Lords of the North

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by Laut, Agnes C


  "Stay you here, inside, mind! Mon Dieu! If you but show your face; 'tis two white men under one stone-pile! Louis Laplante is a fool—dammie—a fool—to help you, his enemy, or any other man at his own risk."

  With these enigmatical words, the Frenchman hurried out, fastening the tent flap after him and leaving me to reflect on the wild impulses of his wayward nature. Was his strange, unwilling generosity the result of animosity to the big squaw, who seemed to exercise some subtle and commanding influence over him; or of gratitude to me? Was the noble blood that coursed in his veins, directing him in spite of his degenerate tendencies; or had the man's heart been touched by the sight of a white woman's suffering? If his alarm at the sound of returning hunters had not been so palpably genuine—for he turned pale to the lips—I might have suspected treachery. But there was no mistaking the motive of fear that hurried him to the tent; and with Le Grand Diable among the hunters, Louis might well fear to be seen in my company. There was a hubbub of trappers returning to the lodges. I heard horses turned free and tent-poles clattering to the ground; but Laplante did not come back till it was late and the Indians had separated for the night.

  "I can take you to her!" he whispered, his voice thrilling with suppressed emotion. "Le Grand Diable and the squaw have gone to the valley to set snares! And when I whistle, come out quickly! Mon Dieu! If you're caught, both our scalps go! Dammie! Louis is a fool. I take you to her; but I pay you back all the same!"

  "To whom?" The question throbbed with a rush to my lips.

  "Stupid dolt!" snarled Louis. "Follow me! Keep your ears open for my whistle—one—they return—two—come you out of the tent—three, we are caught, save yourself!"

  I followed the Frenchman in silence. It was a hazy summer night with just enough light from the sickle moon for us to pick our way past the lodges to a large newly-erected wigwam with a small white tent behind.

  "This way," whispered Louis, leading through the first to an opening hidden by a hanging robe. Raising the skin, he shoved me forward and hastened out to keep guard.

  The figure of a woman with a child in her arms was silhouetted against the white tent wall. She was sitting on some robes, crooning in a low voice to the child, and was unaware of my presence.

  "And was my little Eric at the hunt, and did he shoot an arrow all by himself?" she asked, fondling the face that snuggled against her shoulder.

  The boy gurgled back a low, happy laugh and lisped some childish reply, which only a mother could translate.

  "And he will grow big, big and be a great warrior and fight—fight for his poor mother," she whispered, lowering her voice and caressing the child's curls.

  The little fellow sat up of a sudden facing his mother and struck out squarely with both fists, not uttering a word.

  "My brave, brave little Eric! My only one, all that God has left to me!" she sobbed hiding her weeping face on the child's neck. "O my God, let me but keep my little one! Thou hast given him to me and I have treasured him as a jewel from Thine own crown! O my God, let me but keep my darling, keep him as Thy gift—and—and—O my God!—Thy—Thy—Thy will be done!"

  The words broke in a moan and the child began to cry.

  "Hush, dearie! The birds never cry, nor the beavers, nor the great, bold eagle! My own little warrior must never cry! All the birds and the beasts and the warriors are asleep! What does Eric say before he goes to sleep?"

  A pair of chubby arms were flung about her neck and passionate, childish kisses pressed her forehead and her cheeks and her lips. Then he slipped to his knees and put his face in her lap.

  "God bless my papa—and keep my mamma—and make little Eric brave and good—for Jesus' sake——" the child hesitated.

  "Amen," prompted the gentle voice of the mother.

  "And keep little Eric for my mamma so she won't cry," added the child, "for Jesus' sake—Amen," and he scrambled to his feet.

  A low, piercing whistle cut the night air like the flight of an arrow-shaft. It was Louis Laplante's signal that Diable and the squaw were coming back. At the sound, mother and child started up in alarm. Then they saw me standing in the open way. A gasp of fright came from the white woman's lips. I could tell from her voice that she was all a-tremble, and the little one began to whimper in a smothered, suppressed way.

  I whispered one word—"Miriam!"

  With a faint cry of anguish, she leaped forward. "Is it you, Eric? O Eric! is it you?" she asked.

  "No—no, Miriam, not Eric, but Eric's friend, Rufus Gillespie."

