"No levity! If he had choice of angels and stars and a good woman, he'd choose the woman. The star is mighty far away and cold and steely. The angel's a deal too perfect to know sympathy with faults and blunders. I tell you, Little Statue, life is only moil and toil, unless love transmutes the base metal of hard duty into the pure gold of unalloyed delight."
"That's why I tremble. I must do more than angel or star! Oh, Rufus, if I can only live up to what you think I am—and you can live up to what I think you are, life will be worth living."
"That's love's leverage," said I.
Then there was silence; for the sun had set and the father was no longer reading. Shadows deepened into twilight, and twilight into gloaming. And it was the hour when the brooding spirit of the vast prairie solitudes fills the stillness of night with voiceless eloquence. Why should I attempt to transcribe the silent music of the prairie at twilight, which every plain-dweller knows and none but a plain-dweller may understand? What wonder that the race native to this boundless land hears the rustling of spirits in the night wind, the sigh of those who have lost their way to the happy hunting-ground, and the wail of little ones whose feet are bruised on the shadow trail? What wonder the gauzy northern lights are bands of marshaling warriors and the stars torches lighting those who ride the plains of heaven? Indeed, I defy a white man with all the discipline of science and reason to restrain the wanderings of mystic fancy during the hours of sunset on the prairie.
There is, I affirm, no such thing as time for lovers. If they have watches and clocks, the wretched things run too fast; and if the sun himself stood still in sympathy, time would not be long. So I confess I have no record of time that night Frances Sutherland returned to her home and Mr. Sutherland kept guard at the door. When he had passed the threshold impatiently twice, I recollected with regret that it was impossible to read theology in the dark. The third time he thrust his head in.
"Mind y'rselves," he called. "I hear men coming frae the river, a pretty hour, indeed, for visitin'. Frances, go ben and see yon back window's open!"
"The soldiers from the fort," cried Frances with a little gasp.
"Don't move," said I. "They can't see me here. It's dark. I want to hear what they say and the window is open. Indeed, Frances, I'm an expert at window-jumping," and I had begun to tell her of my scrape with Louis' drunken comrades in Fort Douglas, when I heard Mr. Sutherland's grating tones according the newcomers a curious welcome. "Ye swearin', blasphemin', rampag'us, carousin' infidel, ye'll no darken my doorway this night. Y'r French gab may be foul wi' oaths for all I ken; but ye'll no come into my hoose! An' you, Sir, a blind leader o' the blind, a disciple o' Beelzebub, wi' y'r Babylonish idolatries, wi' y'r incense that fair stinks in the nostrils o' decent folk, wi' y'r images and mummery and crossin' o' y'rsel', wi' y'r pagan, popish practises, wi' y'r skirts and petticoats, I'll no hae ye on my premises, no, not an' ye leave y'r religion outside! An' you, Meester Hamilton, a respectable Protestant, I'm fair surprised to see ye in sic' company."
"'Tis Eric and Father Holland and Laplante," I shouted, springing to my feet and rushing to the doorway, but Frances put herself before me.
"Keep back," she whispered. "The priest and Mr. Hamilton have been here before; but father would not let them in. The other man may be a De Meuron. Be careful, Rufus! There's a price on your head."
"Ho—ho—my Ursus Major, prime guardian of Ursa Major, first of the heavenly constellations in the north," insolently laughed Louis Laplante through the dusk.
"Let me pass, Frances," I begged, thrusting her gently aside, but her trembling hands still clung to my arm.
"Impertinent rascal," rasped the irate Scotchman. "I'd have ye understand my name's Sutherland, not Major Ursus. I'll no bide wi' y'r impudence! Leave this place——"
"The Bruin growls," interrupted Louis with a laugh, and I heard Mr. Sutherland's gasp of amazed rage at the lengths of the Frenchman's insolence.
"I must, dearest," I whispered, disengaging the slender hands from my arm; and I flung out into the dusk.
In the gloom, my approach was unnoticed; and when I came upon the group, Father Holland had laid his hand upon Mr. Sutherland's shoulder and in a low, tense voice was uttering words, which—thank an all-bountiful Providence!—have no sectarian limits.
