CHAPTER XXIX
A BUCKSKIN HUNTING-SHIRT
The days of his convalescence in the camp of the Lacombies were daysfraught with mingled emotions in the heart of Bill Carmody.
Old Wa-ha-ta-na-ta treated him with cold deference, anticipating hisneeds with a sagacity that was almost uncanny. She appeared hardly tobe aware of his presence, yet many times the man felt, without seeing,the deep, burning gaze of the undimmed, black eyes.
Jacques, whom he had known in the logging-camp as Blood River Jack,treated him with open friendliness, and as he became able to move aboutthe camp, taught him much of the lore of the forest, of the building ofnets and traps, the smoke-tanning of buckskin, and the taking anddrying of salmon.
During the long evenings the two sat close to the smudge of thecamp-fire and talked of many things, while the women listened.
But of the three it was the girl who most interested him. She was hisalmost constant companion, silent and subtle at times, and with theinborn subtlety of women she defied his most skilful attempts to shareher thoughts.
At other times her naive frankness and innocent brutality of expressionsurprised and amused him. Baffling, revealing--she remained at alltimes an enigma.
By the middle of June Bill was able to make short excursions to theriver with the aid of the crutches which Blood River Jack crudelyfashioned from young saplings.
With his increased freedom of movement his restlessness increased.Somewhere along the river, he knew, the bird's-eye logs were banked,awaiting the arrival of Moncrossen and Stromberg to raft them to therailway, and he surmised that their coming would not be long delayed.
Over and over in his mind he turned schemes for outwitting the boss.The strength was rapidly returning to his injured leg and he discardedone crutch, using the other only to help him over the rough places.
He was in no condition to undertake a journey to the railway, and inspite of Blood River Jack's expressed hatred of Moncrossen andfriendship for himself, he hesitated about taking the half-breed intohis confidence.
At length he could stand the suspense no longer. Each day's delaylessened his chance of success. He decided to act--to lay the matterbefore Blood River Jack and ask his cooeperation, and if he refused, toplay the game alone.
He came to this decision one afternoon while seated upon a great logoverlooking the rushing rapid. Beside him sat Jeanne, apparently deeplyengrossed in the embroidering of a buckskin hunting-shirt.
After a long silence Bill knocked the dead ashes from his pipe, and hisjaw squared as he looked out over the foaming white-water. He turnedtoward the girl and encountered the intense gaze of her dark eyes.
The neglected needlework lay across her knees, the small hands werefolded, and the shining needle glinted in the sun where it had beendeftly caught into the yellow buckskin at the turning of an unfinishedscroll.
"The logs which you seek," she said quietly, "are piled upon the bankof the river, half a mile below the rapids." The man regarded her witha startled glance.
"What do you know about these logs--and of what I was thinking?"
She answered him with a curious, baffling smile, and, ignoring hisquestion, continued:
"You need help. I am but a girl and know naught of logs nor why theselogs did not go down the river with the others. But in your face as youpondered from day to day I have read it. Is it not that you wouldprevent Moncrossen from taking these logs? But you know not how to doit, for the logs must go down the river and Moncrossen must come up theriver?"
"You are a wonder!" he exclaimed in admiration. "That's exactly what'sbeen bothering me." She blushed furiously under his gaze and, withlowering eyes, continued:
"I do not know how it can be managed, but Jacques will know. You maytrust Jacques as you trust me. For we are your friends, and his hatredof Moncrossen is a real hatred."
She raised her eyes to his.
"Do you know why Jacques hates Moncrossen, and why Wa-ha-ta-na-ta hatesall white men?" she asked. Bill shook his head and listened as thegirl, with blazing eyes, told him of the death of Pierre, and then, ofthe horror of that night on Broken Knee.
At her words Bill Carmody's face darkened, and his great fists clencheduntil the nails bit deep into his palms. The steel-gray eyes narrowedto slits and, as the girl finished, he arose and gently lifted one ofthe little hands between his own.
"I, too, could kill Moncrossen for _that_," he said, and the tone ofhis voice was low, and soft, with a tense, even softness that soundedin the ears of the girl more terrible than a thousand loud hurledthreats.
She looked up quickly into the face of the glinting eyes, her tiny handtrembled in his, and a sudden flush deepened the warm color of herneck.
"For me?" she faltered. "_Me?_" And, with a half-smothered, frightenedgasp, tore her hand free and fled swiftly into the forest.
Bill stared a long time at the place where she disappeared, and,smiling, stooped and picked up her needlework where it had fallen athis feet.
He examined it idly for a moment and then more closely as a puzzledlook crept into his eyes. The garment he held in his hand was neverdesigned for a covering for the girl's own lithe body, nor was it smallenough even for Jacques.
"She's worked on it every day for a month," he murmured, as he glancedfrom the intricate embroidered design to his own shirt of raggedflannel, and again he smiled--bitterly.
"She's a queer kid," he said softly, as he recovered his crutch; "and amighty good kid, too."
The Promise Page 30