CHAPTER XLVII
MONCROSSEN PAYS A VISIT
In the filthy office of the camp on the Lower Blood River, BuckMoncrossen sat at his desk and glowered over his report sheets. Theill-trimmed lamp smoked luridly, and the light that filtered throughits blackened chimney illumined dimly the interior of the little room.
The man pawed over his papers with bearlike clumsiness, pausing now andthen to wet a begrimed thumb and to curse his luck, his crew, hisemployer, and any and everything that had to do with logs and logging.
It had been a bad season for Buck Moncrossen. The spring break-up wasat hand, and the best he could figure was a scant nine million feet,where Appleton had expected the heavy end of a twenty-five-million-footcut.
Many of his best men had gone to the new camp to work, as theysupposed, under Fallon. The previous winter's bird's-eye cut was lost;Creed was gone; Stromberg was gone, and he trusted none of his mensufficiently to continue the game. The boss rose with a growl, and spatcopiously in the direction of the stove.
"Damn Appleton! And damn the crew! Nine million feet! At that, though,I bet I've laid down half agin as much as the new camp. Fallon neverrun a crew, an' he had his camp to build to boot."
He resumed his seat, and reaching to the top of the desk drew down aquart bottle, from which he drank in long, deep gurgles. He stared along time at the bottle, drank again, and stooping, began to unlace hisboots.
"I'll start the clean-up in the mornin', an' then I'll find time to paya little visit I be'n aimin' to pay all winter. Creed said she wassomewheres below the foot of the rapids. It's anyways ten days to thebreak-up; an' I ain't worryin' a damn if I do happen to foul Fallon'sdrive."
Jacques Lacombie had so arranged his trap-lines that on his longestcircle he should be absent only one night from the lodge where oldWa-ha-ta-na-ta kept an ever-vigilant eye upon the comings and goings ofJeanne.
Since his return after the great blizzard the half-breed had madenumerous trips to the camp of Moncrossen, carrying fresh venison, andhe did not like the shifting glances the boss bent toward him, nor theleering smile with which he inquired after Jeanne.
As the freezing nights hardened the crust upon the surface of thesodden snow, Jacques discarded his rackets and, spending his days inthe lodge, attended his traps at night by the light of a lantern.
Daylight found him one morning headed homeward on a course parallelingthe river and nearly opposite Moncrossen's camp. Steadily he ploddedonward, and a smile came to his lips as he formulated his plans for thesummer, which included the removal of Jeanne from her dangerousproximity to Moncrossen.
He would change his hunting-ground, move his lodge up the river, andnext season he would supply the camp of M's'u' Bill, whose heart wasgood, and who would see that no harm came to the girl.
He swung onto the marshy arm of a small lake, whose surface wasprofusely dotted with conical muskrat houses which reared their browndomes above the broken rice-straw and cattail stalks.
He had nearly reached the center when suddenly he halted, whirled halfaround, and clutched frantically at the breast of his shirt. It was asthough some unseen hand had dealt him a sharp blow, and a dull,scorching pain shot through his chest.
He drew away his hand, red and dripping, glanced wildly about,staggered a few steps, and crashed headlong, with a rustling sound,into the thick growth of dry cattail stalks.
On the bank of the marsh a thin puff of vapory smoke drifted across theface of a blackened stump and dissolved in the crisp air, and the sharpcrack of a high-power rifle of small caliber raised scarcely an echoagainst the wall of the opposite shore.
A man stepped from behind the stump, glanced sharply about him, andgrinned as he leisurely pumped another cartridge into the chamber.
He bit the corner from a thick plug of tobacco, and gazed out over themarsh, which showed only the light yellow of the dry stalks and thebrown domes of the rat-houses.
"That ain't so bad fer two hundred yards--plugged him square in themiddle, too. God! I'd hate to die!" he muttered, and, turning, followedthe shore of the lake and struck into the timber in the direction inwhich the other had been going.
An hour later he slipped silently behind the trunk of a tree at theedge of a tiny clearing in the center of which stood a single,smoke-blackened tepee.
The blue smoke from a small fire in front of the opening floated lazilyupward in the still air, and beside the blaze a leathern-faced cronesquatted and stirred the contents of a black pot which simmered from across-piece supported at the ends by crotched sticks driven into theground.
The old squaw fitted the lid to the pot, hung the long-handled spoonupon a projection of a forked upright, and, picking up a tin pail,disappeared down the well-worn path to the river. With an evil leer theman stepped boldly into the clearing and crossed to the opening of thetepee.
