Man-Size

by William MacLeod Raine

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  "IS A' WELL WI' YOU, LASS?"

  Jessie's shoes crunched on the snow-crust. She traveled fast. In spiteof Onistah's assurance her heart was troubled for him. West and Whaleywould study the tracks and come to at least an approximation of thetruth. She did not dare think of what the gorilla-man would do to herfriend if they captured him.

  And how was it possible that they would not find him? His footstepswould be stamped deep in the snow. He could not travel fast. Since hehad become a Christian, the Blackfoot, with the simplicity of a mindnot used to the complexities of modern life, accepted the words ofJesus literally. He would not take a human life to save his own.

  She blamed herself for escaping at his expense. The right thing wouldhave been to send him back again for her father. But West had becomesuch a horrible obsession with her that the sight of him even at adistance had put her in a panic.

  From the end of the lake she followed the trail Onistah had made. Ittook into the woods, veering sharply to the right. The timber wasopen. Even where the snow was deep, the crust was firm enough to hold.

  In her anxiety it seemed that hours passed. The sun was still fairlyhigh, but she knew how quickly it sank these winter days.

  She skirted a morass, climbed a long hill, and saw before her anotherlake. On the shore was a camp. A fire was burning, and over this a manstooping.

  At the sound of her call, the man looked up. He rose and began to runtoward her. She snowshoed down the hill, a little blindly, for themist of glad tears brimmed her eyes.

  Straight into Beresford's arms she went. Safe at last, she began tocry. The soldier petted her, with gentle words of comfort.

  "It's all right now, little girl. All over with. Your father's here.See! He's coming. We'll not let anything harm you."

  McRae took the girl into his arms and held her tight. His rugged facewas twisted with emotion. A dam of ice melted in his heart. The voicewith which he spoke, broken with feeling, betrayed how greatly he wasshaken.

  "My bairn! My wee dawtie! To God be the thanks."

  She clung to him, trying to control her sobs. He stroked her hair andkissed her, murmuring Gaelic words of endearment. A thought piercedhim, like a sword-thrust.

  He held her at arm's length, a fierce anxiety in his haggard face. "Isa' well wi' you, lass?" he asked, almost harshly.

  She understood his question. Her level eyes met his. They held noreservations of shame. "All's well with me, Father. Mr. Whaley wasthere the whole time. He stood out against West. He was my friend."She stopped, enough said.

  "The Lord be thankit," he repeated again, devoutly.

  Tom Morse, rifle in hand, had come from the edge of the woods and wasstanding near. He had heard her first call, had seen her go to thearms of Beresford direct as a hurt child to those of its mother, andhe had drawn reasonable conclusions from that. For under stressthe heart reveals itself, he argued, and she had turned simply andinstinctively to the man she loved. He stood now outside the group,silent. Inside him too a river of ice had melted. His haunted, sunkeneyes told the suffering he had endured. The feeling that flooded himwas deeper than joy. She had been dead and was alive again. She hadbeen lost and was found.

  "Where have you been?" asked Beresford. "We've been looking for days."

  "In a cabin on Bull Creek. Mr. Whaley took me there, but Westfollowed."

  "How did you get away?"

  "We were out of food. They went hunting. West took my snowshoes.Onistah came. He saw them coming back and gave me his shoes. He wentand hid in the woods. But they'll see his tracks. They'll find him. Wemust hurry back."

  "Yes," agreed McRae. "I'm thinkin' if West finds the lad, he'll do himill."

  Morse spoke for the first time, his voice dry as a chip. "We'd betterhurry on, Beresford and I. You and Miss McRae can bring the sled."

  McRae hesitated, but assented. There might be desperate need of haste."That'll be the best way. But you'll be carefu', lad. Yon West's awolf. He'd as lief kill ye baith as look at ye."

  The younger men were out of sight over the brow of the hill longbefore McRae and Jessie had the dogs harnessed.

  "You'll ride, lass," the father announced.

  She demurred. "We can go faster if I walk. Let me drive. Then you canbreak trail where the snow's soft."

  "No. You'll ride, my dear. There's nae sic a hurry. The lads'll dowhat's to be done. On wi' ye."

  Jessie got into the cariole and was bundled up to the tip of the nosewith buffalo robes, the capote of her own fur being drawn over thehead and face. For riding in the sub-Arctic winter is a freezingbusiness.

