Law of the North (Originally published as Empery)

by Samuel Alexander White

  CHAPTER IV

  OMENS OF THE LAW

  The chief took the indicated place in Dunvegan's canoe with Flora andher boy. These sat amidships. Wahbiscaw was in his place as bowsman.Bruce himself occupied the stern. At a sign from him the whole brigadefloated off, the prows pointing up the swift-flowing Katchawan. Thus foran hour the paddles dipped in rhythm. They threaded the river's islandchannels and won through its rushing chutes. Where the rapids proved tooswift for paddles they poled the craft up with long spruce poles. Fewwords were spoken. It was the custom to travel in silence. One reasonfor this was that Nor'west traders might be lurking anywhere. Anotherwas that game might be encountered around any of the many river bends.

  But the brigade left the Katchawan without a sight of game and enteredthe mouth of Lake Lemeau. Maskwa, the Ojibway fort runner, stood erect,sentinel-like, in the canoe behind Dunvegan, his keen eyes searching thelake waters for sign of friend or foe. Quite suddenly he sat down.

  "Canoe, Strong Father," he grunted gutturally.

  "Where?" the chief trader asked.

  "Below Bear Island."

  Quietly Dunvegan shifted his bow till the canoe bore a course whichwould bring them directly in the path of the strange craft. He had noidea whose it might be. It might belong to some trapper or to someIndian of their own Company. It might belong to the Nor'westers. Itmight carry free traders. Whatever it was, it was his duty to find out.

  Warm yellow the bark shone as the distance lessened. Sapphire glintsflashed out as the paddles flickered after each plunge. Soon the men ofthe brigade could see that the craft contained four figures, but it wasMaskwa's long-range vision which discerned their nationalities.

  "Ojibways, two; white men, two," he announced. "Good paddlers."

  And so it proved when they drew near. Dunvegan saw, seated behind thenative bowsman, a keen-visaged, lean, athletic man of forty. He had asmooth face, sandy hair, eyes of a cold, hard blue, a beak nose, andgreat, sinewed arms. About him was the stamp of the frontier.Instinctively at first glimpse the chief trader catalogued him as onewho had seen much frontier fighting, who had handled guns and bad menrunning amuck with guns.

  Fit mate for him looked the one sitting toward the stern. He wasabnormally broad of shoulder, stocky, powerful, black-bearded,black-eyed. The sun had smoked him till he was as swarthy as the Ojibwaysteersman. Of the two white men he looked the more dangerous, for therewas no humor in his steady eyes. His companion's gaze, cold and hard asit was, held something of a quizzical gleam. Perhaps it was the hollowsunder those eyes that gave him that appearance.

  As Dunvegan's craft met the other almost bow to bow and slipped ahead,the gunwales grated gently. Bruce closed a hand on the gunwales of theother and the two canoes drifted as one.

  The sandy-haired man's semi-humorous eyes flashed a quick look aboard,and then he smiled. "You sure couldn't do that, stranger, if my pardnerand me hadn't decided to speak to you," he observed.

  "Couldn't I?" challenged Dunvegan. He scrutinized men and outfit. "Freetraders, I suppose?"

  "Guess again."

  "Nor'westers, eh?"

  "You got another guess coming yet."

  "Oh, quit it, Granger," the black-bearded man broke in, stirringimpatiently among the dunnage bags. "You're wasting time. Show him thestar."

  The sandy-haired one twisted his suspender band. Dunvegan saw the badgeof a United States Marshal.

  "It's genuine, stranger. And we're sure not here for our health. Are we,Garfield?"

  "No," growled the black-bearded marshal. "A show-down's the thing thatwe're after."

  "You fooled me," laughed Dunvegan. "But you had better exhibit yourpapers. My Factor is death on free traders; and I have to report to him,you know."

  "Who's your Factor?" the smooth-faced marshal asked as he dived into thepocket of his buckskin coat that was stuffed under the forward thwart.

  "Macleod, of Oxford House."

  "Macleod, eh? Macleod!" rumbled Granger while he searched. "Don't knowhim. But we sure will when we get to his post. We've been up around theBay forts. When we've done Norway House and the posts out that way we'llbe across to Oxford. See you again, then. Hello, here's the papers!"

