The Wilderness Trail

“We were guarding McTavish.”

“What for?”

“He was to be hanged to-morrow for the murder of Indian Tom.”

Seguis's jaw dropped, and his eyes bulged.

“Damnation, you idiot!” he said at last, wrathfully. “Why didn't you tell me? I wouldn't have interfered for the world.”

CHAPTER XXI

A NOTE AND ITS ANSWER

Ten minutes later, a man approached Seguis.

“We've found the provisions under a tent near the other cabin,” he said.

“Quick, then!” the half-breed snapped. “Get them out as soon as you can. If we can get away without being seen, so much the better.”

But in this, Seguis had counted without Buxton. Because of the passive actions of the two men upon his appearance the half-breed considered them cowards, and, after disarming them, had kept a careless watch over their movements, though always holding them in sight. In relieving them of rifles and revolvers, he thought he had silenced them, but Buxton was provided against just such an emergency. Beneath his outer garments, he wore a second belt, which permitted the suspension of a revolver in such a position that it could be neither seen nor felt in a hasty examination. Now, when the opportunity offered, he secured this weapon, and fired rapidly a number of times into the air.

Almost immediately tent doors were opened, and men, carrying weapons, burst out, bewildered, but aware of danger from the signal. By previous arrangement, they gathered around the factor's cabin, where Buxton had already taken his stand. In a moment, he had told them what had happened, and then the factor himself appeared. In the three weeks that had elapsed, he had recovered sufficiently to leave his bed, and his shoulder was almost healed. Now, he took command. In the meantime, Seguis's men, having secured a goodly supply of provisions, were making all speed into the forest. Fitzpatrick, dazed at the audacity of the free-traders, gave vent to an explosion of fury.

“Fire!” he commanded gratingly. “Kill every one of 'em. Fire!” And the leveled rifles of almost fifty men spoke with unerring aim. Three of those last to leave the camp fell, but the others, now in the protection of the forest, fled away on their snow-shoes at top speed.

“After 'em!” snarled Fitzpatrick. “Don't let one of 'em get away. We'll end this matter here.”

Instantly there was a rush for tents and belongings, for none of the men had had the opportunity to slip on snowshoes. Fifteen minutes later, the pursuers struck out, led by the aged factor, whose rage seemed to lend him almost superhuman strength. In vain, Jean had besought him to stay in camp, saying that the others would do just as well without him. At last, he had promised reluctantly to return in an hour. Two men who had been wounded previously were ordered to remain, and to put the storehouse in order.

When Charley Seguis heard the pistol of Buxton give warning, his first impulse was to turn upon the man, and shoot him dead. But his second – and Seguis usually listened to the second – was to get away peaceably with all the provisions possible. Consequently, his order rang out short and sharp, and was obeyed, for it was the principle of the free-traders to strike no blow except in defense. In his mind's eye, the intelligent half-breed reviewed the scene that must shortly ensue. After that first volley, he could picture the pursuers in their rush for equipment, the hasty start, and the deserted camp. Seguis had come hither for two purposes – to secure food, and to see Jean Fitzpatrick. He had accomplished the first; now to accomplish the second. Putting one of his trusted men in charge of the party, with directions to head for Sturgeon Lake, and explaining he was going to reconnoiter a little, Seguis struck sharply to the right, and began a long, circular detour. Half an hour brought him to a spot behind the Hudson Bay camp, where a considerable hill, with a few scattered trees, sheltered it from the northern storm blasts. Cautiously, and without a sound, Seguis climbed this hill, dodging from tree to tree. At last, he reached the summit, and, lying down on his stomach, peered over… His heart stood still. Not twenty yards away from him, slightly down the declivity, stood Jean Fitzpatrick. Her back was to him, and her eyes were glued to a pair of field-glasses. Evidently, she was trying to discern signs of the pursuit in a clear space several miles away.

Seguis looked beyond her interestedly. There was not a sign of life in the camp. The men who had stayed behind to right the storehouse were now in the woods, picking up any supplies that might have been dropped. Fortune had again favored him. Very cautiously, he stood upright, then slowly advanced. So intent was the girl upon the pursuit that she did not hear the delicate crunching of the snow-shoes. When ten feet away, he drew himself to his full height, and spoke her name, softly:

“Miss Jean.”

