The Wilderness Trail

“He knows, he knows!” she croaked. “Tell him this time that there is money in it, and, if he won't see me now, I'll be back in the spring.”

She went out, leaving Jean bewildered and spent with emotion, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. Knowing that her father was busy, she returned to the papers, and tried to read. But the words passed in front of her eyes without meaning, and, after fifteen minutes of this, she rose determinedly.

The knock on her father's study door elicited a growl of inquiry, and she went in without answering. Old Angus Fitzpatrick sat bent over his desk writing, his white beard sweeping the polished wood. He wore large horn spectacles.

“Father,” began the girl, coming straight to the point, “do you know an old Ojibway squaw by the name of Maria?”

Neither the bulk of the man nor his stolidity could hide the involuntary start the words gave him. He looked searchingly at his daughter from beneath his beetling brows.

“Yes, I have seen her, I think,” he replied cautiously after a moment. “Why?”

“She came here to-day, and insisted, almost violently, on seeing you. Butts was about to send her away when I interfered and talked to her myself. I don't like her; she frightens me.”

“You talked with her?” asked the factor hastily, his agitation undisguised this time.

“Yes, but I couldn't learn anything definite. She has a lot of nasty rumors in her head. Maybe they're facts, but she only spoke in hints. She said the facts she would tell only to you.”

Angus Fitzpatrick heaved an inaudible sigh of relief. The old squaw, then, had been discreet.

“What was the subject of her conversation?” he asked, sharply.

The girl hesitated and flushed.

“Horrid hints regarding Don – Captain McTavish,” she said, finally. Then, her indignation rising once more, she went on swiftly: “Just the sort of thing I have heard from you, from Tee-ka-mee, from every one who has a right or privilege to mention such things. Now, father, I have come in here to find out just what this thing is. You can tell me in five minutes, if you will. Ah, yes, you can,” she insisted, as the factor started to deny. “Yes, you can; old Maria said so, and I believe her. After last summer when he was here, and I – when I grew to be very fond of his company, you suddenly began putting things into my mind, uncertain hints, slurring intimations, significant gestures – all the things that can damage a character without positively defaming it. Something had happened! Something had come to your notice that made you do all that. You never liked Donald, but you didn't really oppose him before that time. Now, I want to know what this is.” Her voice hardened. “I'm tired of being treated like a schoolgirl; I'm twenty-four, and old enough to think for myself, and I demand to know what mystery has forced a black shadow between us.”

She stopped, breathless, the color going and coming in her cheeks like the ebb and flow of northern lights in the sky.

Old Angus Fitzpatrick, amazed at the vehemence of his usually passive daughter, had risen to his feet. To make him furious, it was only necessary to demand something. This the girl, in excellent imitation of his own manner, had done, and he resented it highly, glaring at her through his spectacles.

“Do you mean to stand there and say that you demand that I tell you something?” he roared. “Well, I refuse, that's all.”

And he turned angrily away from her. The girl mastered herself, and asked in a cold, even voice:

“Will you tell me this? Is there anything definite against Donald McTavish?

“Do you demand to know?

“No, I ask it.”

“Well, then, there is. A perfectly good reason why you can never marry him.”

“What is it?”

“I can't tell you. And, if I can't, no one else can. Respect him all you will for himself, but don't love him. I tell you this to spare you pain later. And, if you please, Jean,” he added more gently as his temper went down, “never let us speak of this painful subject again.”

“Very well, father,” she replied, calmly. “Oh, by the way, do you wish to see that woman? She leaves this afternoon.”

“No, I never want to see her again.”

“She said for me to tell you there was money in it this time,” added the girl, a slight note of contempt in her tone.

The factor hesitated.

“No,” he said finally; and, without another word, Jean left the room.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ALARM

Darkness had just fallen over the snow-enshrouded fort. Three hours ago, Maria, with her stoical Indian son, had pulled out behind a dog-train with fresh supplies. The old squaw had been balked in her attempt to see the factor. Since she had not been sent for, she did not dare try to force another entrance.

Angus Fitzpatrick and his daughters, Laura and Jean, were having tea in the drawing-room; preparations were under way for dinner in the kitchen. Outside, a couple of huskies got into a fight, the bell of the chapel rang for mid-week even-song, a couple of Indians called in Ojibway to each other across the snowy expanse of the courtyard.

Suddenly, from somewhere out on the frozen Severn, there came faint yells, followed by the staccato of revolver and rifle shots. Just as suddenly, all the life in the factory came to a dead stop, as everyone listened for more shots by which to make sure of the direction. Three minutes later, the additional reports sounded sharply.

With lightning speed, snowshoes were strapped on, rifles and cartridge-belts gathered up, and, almost in less time than it takes to tell, twenty men were racing across the ice to help.

It was the familiar winter's tragedy near the fort – a man traveling fast and nearing his destination at nightfall. Perhaps, he had five miles to go for food, warmth, light, and companionship. He took the risk, and pressed on in the dark. And, then, the wolf-pack, that had been dogging him over many leagues, closed in for the kill, since the lone man's one security is his fire.

“When will these Indians learn that lesson?” asked the factor irritably, sipping his tea. The shots had reached his ears, and the swift departure of the rescuers had been heard from the courtyard.

It was, perhaps, an hour later when a tramping of feet and chorus of voices announced the return of the men. As there was no sad procession, it was evident that the trapper had been saved. Presently, Butts entered the lamplit room.

“The trapper they just rescued is asking to see you, sir,” he said. “Claims his message to be most important, sir, 'e does.”