Stooping, he suddenly looked within, where Jeanne Lacombie knelt uponone knee as she fastened the thongs of her moccasin. The man grinned ashe recognized the silvery hairs of the great white wolf skin which thegirl had thrown across her shoulders.
"So you swiped the greener's wolf-hide, did you? I seen it was goneoffen the end of the bunk-house."
At the sound the girl looked up, and the blood froze in her veins atthe sight of the glittering eyes and sneering lips of Moncrossen. Hespoke again:
"You thought I was done with you, did you? Thought I'd forgot you, an'the fight the old she-tiger put up that night on Broken Knee? But thatwas in the dark, or there'd been a different story to tell."
The words came in a horrible nasal snarl, and the little eyes glowedlustfully as they drank in the rich curves of the girl who had sprungto her feet, her muscles tense with terror.
"Come along, now--an' come peaceable. You're _my_ woman now. I'mwillin' to let bygones be bygones, an' I'll treat you right long as youdon't try none of your tricks. You'll learn who's boss, an' as long asyou stay by me you'll get plenty to eat an' white folks clothes towear--that's a heap better'n livin' like a damned Injun--you'll soonfergit all this."
His promises terrified the girl even more than the angry snarl, andwith a loud cry she tried to spring past him, but his arms closed abouther and he laughed a hard, brutal laugh of contempt for her punystruggles.
A shadow fell upon them, and the man whirled, dodging quickly as thesharp bit of an axe grazed his shoulder and tore through the wall ofthe tepee. He released the girl and lunged toward the old squaw, whowas reaching for the pot with its scalding contents.
Seizing her by the arm, he threw her heavily to the ground, where shelay while the girl fled to the edge of the clearing and paused, for sheknew that in the forest she could easily elude the heavy-footed lumberboss. Moncrossen, too, realized that pursuit would be useless, and inhis rage leveled his rifle at the figure upon the ground.
"Come back here!" he cried. "Come back, or by God I'll plug her like Iplugged----" He stopped abruptly and glanced along the sights.
The girl hesitated, and the voice of Wa-ha-ta-na-ta fell sharply uponher ear:
"No! No! Do not come! He will not shoot! Even now his finger fluttersupon the trigger! He is afraid to shoot!" And she glared defiantly intothe glittering eyes that squinted above the gun-barrel. Slowly themuzzle lowered and the man laughed--a hard, dry laugh.
"You're right!" he sneered. "I won't shoot. But if she don't come backyou'll wish to God I had shot!"
He turned to the girl: "I ain't goin' to chase you. I'm goin' to standpat. When you git ready you c'n come to me--up to the camp. MeanwhileI'll put the old hag where the dogs won't bite her, an' while you stayaway she don't eat--see? She ain't nothin' but a rack o' bones nohow,an' a few days'll fix her clock."
"Go find Jacques!" cried the old woman, fumbling at her blanket.
The man laughed. "Sure, go find him!" he taunted.
A skinny hand was withdrawn from the blanket and the clawlike fingersclutched a fragment of broken knife-blade. She held it before the manand the shrunken lips mumbled unintelligible word
s; then, with a swiftmovement, she flung it from her and it rang upon the ice at the feet ofthe girl, who stooped swiftly and seized it.
"Go!" cried the old woman. "Far up the river to the camp of theOne-Good-White-Man!"
Again Moncrossen laughed harshly.
"You can't work none of your damned charms on me!" he sneered. "G'wanup the river. There ain't no one up there but Fallon's camp, an' youmight better stick with me. Only don't stay too long. This here oldleather image can't live without eatin', an' when you come we'll haveheap big potlatch."
The wigwam of old Wabishke, the Indian trapper, was pitched in a densethicket on the shore of the little muskrat lake. In the early gray ofthe morning the old Indian was startled by the sound of a shot.
He peered cautiously through the branches and saw a man pitch forwardamong the rice-stalks. Five minutes later another man carrying a riflepassed within a hundred feet of him and disappeared in the timber inthe direction of Blood River Rapids. When he was gone Wabishke ranswiftly to the fallen man and conveyed him to the wigwam, where heplugged the bullet-hole with fat and bound up the wound.
Two hours later the bushes parted and Jeanne Lacombie burst pantinginto the wigwam. The girl uttered a wild cry at the sight of herbrother lying motionless upon the robe and dropped to her knees at hisside.
"Moncrossen," grunted the Indian, and watched in silent wonder as thegirl leaped to her feet and, seizing an empty pack-sack, began stuffingit with food. Snatching a light blanket from the floor, she swung thepack to her shoulders and without a word dashed again into the forest.
The Promise Page 48