She whirled upon him swiftly, and shrank back Into herself, as though he had aimed a blow at her. He, on his part, could hardly believe his eyes when he looked into her face. This was not the happy, care-free, girlish Jean Fitzpatrick, who had laughed her way through the brief summer months. He saw, now, the face of a woman, who had learned much and suffered much. There were gravity in the eyes and a seriousness across the brow that served as the badges of this new realization; but there was no fear. After the first shrinking of surprise, she looked him coldly up and down.

“What do you want?” she said.

“To speak with you.”

“Did you come for that purpose especially?”

“Yes.” Seguis smiled a little, with satisfaction. In searching Timmins, he had found a letter addressed to Jean, in McTavish's handwriting. He might have to use it, and he might not.

“Keep your distance, sir,” the girl commanded, haughtily, “and we will talk. If you make a step nearer to me than you are now, I'll scream, and those men in the woods will hear me. And, if they hear me, and learn the trouble, it will go hard with you. Now, what do you want?”

Seguis had expected to find a fluttering, fearful youngling, somewhat impressed with his graces and courage. This businesslike disposal of his case caused his active mind to change its tack, as soon as it sensed the veer of the wind.

“I am here,” he said, “to present my compliments to you, along with those of a certain other man.”

“Whom do you mean?” Jean's voice was now a little tremulous, despite her discipline of it.

“Captain McTavish.”

“Oh!” she said, and she was silent for a moment, collecting herself. “But why do you, of all people, come with this message?” she added.

“No reason at all, except that I saved his life this morning, and thought you might want to learn the facts, and perhaps an inkling of his whereabouts.”

“Was that really your reason?” she asked, more kindly.

“It was one of them,” he answered, significantly.

It was now Jean's turn to look at her companion with some interest. He spoke with a certain dignity and reserve that she had never noticed in him before. His eyes were firm and steady when they met hers; his bearing was courteous. With a sort of horrible pleasure, she recognized that this was Donald's half-brother, and looked for a family resemblance. She found a very strong one, in the eyes and general stature. Mercifully for her feelings, the shape of the head was hidden in the swathed capote and fur cap. She wondered vaguely if he knew of the relationship.

“Where is – Captain McTavish?” she asked, finally.

“On his way to Sturgeon Lake.”

“Did he leave any message for me?”

“A letter that I have in my pocket.”

“May I see it?” she asked eagerly, involuntarily stretching forth her hand.

“How can I hand it to you, if I have to keep this distance?” Seguis asked, quizzically, and met her stare with humorous eyes.

“I'll come and get it,” she announced, “when you have it in your hand, ready for me to take.”

“You haven't thanked me yet for saving his life,” the half-breed reminded her. “If it hadn't been for me, he would now be – ”

“Don't!” she cried sharply, going pale of a sudden. “Don't ever make any reference to that!” She paused, then added: “I can't thank you enough though, Seguis, for the fact that you saved his life. Why did you do it?”

“I'll tell you later,” was the non-committal reply. “In the meantime, here is your letter.” He reached inside his shirt, and drew forth a dirty envelope, on which the girl's name was inscribed in pencil. He held it toward her without a word, and the girl clutched at it eagerly.

“Just a moment,” he said, withholding it. “You must read it here and now. I want to take it away with me. I must ask your promise in this matter.”

“Why?”

“You will learn that later, too. Will you promise?”

For a minute, the girl struggled, and then love won. Better to read the bitter parting message and lose it than not see it at all.

“Yes, I promise,” she said, quietly; and he immediately put the envelope in her hands.

Her trembling fingers picked at the flap as she turned away.

“You will pardon me?” she announced rather than asked, turning her back upon him. No living being must see her expression as these last words met her eye.

“Certainly.”