  She tottered as if I had struck her. I caught her in my arms and helped her to the couch of robes.

  Then I took up my station facing the tent entrance; for I realized the significance of Laplante's warning.

  "We have hunted for more than a year for you," I whispered, bending over her, "but the Sioux murdered our messenger and the other you yourself let out of the tent!"

  "That—your messenger for me?" she asked in sheer amazement, proving what I had suspected, that she was kept in ignorance of our efforts.

  "I have been here for a week, searching the lodges. My horses are in the valley, and we must dare all in one attempt."

  "I have given my word I will not try," she hastily interrupted, beginning to pluck at her red shawl in the frenzied way of delirious fever patients. "If we are caught, they will torture us, torture the child before my eyes. They treat him well now and leave me alone as long as I do not try to break away. What can you, one man, do against two thousand Sioux?" and she began to weep, choking back the anguished sobs, that shook her slender frame, and picking feverishly at the red shawl fringe.

  To look at that agonized face would have been sacrilege, and in a helpless, nonplussed way, I kept gazing at the painful workings of the thin, frail fingers. That plucking of the wasted, trembling hands haunts me to this day; and never do I see the fingers of a nervous, sensitive woman working in that delirious, aimless fashion but it sets me wondering to what painful treatment from a brutalized nature she has been subjected, that her hands take on the tricks of one in the last stages of disease. It may be only the fancy of an old trader; but I dare avow, if any sympathetic observer takes note of this simple trick of nervous fingers, it will raise the veil on more domestic tragedies and heart-burnings than any father-confessor hears in a year.

  "Miriam," said I, in answer to her timid protest, "Eric has risked his life seeking you. Won't you try all for Eric's sake? There'll be little risk! We'll wait for a dark, boisterous, stormy night, and you will roll out of your tent the way you thrust my Indian out. I'll have my horses ready. I'll creep up behind and whisper through the tent."

  "Where is Eric?" she asked, beginning to waver.

  Two shrill, sharp whistles came from Louis Laplante, commanding me to come out of the tent.

  "That's my signal! I must go. Quick, Miriam, will you try?"

  "I will do what you wish," she answered, so low, I had to kneel to catch the words.

  "A stormy night our signal, then," I cried.

  Three, sharp, terrified whistles, signifying, "We are caught, save yourself," came from Laplante, and I flung myself on the ground behind Miriam.

  "Spread out your arms, Miriam! Quick!" I urged. "Talk to the boy, or we're trapped."

  With her shawl spread out full and her elbows sticking akimbo, she caught the lad in her arms and began dandling him to right, and left, humming some nursery ditty. At the same moment there loomed in the tent entrance the great, statuesque figure of the Sioux squaw, whom I had seen in the gorge. I kicked my feet under the canvas wall, while Miriam's swaying shawl completely concealed me from the Sioux woman and thus I crawled out backwards. Then I lay outside the tent and listened, listened with my hand on my pistol, for what might not that monster of fury attempt with the tender, white woman?

  "There were words in the tepee," declared the angry tones of the Indian woman. "The pale face was talking! Where is the messenger from the Mandanes?"

  At that, the little child set up
a bitter crying.

  "Cry not, my little warrior! Hush, dearie! 'Twas only a hunter whistling, or the night hawk, or the raccoon! Hush, little Eric! Warriors never cry! Hush! Hush! Or the great bear will laugh at you and tell his cubs he's found a coward!" crooned Miriam, making as though she neither heard, nor saw the squaw; but Eric opened his mouth and roared lustily. And the little lad unconsciously foiled the squaw; for she presently took herself off, evidently thinking the voices had been those of mother and son.

  I skirted cautiously around the rear of the lodges to avoid encountering Diable, or his squaw. The form of a man hulked against me in the dark. 'Twas Louis.

  "Mon Dieu, Gillespie, I thought one scalp was gone," he gasped.

  "What are you here for? You don't want to be seen with me," I protested, grateful and alarmed for his foolhardiness in coming to meet me.