"And the King shall answer and say unto them, 'I was a stranger and ye took me not in: naked and ye clothed me not: sick and in prison and ye visited me not. Verily I say unto you, inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me'——"
"Dinna con Holy Writ to me, Sir," interrupted Mr. Sutherland, throwing the priest's hand off and jerking back.
Then Louis Laplante saw me. There was a long, low whistle.
"Ye daft gommerel," gasped Mr. Sutherland, facing me with unutterable disgust. "Ye daft gommerel! A' my care and fret, waste—gane clean to waste. I wash m' hands o' ye——"
But Louis had knocked the Scotchman aside and tumbled into my arms, half laughing, half crying and altogether as hysterical as was his wont.
"I pay you back at las', my comrade! Ha—old solemncholy! You thought the bird of passage, he come not back at all! But the birds return! So does Louis! He decoy-duck the whole covey! You generous? No more not generous than the son of a seigneur, mine enemy! You give life? He give life! You give liberty! So does Louis! You help one able help himself? Louis help one not able help himself! Ha! Très bien! Noblesse oblige! La Gloire! She—near! She here! She where I, Louis Laplante, son of a seigneur, snare that she-devil, trap that fox, trick the tigress! Ha—ol' tombstone! Noblesse oblige—I say! She near—she here," and he flung up both arms like a frenzied maniac.
"Man! Are you mad?" I demanded, uncertain whether he were apostrophizing Diable's squaw, or abstract glory. "Speak out!" I shouted, shaking him by the shoulder.
"These—are they all friends?" asked Louis, suddenly cooled and looking suspiciously at the group.
"All," said I, still holding him by the shoulder.
"That—that thing—that bear—that bruin—he a friend?" and Louis pointed to Mr. Sutherland.
"Friend to the core," said I, laying both hands upon his shoulders. "Core with prickles outside," gibed Louis.
"Louis," I commanded, utterly out of patience, "what of Miriam? Speak plain, man! Have you brought the tribe as you promised?"
It must have been mention of Miriam's name, for the white, drawn face of Eric Hamilton bent over my shoulder and fiery, glowing eyes burned into the very soul of the Frenchman. Louis staggered back as if red irons had been thrust in his face.
"Sacredie," said he, backing against Father Holland, "I am no murderer."
It was then I observed that Frances Sutherland had followed me. Her slender white fingers were about the bronzed hand of the French adventurer.
"Monsieur Laplante will tell us what he knows," she said softly, and she waited for his answer.
"The daughter of L'Aigle," he replied slowly and collectedly, all the while feasting upon that fair face, "comes down the Red with her tribe and captives, many captive women. They pass here to-night. They camp south the rapids, this side of the rapids. Last night I leave them. I run forward, I find Le Petit Garçon—how you call him?—Leetle Fellow? He take me to the priest. He bring canoe here. He wait now for carry us down. We must go to the rapids—to the camp! There my contract! My bargain, it is finished," and he shrugged his shoulders, for Frances had removed her hand from his.
Whether Louis Laplante's excitable nature were momentarily unbalanced by the success of his feat, I leave to psychologists. Whether some premonition of his impending fate had wrought upon him strangely, let psychical speculators decide. Or whether Louis, the sly rogue, worked up the whole situation for the purpose of drawing Frances Sutherland into the scene—which is what I myself suspect—I refer to private judgment, and merely set down the incidents as they occurred. That was how Louis Laplante told us of bringing Diable's squaw and her captives back to Red River. And that was how Father Holl
and and Eric and Louis and Mr. Sutherland and myself came to be embarking with a camping outfit for a canoe-trip down the river.
"Have the Indians passed, or are they to come?" I asked Louis as Mr. Sutherland and Eric settled themselves in a swift, light canoe, leaving the rest of us to take our places in a larger craft, where Little Fellow, gurgling pleased recognition of me, acted as steersman.
"They come later. The fast canoe go forward and camp. We watch behind," ordered Louis, winking at me significantly.
I saw Frances step to her father's canoe.
"You're no coming, Frances," he protested, querulously.
"Don't say that, father. I never disobeyed you in my life, and I am coming! Don't tell me not to! Push out, Mr. Hamilton," and she picked up a paddle and I saw the canoe dart swiftly forward into mid-current, where the darkness enveloped it; and we followed fast in its wake.