With seeming nonchalance, Seguis filled his pipe from a skin tobacco-pouch, and began to smoke. The men gathering up scattered stores at the edge of the woods below moved slowly and painfully because of their wounds, he noticed. A snow-bunting chirped from a drift near by, and faintly to his ears from the deeper woods came the chattering scold of a whiskey-jack, or jay. He noticed these things during the first few whiffs. Then, he looked once again at Jean. Her back was still turned, but presently she faced him slowly, her cheeks flushed, and her blue eyes starry bright, though wet. He appeared unconscious of her emotion, a thing for which she mentally thanked him. In fact, she found him less offensive every moment. He was different from any half-breed she had ever known, but he was only less offensive than others. He could never be anything better.

“Now, tell me why you want this letter back?” she asked, clinging to it desperately, as though it were her lover's hand.

“I want to take it to Captain McTavish, but I want you to write something on it first. You will pardon me if I ask if that was not a letter of farewell?”

“It was.”

“Have you a pencil with you?”

“Not here, but there is one in the cabin, among my father's journals. Shall I get it?” Then she bit her lip with vexation. Instead of dominating this interview, as she had intended, she was submitting herself to the plans of the half-breed.

“I must ask for the letter while you are gone.”

After a moment's thought Jean handed it to him, with a promise to return without warning the men at the edge of the woods. A certain curiosity to see this mysterious happening to its conclusion stirred within her. Now that Donald had escaped the shadow of death that had been hovering over him, her spirits rose buoyantly, and she was anxious to further anything that concerned him. She returned presently with the pencil, and asked Seguis what he wished her to do.

“Write him a note of farewell,” came the stolid command. “It will be the last message he will ever receive from you.”

Instantly her color fled; fear filled her eyes.

“What do you mean? You're not going to kill him?” she burst out.

“No. He is going to leave the country forever.”

“Did he tell you so?” she asked.

“No. But I want you to tell him so, in your own handwriting. It is the only thing that will save him. He'll obey you. I'll see that he gets a safe-conduct to the edge of the district. If you don't do this, I can't answer for what'll happen to him.”

“Then you will kill him!” she flashed. “I knew it. Look here, Seguis! What's your object in this? You have a motive, and I demand to know what it is.”

For an instant, the passion of the man leaped to his lips, and trembled there in hot words. But he crushed it down resolutely. He was too wise to ruin his plans now. Later, in a year, in two years, five years perhaps, when the memory of McTavish had dimmed, he would speak. But, now, he must not betray himself.

“I sha'n't kill him,” he returned, calmly. “Nothing is further from my mind. But I won't be responsible for what happens to him. There's only one way of saving his life – to send him out of the country. If he stays, he'll eventually be captured, and what nearly happened to-day will happen then. You wish him to live, don't you?

“Yes, yes,” she muttered, between dry lips. “Whatever happens to me, he must live.”

“Then, write as I suggest. Make it a command, not an entreaty. He'll obey you, and his life will be saved.”

For a few moments, Jean paused, irresolute, and then, with difficulty, started the message on the back of the pages McTavish had sent to her. There was no struggle now against the inevitable; that had been endured before. This was merely writing a different final chapter to their romance, and she felt glad of the opportunity to give him life, although life without her and without honor were an empty thing to him. Strong in the feeling that upon her words his very existence depended, she made them eager and hopeful, but imperative, appealing to those instincts in him that could not resist her desire. For perhaps ten minutes, she wrote, and then handed the paper to Seguis.

“I must read it,” he said, and, at her nod of acquiescence, puzzled out the words that emotion and her awkward position had made unsteady and misshapen. Then, he nodded his head with satisfaction, and tucked the letter away.

“Seguis,” said the girl, when he prepared to go, “what is your motive in doing this? You haven't answered my question.”

“My motive and my desire in this matter,” he replied feelingly, “is to secure your own happiness; nothing else.” With that, he turned away, and coasted swiftly down the hill to the edge of the forest whence he had come.

“My own happiness!” repeated the girl to herself, as she saw him disappear. “How strange a thing for him to say! And, yet, if only Donald is alive and safe I shall be happy – in knowing that he can still think of me.”

Five minutes later, a wind-driven snow-storm that had threatened all the morning broke with terrible fury, and, scarcely able to stand against the blast, she made her way down to the deserted cabin, just as the returning factor appeared at the edge of the woods.