  "Marche,"[6] ordered McRae.

  [Footnote: Most of the dogs of the North were trained by trapperswho talked French and gave commands in that language. Hence eventhe Anglo-Saxon drivers used in driving a good many words of thatlanguage. (W.M.R.)]

  Cuffy led the dogs up the hill, following the trail already broken.The train made good time, but to Jessie it seemed to crawl. She wastortured with anxiety for Onistah. An express could not have carriedher fast enough. It was small comfort to tell herself that Onistah wasa Blackfoot and knew every ruse of the woods. His tracks would leadstraight to him and the veriest child could follow them. Nor could shepersuade herself that Whaley would stand between him and West's anger.To the gambler Onistah was only a nitchie.

  The train passed out of the woods to the shore of the lake. Here thegoing was better. The sun was down and the snow-crust held dogs andsled. A hundred fifty yards from the cabin McRae pulled up the team.He moved forward and examined the snow.

  With a heave Jessie flung aside the robes that wrapped her and jumpedfrom the cariole. An invisible hand seemed to clutch tightly at herthroat. For what she and her father had seen were crimson splashesin the white. Some one or something had been killed or wounded here.Onistah, of course! He must have changed his mind, tried to followher, and been shot by West as he was crossing the lake.

  She groaned, her heart heavy.

  McRae offered comfort. "He'll likely be only wounded. The lads wouldnahae moved him yet if he'd no' been livin'."

  The train moved forward, Jessie running beside Angus.

  Morse came to the door. He closed it behind him.

  "Onistah?" cried Jessie.

  "He's been--hurt. But we were in time. He'll get well."

  "West shot him? We saw stains in the snow."

  "No. He shot Whaley."

  "Whaley?" echoed McRae.

  "Yes. Wanted to get rid of him. Thought your daughter was hidden inthe woods here. Afraid, too, that Whaley would give him up to theNorth-West Mounted."

  "Then Whaley's dead?" the Scotchman asked.

  "No. West hadn't time right then to finish the job. Pretty badly hurt,though. Shot in the side and in the thigh."

  "And West?"

  "We came too soon. He couldn't finish his deviltry. He lit out overthe hill soon as he saw us."

  They went into the house.

  Jessie walked straight to where Onistah lay on the balsam boughs andknelt beside him. Beresford was putting on one of his feet a clothsoaked in caribou oil.

  "What did he do to you?" she cried, a constriction of dread at herheart.

  A ghost of a smile touched the immobile face of the native. "Apachestuff, he called it."

  "But--"

  "West burned his feet to make him tell where you were," Beresford toldher gently.

  "Oh!" she cried, in horror.

  "Good old Onistah. He gamed it out. Wouldn't say a word. West saw uscoming and hit the trail."

  "Is he--is he--?"

  "He's gone."

  "I mean Onistah."

  "Suffering to beat the band, but not a whimper out of him. He's notpermanently hurt--be walking around in a week or two."

  "You poor boy!" the girl cried softly, and she put her arm under theIndian's head to lift it to an easier position.

  The dumb lips of the Blackfoot did not thank her, but the dark eyesgave her the gratitude of a heart wholl
y hers.

  All that night the house was a hospital. The country was one where menhad learned to look after hurts without much professional aid. In arough way Angus McRae was something of a doctor. He dressed the woundsof both the injured, using the small medical kit he had brought withhim.

  Whaley was a bit of a stoic himself. The philosophy of his class wasto take good fortune or ill undemonstratively. He was lucky to bealive. Why whine about what must be?

  But as the fever grew on him with the lengthening hours, he passedinto delirium. Sometimes he groaned with pain. Again he fell intodisconnected babble of early days. He was back again with his fatherand mother, living over his wild and erring youth.

  "... Don't tell Mother. I'll square it all right if you keep it fromher.... Rotten run of cards. Ninety-seven dollars. You'll have towait, I tell you.... Mother, Mother, if you won't cry like that ..."

  McRae used the simple remedies he had. In themselves they were, heknew, of little value. He must rely on good nursing and the man'shardy constitution to pull him through.

  With Morse and Beresford he discussed the best course to follow. Itwas decided that Morse should take Onistah and Jessie back to Farawaynext day and return with a load of provisions. Whaley's fever must runits period. It was impossible to tell yet whether he would live ordie, but for some days at least it would not be safe to move him.