and ploughing. We’re like to lose the whole season.

“Ill luck has dogged us from the start,” Jack went on. “Our calculations were all right. We started the right time. Any ordinary year we could have gone right through on the ice. But from the very day we left the landing we were in trouble. When we wasn’t broke down we was looking for lost horses. When we wasn’t held up by a blizzard we was half drowned in a thaw!

“To cap all, the ice went out two weeks ahead, and we had to change to wheels, and sink to the hubs in the land trails. Now, by gad, before the ice on the shore is melted, it’ll be time for the lake to freeze over again!”

“No use grousing about it,” muttered Shand.

Big Jack clamped his teeth on his pipe and fell silent. For a while there was no sound in the shack but Husky muttering over his game, the licking of the wood fire, and faint, mournful intimations down the chimney from the pines. The man on the bed shuddered involuntarily, and glanced at his mates to see if they had noticed it.

This one, Joe Hagland, was considerably younger than the other three. He was a heavy, muscular youth with curling black hair and comely features, albeit somewhat marked by wilfulness and self-indulgence.

Back in the world outside he had made a brief essay in the prize-ring, not without some success. He had been driven out, however, by an epithet spontaneously applied by the fraternity: “Crying Joe Hagland.”

The trouble was, he could not control his emotions.

“For God’s sake, say something!” he cried at the end of a long silence. “This is as cheerful as a funeral!”

“Speak a piece yourself if you feel the want of entertainment,” retorted Jack, without looking around.

“I wish to God I’d never come up to this forsaken country!” muttered Joe. “I wish I was back this minute in a man’s town, with lights shining and glasses banging on the bar!”

This came too close to their own thoughts. They angrily silenced him. Joe buried his face in his arms, and another silence succeeded.

It was broken by a new sound, a soft sound between a whisper and a hum. It might have come from the pine-trees, which had many strange voices, but it seemed to be right there in the room with them. It held a dreadful suggestion of a human voice.

It had an electrical effect on the four men. Each made believe he had heard nothing. Big Jack and Shand stared self-consciously into the fire. Husky’s hands holding the cards shook, and his face changed colour. Joe lifted a livid white face, and his eyes rolled wildly. He clutched the blankets and bit his lip to keep from crying out.

They moved their seats and shuffled their feet to break their hideous silence. Joe began to chatter irrelevantly.

“A funeral, that’s what it is! You’re like a lot of damn mutes. Who’s dead, anyhow? The Irish do it better. Whoop things up! For God’s sake, Jack, dig up a bottle, and let’s have one good hour!”

The other three turned to him, oddly grateful for the interruption. Big Jack made no move to get the suggested bottle, nor had Joe expected him to. The liquor was stored with the rest of the outfit in the stable. None desired to have the door opened at that moment.

Young Joe’s shaking voice rattled on: “I could drink a quart myself without taking breath. Lord, this is enough to give a man a thirst! What would you give for an old-fashioned skate, boys? I’d welcome a few pink elephants, myself, after seeing nothing for days. What’s the matter with you all? Are you hypnotized? For the love of Mike, start something!”

The pressure of dread was too great. The hurrying voice petered out, and the shack was silent again. Husky made a bluff of continuing his game. Jack and Shand stared into the fire. Joe lay listening, every muscle tense.

It came again, a sibilant sound, as if out of a throat through clenched teeth. It had a mocking ring. It was impossible to say whence it came. It filled the room.

Young Joe’s nerves snapped. He leaped up with a shriek, and, springing across the room, fell beside Shand and clung to him.

“Did you hear it?” he cried. “It’s out there! It’s been following me! It’s not human! Don’t let it in!”

They were too much shaken themselves to laugh at his panic terror. Both men by the fire jumped up and turned around. Husky knocked over his box, and the cards scattered broadcast. He sidled towards the others, keeping his eyes on the door.

“Stop your yelling!” Shand hoarsely commanded.

“Did you hear it? Did you hear it?” Joe continued to cry.

“Yes, I heard it,” growled Shand.

“Me, too,” added the others.

Joe’s rigid figure relaxed. “Thank God!” he moaned. “I thought it was inside my head.”

“Listen!” commanded Jack.

They stood close together, all their late animosities forgotten in a common fear. There was nothing to be heard but the wind in the tree-tops.

“Maybe it was a beast or a bird–some kind of an owl,” suggested Husky shakily.

“No; like a voice laughing,” stammered Joe.

“Right at the door like–trying to get in,” added Shand.

“Open the door!” said big Jack.

No one made a move, nor did he offer to himself.

As they listened they heard another sound, like a stick rattling against the logs outside.

“Oh, my God!” muttered Joe.

The others made no sound, but the colour slowly left their faces. They were strong men and stout-hearted in the presence of any visible danger. It was the supernatural element that turned their breasts to water.

Big Jack finally crept toward the door.

“Don’t open it!” shrieked Joe.

“Shut up!” growled Jack.

They perceived that it was not his intention to open it. He dropped the bar in place. They breathed easier.

“Put out the light!” said Husky.

“Don’t you do it!” cried Shand. “It’s nothing that can shoot in!”

Their flesh crawled at the unholy suggestion his words conveyed.

They stood elbow to elbow, backs to the fire, waiting for more. For a long time all was quiet except the trees outside. They began to feel easier. Suddenly something dropped down the chimney behind them and smashed on the hearth, scattering the embers.

The four men leaped forward as one, with a common grunt of terror. Facing around, they saw that it was only a round stone such as the chimney was built of. But that it might have fallen naturally did not lessen the fresh shock to their demoralized nerves. Their teeth chattered. They stuck close together, with terrified and sheepish glances at each other.

“By God!” muttered Big Jack. “Ice or no ice, to-morrow we move on from here!”