  "Sacredie! The dogs! They make pretty music at your shins without me," and Louis struck boldly across the open for his tent. "Fool to stay so long!" he muttered. "I no more ever help you once again! Mon Dieu! No! I no promise my scalp too! They found your horses in the valley! They—how you say it?—think for some Mandane is here and fear. They rode back fast on your horses. 'Twas why I whistle for, twice so quick! They ride north in the morning. I go too, with the devil and his wife! I be gone to the devil this many a while! But I must go, or they suspect and knife me. That vampire! Ha! she would drink my gore! I no more have nothing to do with you. Before morning, you must do your own do alone! Sacredie! Do not forget, I pay you back yet!"

  So he rattled on, ever keeping between me and the lodges. By his confused words, I knew he was in great trepidation.

  "Why, there are my horses!" I exclaimed, seeing all six standing before Diable's lodge.

  "You do your do before morning! Take one of my saddles!" said Louis.

  Sure enough, all my saddles were piled before the Iroquois' wigwam; and there stood my enemy and the Sioux squaw, talking loudly, pointing to the horses and gesticulating with violence.

  "Mon Dieu! Prenez garde! Get you in!" muttered Louis. We were at his tent door, and I was looking back at my horses. "If they see you, all is lost," he warned.

  And the warning came just in time. With that animal instinct of nearness, which is neither sight, nor smell, my favorite broncho put forward his ears and whinnied sharply. Both Diable and the squaw noted the act and turned; but Louis had knocked me forward face down into the tent.

  With an oath, he threw himself on his couch. "Take my saddle," he said. "I steal another. Do your do before morning. I no more have nothing to do with you, till I pay you back all the same!"

  And he was presently fast asleep, or pretending to be.

  * * *

  CHAPTER XIX

  WHEREIN LOUIS INTRIGUES

  Next morning Le Grand Diable would set out for the north. This night, then, was my last chance to rescue Miriam. "Do your do before morning!" How Laplante's words echoed in my ears! I had told Miriam a stormy night was to be the signal for our attempt; and now the rising moon was dispelling any vague haziness that might have helped to conceal us. In an hour, the whole camp would be bright as day in clear, silver light. Presently, the clatter of the lodges ceased. Only an occasional snarl from the dogs, or the angry squeals of my bronchos kicking the Indian ponies, broke the utter stillness. There was not even a wind to drown foot-treads, and every lodge of the camp was reflected across the ground in elongated shadows as distinct as a crayon figure on white paper. What if some watchful Indian should discover our moving shadows? La Robe Noire's fate flashed back and I shuddered.

  Flinging up impatiently from the robes, I looked from the tent way. Some dog of the pack gave the short, sharp bark of a fox. Then, but for the crunching of my horses over the turf some yards away, there was silence. I could hear the heavy breathing of people in near-by lodges. Up from the wooded valley came the far-off purr of a stream over stony bottom and the low washing sound only accentuated the stillness. The shrill cry of some lonely night-bird stabbed the atmosphere with a throb of pain. Again the dog snapped out a bark and again there was utter quiet.

  "One chance in a thousand," said I to myself, "only one in a thousand; but I'll take it!" And I stepped from the tent. This time the wakeful dog let out a mouthful of quick barkings. Jerking off my boots—I had not yet taken to the native custom of moccasins—I dodged across the roadway into the exaggerated shadow of some Indian camp truckery. Here I fell flat to the ground so that no reflection should betray my movements. Then I remembered I had forgotten Louis Laplante's saddle. Rising, I dived back to the tepee for it and waited for the dogs to quiet before coming out again. That alert canine had set up a duet with a neighboring brute of like restless instincts and the two seemed to promise an endless chorus. As I live, I could have sworn that Louis Laplante laughed in his sleep at my dilemma; but Louis was of the sort to laugh in the face of death itself. A man flew from a lodge and dealing out stout blows quickly silenced the vicious curs; but I had to let time lapse for the man to go to sleep before I could venture out.

