The Promise
Page 29
CHAPTER XXVIII
A PROPHECY
In the gray of the morning Jacques Lacombie returned to his lodge tofind Wa-ha-ta-na-ta seated in front of the tepee staring into the deadashes of the fire.
In answer to his rough questioning she arose stiffly, stalked to theopen flap of the lodge and, standing aside, pointed mutely to thesilent figures within.
Both slept. The fever-flushed face of the man pillowed upon the barearm of the girl, whose body had settled wearily forward until her head,with its mass of black tresses, rested upon his breast, where it roseand fell to the heave of his labored breathing.
Long the half-breed looked, uttering no word, while the old squawsearched his face which remained as expressionless as a face of stone.
"Make a fire," he commanded gruffly, and slung his pack upon theground. She obeyed, muttering the while, and Jacques watched her as hefilled and lighted his pipe.
"The man is M's'u' Bill," he observed, apparently talking to himself,"The-Man-Who-Cannot-Die."
The old woman shot him a keen glance as she hovered over the tiny flamethat licked at the twigs of dry larchwood. "All men die," she muttereddully. "Did not Lacombie die?"
"At midnight I passed through the deserted camp of Moncrossen," the mancontinued, paying no heed to her remark. "Creed did not go out with thedrive, but stayed behind to guard the camp, and he told me of the deathof this man; how he himself saw him sink beneath the waters of theriver and saw the logs of the jam rush over him.
"As we talked, and because he had been drinking much whisky, he told methat it was he who locked this man in the shack last winter and thenset fire to the shack. He told me also Moncrossen desired this man'sdeath above any other thing, and had ordered the breaking of the jam ata moment when he knew the _chechako_ could not escape, so that he washurled into the water and killed."
The old woman interrupted him. "I drew him upon the bank, thinking hewas Moncrossen, and that I might breathe upon him the curse. Becausehis heart is bad, being a man of logs, I would have returned him to theriver whence he came; but Jeanne prevented." Jacques smiled at thebitter disappointment in her voice.
"It is well," he returned. "See to it that he lives. Moncrossen isgreat among the white men--and his heart is bad. But the heart of the_chechako_ is good, and one day will come a reckoning, and in that daythe curse of the Yaga Tah shall fall from thy lips upon the dead faceof Moncrossen."
"All white men are bad," grumbled the squaw. "There is no good whiteman."
Jacques silenced her with a gesture of impatience. "What is that toyou, oh, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, good or bad, if he kills Moncrossen?"
The old woman leaped to her feet and pointed a sharp skinny fingertoward the tepee, her eyes flashed, and the cracked voice rang thinwith anger.
"The girl!" she cried. "Jeanne, thy sister!"
Her son stepped close to her side and spoke low with the quiet voice ofassurance:
"No harm will come to the girl. I have many times talked with this manas he worked in the timber. His heart is good--and his lips do not lie.I, who have looked into his eyes, have spoken. And, that you shall knowmy words are true, if harm befall the girl at the hand of the white_chechako_, with this knife shall you kill me as I sleep."
He withdrew a long, keen blade from its sheath and handed it to thesquaw, who took it.
"And not only you will I kill, but him also," she answered, testing itsedge upon her thumb. "For the moon has spoken, and blood will flow.Last night, in the wet red moon, I saw it--dripping tears ofblood--twelve, besides one small one, and they were swallowed up in themist of the river. I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, thechief, who know the signs, have spoken.
"Before the full of the thirteenth moon blood will flow upon the bankof the river. But whose blood I know not, for a great cloud came andcovered the face of the moon, and when it was gone the tears of bloodwere no more and the mist had returned to the river--and the meaning ofthis I know not."
She ceased speaking abruptly at a sound from the tepee as the girlemerged and stepped quickly to the fire.
"I am glad you have come," said Jeanne hurriedly to her brother. "You,who are skilled in the mending of bones. The man's leg is broken; it isswollen and gives him much pain."
Jacques followed her into the tepee and, after a careful examination,removed the unconscious man.