CHAPTER XXII

SECRETED EVIDENCE

It was an hour before sunset, but so uniform had been the darkness all day that neither Donald nor his two companions realized that night was close upon them. Hour after hour they had struggled onward through the blinding, bewildering storm, shelterless and without food, straining forward to the only place where these things might be obtained – Sturgeon Lake. Now, when the blanketing night was almost fallen, they sighted the charred ruins that had once been the warehouse of the free-traders, with a sigh of relief. A shout from one of Donald's companions brought the five men who had been left out of their tents. A shriveled female form joined them, and with a clutch at his heart the prisoner recognized old Maria.

Fortune, whose plaything he had been all this day, was indeed kind to him at last, he thought. He remembered certain trite observations concerning opportunity knocking at a man's door, and the obvious duty of a man to seize such opportunity, and bend it to his own use. If this were opportunity, he said to himself, he would make the most of it.

During that all-day struggle with the storm, Donald McTavish had come into his own again. The passive acceptance of fate that had buoyed him even to the shadow of the gallows, had gone from him now. He was all energy and aggressiveness. He resolved to bring matters to a head within the next few days, or know the reason why. What motive had moved Charley Seguis to send him to Sturgeon Lake, he did not know, nor did he care. He only remembered that he was at liberty once again, in a certain sense of the word, and that he had a fighting chance. The sight of old Maria recalled to his mind the words of Angus Fitzpatrick in regard to the marriage certificate that existed as proof of his father's youthful indiscretion. On the instant, he vowed that the hag should give up the truth of the matter before she was many hours older.

As the little party entered the camp, the men who had remained there plied them with questions as to the success of the foraging party. When the meager story had been told, they shook their heads dolefully at the lack of information, and set about the work of preparing the evening meal of fish.

McTavish, as he joined the circle with a ravenous appetite, could scarcely credit the desolation he saw on all sides of him. Now that the main loghouse was down, the settlement presented a dreary and hopeless aspect. The one redeeming feature was the huge pile of rescued fur-bales. The quantity and quality of these impressed him strongly. One of the men, observing his interest in them, remarked:

“If you fellows would get down to business, instead of wasting all winter fussing about us, you might have something like that brought into the fort when spring comes, yourselves.”

“Well, you see,” returned Donald good-humoredly, “our idea is to have those brought in when spring comes. That's all we're fighting for.”

“Deuce of a chance you've got of getting those furs!” retorted the other, contemptuously. “We're sick of the H. B.'s starvation trading, and we've quit for good and all.”

“The Hudson Bay may give starvation trading, but I'd like to know where else you'll get as much.”

Donald was leading the man on, for here was very valuable information, and this babbler evidently did not know the worth of a tight mouth.

“As much!” the trapper snorted. “Why, these Frenchies'll give us half again as much for a 'beaver' as you chaps ever thought of giving. And there's no use you fellows trying to keep them out, either. This is free territory, you know, even if old Fitz' doesn't think so. I've told Seguis often enough that, if he'd wipe old Fitz' off the map, he'd do the brotherhood more good than any other hundred men.”

“I know, my good friend. But when do you suppose these Frenchies will ever connect with you? Maybe never and – ”

The other burst into derisive laughter.

“Why, you poor fool!” he cried. “If it hadn't been for this blizzard to-day, we'd have been bargaining with 'em here to-night. Ten big trains of supplies are within thirty miles of us – and you ask me if they'll ever connect! That's good!” And he roared with laughter.

McTavish bridled, but kept his temper, for it was evident who was the fool. He continued pressing the subject for some little time further, but elicited no more really valuable information. Judging his man, he came to the conclusion that the fellow knew nothing more.

Being ignorant of the events that had occurred in the Hudson Bay camp after his departure, Donald was unaware of the desperate pursuit that was going on through the howling storm, but it was no surprise that none of Seguis's party returned to the camp.

“Can't travel in this weather,” said one man, dolefully. “If this keeps up long, we won't see 'em till it's over. Honest, after this winter, I'll be surprised if I don't sprout fins, I've eaten so much fish.”

The camp was about to turn in early when a faint cry sounded outside the circle of tents. Immediately, every one turned out, hoping it was the foragers back. Rushing in the direction of the sound, the men returned, accompanying a bedraggled old man with a gray beard, after whom limped a train of spiritless, wolfish dogs attached to a battered sledge.