  He handed Dunvegan two frayed documents. As he scanned them the chieftrader saw they were genuine enough. The first was an order of thechief district factor of the Hudson's Bay Company declaring all fortsopen to the bearers. The second was a similar mandate of the NorthwestFur Company for use in their posts and issued from the headquarters inMontreal.

  "These are through passes," smiled Dunvegan, handing them back. "I knowthe chief district factor's signature. And it seems you are equipped fora hunt in Nor'west country as well. Is there anything I can do for you?"

  "You've done all you can do--let us see you and your men," grinnedGranger. "That's all we wanted. Eh, Garfield?"

  "That's all," Garfield agreed, condescending to laugh so that hisgleaming white teeth split his black beard. "Hit her up there, youbucks," he commanded the Ojibways.

  The Indians seized their paddles. Dunvegan let go the gunwales. "Goodluck," he nodded.

  "Hold on," yelled Granger suddenly. "Maybe I ought to say more. A hintfrom you would sure save us some miles. Here, look at this!"

  He dived again into the buckskin coat and handed a photograph across thewater gap.

  "Do you know him?" he demanded, keenly reading the chief trader's face."Mind, I don't say he's what we're after. I don't say he's doneanything. Do you know him? He's in the service of one of these furcompanies."

  The picture Dunvegan looked at was that of a bare-faced man in robusthealth, a strong man who was in the super-strength of his prime. Theeyes were vivid, clear as crystal, sharp as steel. The chief trader feltthat the glance of the living original would cut like a knife. Theseeyes puzzled him with a sense of vague familiarity, but the face hescanned was the face of no one in his memory-gallery.

  He shook his head, and oddly enough he felt a reluctance, adisappointment in denial. "I don't know him," he decided, and handed thephotograph back.

  Like a hawk Granger had watched his face. He read truth in it. "Oh,well!" he exclaimed whimsically. "The way of the transgressor and themarshal is sure hard." Once more his quizzical expression flashed forthas he twirled his paddle aloft in good-by.

  "Shake, stranger," he threw back in final farewell, while the long craftleaped under the Ojibways' strokes. "Shake! Till I see you at OxfordHouse!"

  Flora Macleod watched the solitary canoe drop away out of sight. Then,when it was gone, she leaned forward to the chief trader's shoulder.

  "Was that last answer of yours lie or loyalty?" she asked with strangetimidity.

  Dunvegan turned a surprised face. "It was ignorance," he amended. He sawFlora's cheeks pale, her eyes full of a haunting fear.

  "What's wrong?" he demanded in astonishment.

  "That picture--I--I saw it, too."

  "Well?"

  "It was my father's!"

  Dawn set a wall of flame on Oxford Lake. Out of this solar furnacedrifted a fleet of canoes black as charred logs against the cardinalblaze. Clement Nemaire, sentinel at the stockade gates of Oxford House,caught sight of the craft in the immense distance advancing with amotion which, though scarcely discernible, nevertheless brought themgradually into large perspective. His black eyes, keen as lenses,steadily watched the approaching flotilla while it breasted CaribouPoint and crossed the outer rim of the Bay. When the fleet drew oppositeMooswa Hill, the mighty rampart upon whose crest a brushwood beaconstood always piled ready for firing by the Hudson's Bay fort runners asa warning message of impending Nor'west attacks, Clement made out thesharp, black line of a flagstaff in the bow of the foremost canoe. Fromthe staff's tip a long standard bellied like a sail in the cross wind,its vivid hue blending with the fiery background, and Nemaire knew thefamiliar blood-red banner of his Company.

  "De brigade!" he shouted for all the post to hear. "_Hola!_ De beegbrigade!"

  Every soul of Oxford Ho
use sprang forth at his cry. In a heterogeneouscrowd the people spread to the landing at the lake-shore. White traders,fair-skinned women, full-blooded Indians, halfbreeds, squaws, papooses,huskies,[1] all mingled in polyglot confusion. Curs barked; childrensquealed; native tongues chattered in many languages. Eager expectancy,intense interest, was the sensation of each human being or animal thatwaited on the beach. Their wild hearts, keyed to a love of the vastplaces, to a worship of all the attributes of wilderness life, couldnever welcome a brigade unmoved. That distinct institution of theHudson's Bay Company was a thing which they idolized and revered. Thecrowd in a fever of joyous excitement pressed to the very water's edgeand shifted the length of the landing. Each minute of waiting theyfilled with clamor and gesticulation, the hum of voices growing to aroar as Dunvegan's brigade approached within hailing distance.