"Louis," said I, trying to fathom the meaning of his wink, "are those Indians to come yet?"
"No. Simpleton—you think Louis a fool?" he asked.
"Why did you lie to them?"
"Get them out of the way."
"Why?"
"Because, stupid, some ones they be killed to-night! The Englishman, he have a wife—he not be killed! Mademoiselle—she love a poor fool—or break her pretty heart! The father—he needed to stick-pin you both—so you never want for to fight each other," and Louis laughed low like the purr of water on his paddle-blade.
"Faith, lad," cried the priest, who had been unnaturally silent, because, I suppose, he was among aliens to his faith, "faith, lad, 'tis a good heart ye have, if ye'd but cut loose from the binding past. May this night put an end to your devil pranks!"
* * *
And that night did!
* * *
CHAPTER XXVIII
THE LAST OF LOUIS' ADVENTURES
I think, perhaps, the reason good enterprises fail so often where evil ventures succeed, is that the good man blunders forward, trusting to the merits of his cause, where the evil manipulator proceeds warily as a cat over broken glass. And so, altogether apart from his services as guide, I felt Louis Laplante's presence on the river a distinct advantage.
"The Lord is with us, lad. She shall be delivered! The Lord is with us; but don't you bungle His plans!" ejaculated Father Holland for the twentieth time; and each time the French trapper looked waggishly over his shoulder at me and winked.
"Bungle! Pah!" Louis clapped his paddle athwart the canoe and laughed a low, sly, defiant laugh. "Bungle! Pah! Catch Louis bungle his cards, ha, ha! Trumps! He play trumps—he hold his hand low—careless—nodings in it—he keep quiet—nodings worth play in his hand—but his sleeve—ha, ha!" and Louis laughed softly and winked at the full moon.
"The daughter of L'Aigle, she cuff Louis, she slap his cheek, she call him lump—lout—slouch! Ha, ha!—Louis no fool—he pare the claws of L'Aigle to-night!"
At that, Little Fellow's stolid face took on a vindictive gleam, and he snapped out something in Indian tongue which set Louis to laughing. Suddenly the Indian's paddle was suspended in mid-air, and Little Fellow bent over the prow, gazing at the moon-tracked water.
"Sacredie!" cried Louis, catching up water that trickled through his fingers, "'tis dried rabbit thong! They are ahead of us! They have passed while that Scotch mule was balk! We must catch the Englishman," and he began hitting out with his paddle at a great rate.
We had overtaken Mr. Sutherland's canoe within half an hour of Louis' discovery, and Eric wheeled about with a querulous demand.
"What's wrong? Are they ahead? I thought you said they were behind," and he turned suspiciously to Laplante.
"You thought wrong," said Louis, ever facile with subterfuges. "You thought wrong, Mister High-and-Mighty! Camp here and watch; they come before morning!"
"No lies to me," shouted Eric, becoming uncontrollably excited. "If you mislead us, your life shall——"
"Pig-head! I no save your wife for back chin! Camp here, I say," and Louis' fitful temper began to show signs of sulking.
"For goodness' sake, Eric, do what you're told! We've made a bad enough business of it——"
"Give the Frenchman a chance! Do what you're told, I say, ye blunderers! Troth, the Lord Himself couldn't bring success to such blundering idiots," was Father Holland's comment.
"I'll take na orders frae meddlesome papists," began the Scotchman; but Little Fellow had forcibly turned the prow of the canoe shoreward. I gave them a shove with my paddle. Frances took the cue, and while her father was yet scolding raised her paddle and had them close to the river bank.
"Get your tent up here," I called to conciliate them. "Then come to the bank and watch for the Indians."
A bit of clean gravel ran out from the clay cliff.
"That's the ground," said I, as the other canoe bumped over the pebbles; and I stopped paddling and dangled my hand in the water.
Something in the dark drifted wet and soft against my fingers. Ordinarily such an incident would not have alarmed me; but instantly a shudder of apprehension ran through my frame. I scarce had courage to look into the river lest the white face of a woman should appear through the watery depths. Clutching the water-soaked tangle, I jerked it up. Something gave with a rip, and my hand was full of shawl fringe.