  Once more, chirp of cricket, croak of frog and the rush of waters through the valley were the only sounds, and I darted across to the camp shadow. Lying flat, I began to crawl cautiously and laboriously towards my horses. One gave a startled snort as I approached and this set the dogs going again. I lay motionless in the grass till all was quiet and then crept gently round to the far side of my favorite horse and caught his halter strap lest he should whinny, or start away. I drew erect directly opposite his shoulders, so that I could not be seen from the lodges and unhobbling his feet, led him into the concealment of a group of ponies and had the saddle on in a trice. To get the horse to the rear of Miriam's tent was no easy matter. I paced my steps so deftly with the broncho's and let him munch grass so often, the most watchful Indian could not have detected a man on the far side of the horse, directing every move. Behind the Sioux lodge, the earth sloped abruptly away, bare and precipitous; and I left the horse below and clambered up the steep to the white wall of Miriam's tent. Once the dogs threatened to create a disturbance, but a man quieted them, and with gratitude I recognized the voice of Laplante.

  Three times I tapped on the canvas but there was no response. I put my arm under the tent and rapped on the ground. Why did she not signal? Was the Sioux squaw from the other lodge listening? I could hear nothing but the tossings of the child.

  "Miriam," I called, shoving my arm forward and feeling out blindly.

  Thereupon, a woman's hand grasped mine and thrust it out, while a voice so low it might have been the night breeze, came to my ear—"We are watched."

  Watched? What did it matter if we were? Had I not dared all? Must not she do the same? This was the last chance. We must not be foiled. My horse, I knew, could outrace any cayuse of the Sioux band.

  "Miriam," I whispered back, lifting the canvas, "they will take you away to-morrow—my horse is here! Come! We must risk all!"

  And I shoved myself bodily in under the tent wall. She was not a hand's length away, sitting with her face to the entrance of Diable's lodge, her figure rigid and tense with fear. In the half light I could discern the great, powerful, angular form of a giantess in the opening. 'Twas the Sioux squaw. Miriam leaned forward to cover the child with a motion intended to conceal me, and I drew quickly out.

  I thought I had not been detected; but the situation was perilous enough, in all conscience, to inspire caution, and I was backing away, when suddenly the shadows of two men coming from opposite sides appeared on the white tent, and something sprang upon me with tigerish fury. There was the swish of an unsheathing blade, and I felt rather than saw Le Grand Diable and Louis Laplante contesting over me.

  "Never! He's mine, my captive! He stole my saddle! He's mine, I tell you," ground out the Frenchman, throwing off my assailant. "Keep him for the warriors and let him be tortured," urged Louis, snatching at the Indian's arm.

  I sprang up. It was Louis, who tripped my feet from under me, and we two
tumbled to the bottom of the cliff, while the Indian stood above snarling out something in the Sioux tongue.

  "Idiot! Anglo-Saxon ox!" muttered Louis, grappling with me as we fell. "Do but act it out, or two scalps go! I no promise mine when I say I help you, bah——"

  That was the last I recall; for I went down head backwards, and the blow knocked me senseless.

  When I came to, with an aching neck and a humming in my ears, there was the gray light of a waning moon, and I found myself lying bound in Miriam's tent. Her child was whimpering timidly and she was hurriedly gathering her belongings into a small bundle.

  "Miriam, what has happened?" I asked. Then the whole struggle and failure came back to me with an overwhelming realization that torture and death would be our portion.

  "Try no more," she whispered, brushing past me and making as though she were gathering things where I lay. "Never try, for my sake, never try! They will torture you. I shall die soon. Only save the child! For myself, I am past caring. Good-by forever!" and she dashed to the other side of the tent.

  At that, with a deal of noisy mirth, in burst Laplante and the Sioux squaw.

  "Ho-ho! My knight-errant has opened his eyes! Great sport for the braves, say I! Fine mouse-play for the cat, ho-ho!" and Louis looked down at me with laughing insolence, that sent a chill through my veins. 'Twas to save his own scalp the rascal was acting and would have me act too; but I had no wish to betray him. Striking at her captives and rudely ordering them out, the Sioux led the way and left Louis to bring up the rear.

  "Leave this, lady," said Louis with an air that might have been impudence or gallantry; and he grabbed the bundle from Miriam's hand and threw it over his shoulder at me. This was greeted with a roar of laughter from the Sioux woman and one look of unspeakable reproach from Miriam. Whistling gaily and turning back to wink at me, the Frenchman disappeared in Diable's lodge. For my part, I was puzzled. Did Louis act from the love of acting and trickery and intrigue? Was he befooling the daughter of L'Aigle, or me?

 

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