  [Footnote 1: Eskimo sledge dogs.]

  But behind them a heavy step sounded on the veranda of the Factor'shouse, and looking, they saw the square-set bulk of Malcolm Macleod. Ahush blanketed the confusion. Not a foot or tongue stirred by thelake-edge. So deep was the stillness that the slight wash of theplunging canoes could be heard distinctly. The Factor did not speak, buthis bushy eyebrows lowered and the piercing gaze of his steely, blackeyes was concentrated on the scene. His iron hands, symbols of the man,gripped the railing tightly. Like the crowd, he waited; but while theirimpelling motive was curiosity, Macleod's was judgment.

  The fleet of canoes lined for the landing, the figures of the occupantsgrowing clear. The throng could now see that the chief trader andWahbiscaw, his bowsman, had two passengers in the foremost craft. Whenthey became recognizable as Flora Macleod and Running Wolf, whispers ofwonder and speculation began to circulate. Discussion ran like themurmur of low waters from Father Brochet, the black-cassocked,unobtrusive priest on the outer rim of the gathering, to rude GaspardFollet, the owl-faced, dwarf-shaped, half-witted fool who sat on the endof the landing with bare feet in the water, that he might be closest tothe incomers.

  Conversing in a little group beside Father Brochet stood Desiree Lazard,the fairest of Oxford House; Pierre, her uncle, and Basil Dreaulond. Asthe brigade touched the bank, the rushing people blotted it out. Thepaddlers leaped ashore, stretched cramped limbs, and were swallowed upin the throng. Presently the mighty figure of Bruce Dunvegan emerged,leading Running Wolf and Flora Macleod from the landing toward theFactor's house.

  Contrary to his usual custom, Malcolm Macleod did not turn into hiscouncil room to receive the report and do his questioning. The fact thatthe runaway daughter appeared before him accounted for his coming down afew steps to await the trio.

  "You've succeeded," he growled unceremoniously, bending his angryglance, not upon the chief trader, but upon Flora, who returned a stareof equal intensity.

  "Not altogether," complained Dunvegan. "Things are not as clear as Icould wish. I found the girl in Running Wolf's lodge. I understand BlackFerguson deserted her near the Cree camp."

  Macleod's habitually active brain seemed slow in comprehending thestatement. The tight lines of his mouth relaxed, and his jaws jarredapart in an attitude of sheer amazement.

  "Stern Father," Running Wolf hastened to add, "it is my wish and theWhite Squaw's wish that she remain in my lodge. As for the sun and thestars and the south wind is my worship for her. I have come for yourconsent." He bowed in his brief oratorical delivery and smoothed hismedicine-maker's dress.

  "Consent!--Squaw!" boomed Macleod, blank astonishment giving way underthe swift rush of his tremendous rage. "You d--d Cree demigod--that's myconsent!" And his strong hands hurled Running Wolf headlong from theveranda steps almost to the rim of the gaping crowd.

  The old warrior picked himself up in a frenzy of spirit and, forgettingall traditions and restraints, rushed insanely at the Factor. ButDunvegan blocked his path and grasped the uplifted hand.

  "Don't do that, Running Wolf," he warned. "You can only work your ownruin. A blow would mean your death!"

  Chest heaving, eyes blazing, the Cree chieftain strained a moment afterhis insulter. Dunvegan's strength forced him back and instilled somesubstance of sanity. When he found his voice, his speech trembled withhate.

  "You are Stern Father now," he hissed in Cree, "but I can change it toSoft Father----"

  Macleod took a step forward as if on sudden impulse to crush once forall a defiance flung in his teeth, but he caught the look of entreatyfor lenience in the chief trader's eyes. He halted. Yet Running Wolf wasnot to be appeased. He glared vindictively into the very face of thelord of Oxford House.