"What's that, Rufus?" asked Father Holland. "Don't know." I motioned him to be silent and held it up in the moonlight. Distinctly it was, or had been, red fringe.
"Do you think—" he began, then stopped. Our keel had rubbed bottom and Hamilton was springing out of the other canoe.
"Yes, I do," I replied, choking with dread. "This is too terrible! He'll kill himself! Go up the bank with him! Keep him busy at the tent! Little Fellow and I'll pole for it. The water's shallow there——"
"What do you think?" said the priest to Laplante.
"T'ink! I never t'ink! I finds out." But all the same, Louis' assurance was shaken and he peered searchingly into the river.
"Aren't you coming? What's your plan?" called Eric.
"Certainly we are, but get this truck to higher ground, will you?" I hoisted out the camp trappings. "I want to paddle out for something."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Something lost out there. I lost it out of my hand."
Frances Sutherland, I know, suspected trouble from the alarm which I could not keep out of my speech; for she pressed to the water's edge.
"Get the tent ready," I urged.
"What's the meaning of this mystery?" persisted Hamilton sharply. "What have you lost?"
"Don't press him too closely. Faith, it may be a love token," interjected Father Holland, as he stepped ashore; but he whispered in my ear as he passed, "You're wrong, lad! You're on the wrong track!"
I leaped back to the canoe, Little Fellow and the Frenchman following, and we paddled to the shallows where I had caught the fringe. I prodded the soft mud below and trailed the paddle back and forward over the clay bottom. Louis did likewise; but in vain. Only soft ooze came up on the blade. Then Little Fellow stripped and dived. Of course it was dark under water, as it always is dark under the muddy Red, and the Indian could not feel a thing from which fringe could have ripped. Had my jerk disturbed whatever it was and sent it rolling down to mid-current? I asked Father Holland this when I came back.
"Tush, faint-heart," he muttered, drawing me aside. "'Tis only a trial of your faith."
I said something about trials of faith which I shall not repeat here, but which the majority of people, who are on the tenter-hooks of such trials, have said for themselves.
"Faith! Pah!" exclaimed Louis, joining our whispered conference, while Eric and Mr. Sutherland were hoisting a tent. "That shawl, it mean nodings of things heavenly! It only mean rag stuck in the mud and reds nearabouts here! I have told the Great Bear and his snarl Englishman the Indians not come till morning. They get tent ready and watch! You follow Louis, he lead you to camp. The priest—he good for say a little prayer; the Indian for fight; Louis—for swea
r; Rufus—to snatch the Englishwoman, he good at snatching the fair, ha-ha."
He darted to the shore, calling Little Fellow from the canoe and leaving Father Holland and me to follow as best we could.
"We'll be back soon, Eric," I shouted. "We're going to get the lie of the land. Keep watch here," and I broke into a run to keep up with the French trapper and the Indian, who were leading into the woods away from the river. I could hear Father Holland puffing behind like a wind-blown racer. Abruptly the priest came to a stop.
"By all the saints," he ordered. "Go back to the tent!"
I turned. A white form emerged from the foliage and Frances was beside me.
"May I not come?" she asked.
"No—dearest, there will be fighting."
"No—Lord—no," panted Father Holland coming up to us. "We're not swapping one woman for another. What would Rufus do without ye?"
"You are going for Miriam?" she questioned, holding my hand. "God speed you and bring you back safely!"
"Say rather—bring Miriam," and I unfastened the clinging hand almost roughly.
"Come on, slugs, sloths, laggards," commanded Laplante impatiently, and we dashed into the thick of the woods, leaving the white figure alone against the shadowy thicket. She called out something, of which I heard only two words, "Miriam" and "Rufus"; but I knew those names were uttered in supplication and they filled my heart with daring hope. Surely, we must succeed—for the Little Statue's prayers were following me—and I bounded on with a faith as buoyant as the priest's blind trust. Thus we ran through the moon-shafted woods pursuing the flitting, lithe figures of trapper and Indian, who scarce disturbed a fern leaf, while Father Holland and I floundered through the underbrush like ramping elephants. Then I found myself panting as hard as the priest and clinging to his arm for support; for illness had taken all the bravery out of my muscles, like champagne uncorked and left in the heat.
"Brace yourself, lad," said the priest. "The Lord is with us, but don't you bungle."
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