The setting of the bones required no small amount of labor andingenuity. Carmody was placed between two trees, to one of which hisbody was firmly bound at the shoulders.
A portion of the bark was removed from the other tree and the smoothsurface rubbed with fat. Around this was passed a stout line, one endof which was made fast to the injured leg at the ankle.
A trimmed sapling served as a capstan bar, against which the two womenthrew their weight, while Jacques fitted the bone ends neatly togetherand applied the splints.
The Indians, schooled in the treatment of wounds and broken bones, werehelpless as babes before the ravages of the dreaded pneumonia whichracked the great body of the sick man.
Bill Carmody's recollection of the following days was confined to ahopeless confusion of distorted brain pictures in which the beautifulface of the girl, the repulsive features of the old crone, and theswart countenance of the half-breed were inextricably blended.
For two weeks he lay, interspersing long periods of unconsciousnesswith hours of wild, delirious raving. Then the disease wore itself out,and Jeanne Lacombie, entering the tepee one morning, encountered thesteady gaze of the sunken eyes.
With a short exclamation of pleasure she crossed the intervening spaceand knelt at his side. The two regarded each other in silence. Atlength Bill's lips moved and he started slightly at the weak, tonelesssound of his own voice.
"So you are real, after all," he smiled.
The girl returned the smile frankly.
"M's'u' has been very sick," she imparted, speaking slowly, as thoughselecting her words.
Bill nodded; he felt dizzy and helplessly weak.
"How long have I been here?" he asked.
"Since the turning of the moon."
"I'm afraid that is not very definite. You see I didn't even know themoon had been turned. Who turned it? And is it really turned to cheeseor just turned around?"
The girl regarded him gravely, a puzzled expression puckering her face.Bill laughed.
"Forgive me," he begged. "I was talking nonsense. Can you tell me howmany days I have been here?"
"It is fifteen days since we drew you from the river."
"Who's _we_?"
Again the girl seemed perplexed.
"I mean, who helped you pull me out of the drink?"
"Wa-ha-ta-na-ta. She is my mother. She is an Indian, and very old."
"Are _you_ an Indian?" asked the man in such evident surprise that thegirl laughed.
"My father was white. I am a breed," she answered; then with a quicklifting of the chin, hastened to add: "But not like the breeds of therivers! My father was Lacombie, the factor at Crossette, andWa-ha-ta-na-ta was the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, and they weremarried by a priest at the mission.
"That was very long ago, and now Lacombie is dead and the priest also,Wa-ha-ta-na-ta has a paper; also it is written in the book at themission that men may read it and know."
Carmody was amused at her eagerness and watched the changing expressionof her face as she continued more slowly:
"My father was good. But he is dead and, until you came, there has beenno good white man."
Bill smiled at the naive frankness of her.
"Why do you think that I am good?" he inquired.
"In your eyes I have read it. That night, before the wild fever-spiritentered your body, I looked long into your eyes. And has not Jacquestold me of how you killed the _loup-garou_; of how you are hated byMoncrossen, and feared by Creed?
"Do I not know that fire cannot burn you nor water drown? Did you notbeat down the greatest of Moncrossen's fighting men? And has notWabishke
told in the woods, to the wonder of all, how you drink nowhisky, but pour it upon your feet?"
The girl spoke softly and rapidly, her face flushing.
"Do I not know all your thoughts?" she continued. "I who have sat atyour side through the long days of your sickness and listened to thevoice of the fever-spirit? At such times the heart cannot lie, and thelips speak the truth."
She leaned closer, and unconsciously a slender, white-brown hand fellupon his, and the soft, tapering fingers closed upon his own. Adelicious thrill passed through his body at the touch.
As he looked into the beautiful face so close to his, with the whiteflash of pearly teeth in the play of the red lips, the eyes luminous,like twin stars, a strange, numbing loneliness overcame him.
She was speaking in a voice that sounded soothing and far away, so thathe could not make out the words. Slowly his eyelids closed, blottingout the face--and he slept.