  "Soft Father you shall be," he declared. "I go to the French Hearts. Wewill meet again before many moons. Then my hands shall hurl. My wordsshall curse. You shall be as the broken pot of clay, as the water ofmelting ice, as the pool of blood where the big moose falls."

  The chief's momentarily-lost stoicism was regained. His dignity, whichthe red man seldom loses, had returned.

  Dunvegan, his hands still upon the Cree's arms, felt the change in him,felt him straighten with pride. He released his grip.

  Running Wolf stepped quietly back. "I go," he announced without emotion."I go, but when the French Hearts are climbing stockades and burningposts about your ears, I will be with them. Then when I have rolled youstiff in your blanket will I take the White Squaw to my wigwam!"

  He whirled at the last word and stalked to the beach. Flora Macleodlooked upon him with eyes that lightened.

  "You old fire-eater," she laughed hysterically, "I almost love you forthose words." Her glance shifted to Dunvegan who had grasped her armthat she might not follow the Cree chieftain if she were so inclined."Don't you?" she asked.

  "He is to be admired," the chief trader admitted.

  But Malcolm Macleod swore a fearful oath in which there was no semblanceof admiration as they watched Running Wolf glide out upon Oxford Lake ina canoe borrowed from some Crees formerly of his tribe on the Katchawan.

  "Let the cursed traitor go over to the side of the Nor'westers!" hecried. "Let him help Black Ferguson and his sneaking dogs! I have nofear of them. I'm not afraid of man or devil. And why should I troublemyself about a picket of ragged Frenchmen! Bah! I can handle them as Ihandled the Cree. I'm lord of this country. Every man knows it. Everyman _must_ know it!"

  As everyone at this and all the other northern posts understood, MalcolmMacleod was ruled by twin passions: pride and hate. He paid homage tono other emotion, idol, or deity. Fear could not touch his heart. Lovewas long ago crushed out. The tentacles of greed never held him. He hadno dread of the evil machinations of hell. Neither did he recognize sucha thing as divine providence. His Bible that in his half-forgotten pasthad been fingered nightly lay upon an unused upper shelf in his councilroom, sepulchred in twenty years of dust.

  Fallen into silent brooding, the Factor stared at the disappearing speckupon the vast water, the speck which was Running Wolf and his craft.Dunvegan had to arouse him.

  "The woman and the child," he prompted. "What is to be done with them?"

  Macleod wheeled. "See that she gets no canoe to leave the post," was hiscurt order. "She goes out with Abbe DuCerne to the nunnery at Montrealbefore the frost closes in."

  As some fierce interpreter of high-latitude laws he pronounced thejudgment, and Flora Macleod's spirit crumpled under its weight. It camesuddenly--this most appalling thing that could happen to a lover ofliberty. For once in her life she had no defiant retort for the man sheaccepted as her father. At the vision of veil, cowl, and white walls,things some people loved, her eyes dilated in horror. The woman's heartthrobbed sickeningly. Her tongue refused its mission of protest. Herknees gave way, letting her slip to the ground. There she lay, sobbing,the boy clasped close in her arms.

  "Don't lie there," the Factor commanded roughly. "Get that child readyfor the morning mass. I'll see that it is christened and given my ownname. There'll be no Fergusons among my kin."

  Full of sympathy, Dunvegan raised Flora Macleod to her feet and urgedher to go ins
ide, but she stubbornly refused to enter the house.

  "Let her stay out then," cried her father, with a fresh burst of anger."Or let her find a better house."

  "There is Basil's," ventured the chief trader.

  "Aye, there is Basil's, if it suits her." Macleod shrugged his mightyshoulders in bitter unconcern.

  So Bruce told her to go to Dreaulond's cabin, where he knew she would bewell cared for by the courier's gentle wife. Then he turned again to themoody Factor.

  "I am afraid we have lost Running Wolf's trade," he observed.

  "He will come back. He fears me, as they all do. And if he goes to theNor'westers, remember, we shall soon crush them. When they are swept outof the country, where else can the old fool trade?"

  "But he may fight with them," Bruce persisted.

  "Perhaps. However, they will need more than Running Wolf's aid to routthe Ancient and Honorable, the Hudson's Bay Company."