“Thought I was done for in that storm, boys,” said the aged voyageur wagging his head, “but I remembered this cove around the headland, and made for it. Got anything to eat?”

According to the unwritten law of Northern hospitality, Bill Thompson, for so he gave his name, was taken in, and given what the camp afforded. He seemed to be a harmless old vagrant, whose point of departure and intended point of arrival on this journey were difficult to ascertain. He talked unceasingly of nothing in particular, and delivered endless narratives of adventures that had befallen him in his lurid and distant youth.

All that night, the storm continued unabated, and the next morning when the camp aroused itself, Bill Thompson gave out the dictum that it would continue for two days more at least. McTavish and his companions congratulated themselves that they had made the camp the night before, for in such weather traveling was almost an impossibility.

At the meager breakfast Donald realized for the first time that Maria had not appeared since the night before, when he had seen her upon their arrival. When he had pulled up his belt a notch, and lighted his pipe, the trapper's substitute for a full meal, he wandered back to the tent where he had slept. He was allowed perfect liberty among these men, first, because the weather made it impossible for him to attempt escape, and, second, because they had received no orders to keep him under strict guard. Despite his wretched situation, this morning the spirit of happiness and determination that had seized him the night before was strong upon him, and he settled himself to formulating his plans. Suddenly, right beside him at the tent door, he discovered the bent form of old Maria. How she had got there he did not know, for she seemed to have risen directly out of the earth. Her presence both startled him, and filled him with a quick hatred.

This was the creature who held in her filthy, withered hand the happiness of so many persons; this was the creature that his father had lov – No! Not that, for he could only have loved the beautiful girl he had married in Montreal.

Donald looked at the old woman with a kind of pitying loathing. What a terrible thing it was that such a worthless bit of humanity should hold so much power! She was within reach of his hands. A quick clutch, a stifled squawk, a brief struggle, and she would be dead. And how much that was to come might be averted! He laughed a little at such a method of cutting the Gordian knot.

“Laugh while you can, young McTavish,” Maria croaked, suddenly. “It won't be for long.”

“Why not, old raven?” he asked, regarding her interestedly.

The certificate! That was it. She had the certificate, and he must get it.

“The right man is coming,” she replied. “The pride of his father's heart! Ha, ha! Yes, the pride of his father's heart! He'll be rich, and have the honors heaped high. You'd better go, young McTavish – go while there's yet time.”

“Why should I go? What are you talking about, anyway, old woman?

“You lie!” she yelled at him suddenly, being close. “I see it in your eyes. You know all. You know why you should go. And I warn you to go.”

“Warn me? What about?”

“If there should be blood, it would do no hurt,” she muttered, vaguely. “Then, he would come into his own, the rightful heir, my son.”

Donald glanced at the beldam with a certain uneasiness now. He felt a veiled threat, although, he told himself, she was mad. And, yet if she felt that Seguis must be recognized, what would keep her from doing incalculable harm?

“You talk a lot, but you say little,” he retorted, with a sneer. “You make plenty of moves, but you accomplish nothing. That's a squaw every time.”

The little eyes blazed upon him red, and her withered face shook with fury.

“Accomplish nothing, eh, young McTavish? We shall see. Ha! You'll wish you'd never been born – you and your father and mother, and all!”

“More talk!” he gibed. “I want proofs. If you can show me proofs of what you claim, I'll do all I can to help your son to his rightful place.”

“My son!” she taunted, in turn. “Your brother? Your brother, young McTavish! Call him brother, next time you see him.” Her shrieking mirth mingled fittingly with the anguish of the wind among the trees. But suddenly, she stopped short, and looked at him with questioning eyes.

“You'll help him, you say, if I can give the proof that I was McTavish's wife?”

“Yes.”

Donald lied heartily: the occasion demanded it. Long since, he had decided for himself that truth was not a garment to be worn on all occasions. To those he loved, he would tell the truth if it killed him, but others must depend upon the circumstances of the case. Now, he knew that, if he could get documentary proof within arm's reach, he would destroy it, though it earned him a knife between the ribs. He watched her like a hawk, although apparently totally indifferent to the conversation.