“Life and death?”

“Might as well say so, sir, from the way he carries on.”

“Show him in.”

Five minutes later, Cardepie, the Frenchman from Fort Dickey, stood in the presence of the factor's family, vastly embarrassed, but bursting with news.

“Ah, by gar!” he cried when permission to speak had been given; “dere is gran' trouble in de distric'. Everywhere, de trapper is gone away – everywhere de shanty is desert'. B-gosh! For sure, dere is somet'ing wrong! One, two, ten, dirteen days ago, dat brave Captain McTavish go on de long trail for Charley Seguis, an' have not been heard of since. Diable! Perhaps, he no find heem in dat time; anyway, he sen' word to de fort. But dis time? Non! We haf no word, an' by gar! I know somet'ing wrong.

“I call my dogs, Ba'tiste an' Pierre an' Raoul an' Saint Jean, an' pack de sleigh. I cannot stan' my brother lost, so I go after heem. Bien donc! I hunt de distric' careful, but I fin' not wan track of heem. I go to trapper shanty one after de other. Peter Rainy, he gone four days before me, but I not even see heem. Tonnerre, sacré! De hair stan' on my head wit' fear of somet'ing I do not know. Mebbe wan beeg loup-garou eat every man in de distric', an' have his eye on me.

“I go into a shanty, an' fin' paper not burn' In stove just wan end. I pick it up; I read de English good, like I talk. McTavish teach me dat on long nights. B-gosh! m'sieur, I read dat fas', once, twice. Den I go out, an' jump into de sleigh, an' point Ba'tiste's nose to Fort Severn. Pauvre Saint Jean, he die I run heem so hard, an' now I got only t'ree dogs.”

“Stop! Stop!” yelled the factor at the top of his voice, interrupting with difficulty the tumbling cascade of Cardepie's speech. “Have you that paper with you?”

“Oui, by gar!” cried the Frenchman proudly, digging into his fur coat, and finally producing a half-sheet of rough paper, charred at the upper edge.

Fitzpatrick puzzled over it for a full minute. Then, his eyes began to bulge, and the veins in his neck to swell as he read aloud:

The brotherhood meets in five days at Sturgeon Lake. Bring your early furs to the post there.

SEGUIS, Chief Free-Trader.

“Free-traders! Free-traders!” he gasped. “By heaven, this is too much! For thirty years, I have been factor in this district, and kept the hunters in line. But, now, there's a brotherhood of free-traders. They'll flout the Company, will they? They'll flout me, eh? I'll show them, by heaven! I'll show them!”

The factor heaved himself out of his chair, and lumbered excitedly up and down the room.

“And Seguis is at the head of it. I wonder where that man, McTavish, is? If he has done his duty, that sneaking half-breed is either dead or tied to a sledge on his way here. That'll break 'em up quick enough – taking their leader! It's up to him, now… Cardepie, send the chief trader of the fort and the doctor to me, at once. We'll have to organize to meet this situation.”

The Frenchman, frightened at the anger of the fierce old man, was glad enough to make his escape. Fitzpatrick turned to his daughters.

“Girls, please have your dinners brought upstairs to you to-night. I want to talk business with my chiefs at the table.”

Obediently, the two young women rose and left the room, glad, in their turn, to avoid the tantrum of the irate factor.

Morning found Fort Severn in a tumult of excitement. The news of the free-trading organization had spread until even the dullest Indian had been made aware of it.

The council of department heads, at dinner the night before, had unanimously decided that but one course lay open to them – to crush the rebellion against the Company before it could reach any larger proportions. At the same time, it was agreed that a wait of a few days would be judicious, for in that time McTavish might come in with Charley Seguis as his prisoner.

No one doubted for a moment that, if McTavish came at all, it would be either to announce the death of the man he had set out to capture, or to hand his prisoner over to the authorities. Such was Donald's reputation in the district.

Nevertheless, all necessary preparations for a military expedition were made. Storekeeper Trent drew liberally on his supplies, and kept his helpers busy making up packs for traveling. Also, he opened cases of cartridges, that he might serve them out to the men on a moment's notice. Sledges were overhauled and repaired.

About noon of the third day, a dog-train and sledge, with one man walking beside it, were sighted far across the frozen Severn, headed toward the fort. Half an hour later, a man stationed in one of the bastions with a field-glass announced that a second man lay on the sledge.

“That settles it,” said he. “It's McTavish bringing in Charley Seguis.”

A sigh of relief went up, for all knew their task would now be easier. After another space, however, the man with the glass began to focus industriously and mutter to himself.

“That's not McTavish walking at all!” he suddenly cried. “It's an Indian.” And five minutes later: “By heaven! That's McTavish on the sleigh.”

Thus did the fort first know of the happening to the captain of Fort Dickey. When the dogs, with a final burst of speed and music of bells, swept through the tunneled snow of the main gate, the whole settlement gathered around curiously.

With a wry grin, McTavish rose from the furs that wrapped him, and, with a wave of his hand, but no word, started directly for the factor's house. One hand was bound in strips of fur and a fold of his capote shielded his eyes from the glare. He was beginning to see again, however, and went straight toward his object, turning aside all questions with a shake of his head.

Not so with Peter Rainy. The center of an admiring and curious group, he narrated his adventures with many a flourish and exaggeration. Reduced to a few words, the facts were these:

When McTavish had refused to take his old servant on the hunt for Charley Seguis, Rainy had moped disconsolate for almost a week. It was the first time they had ever been separated on a dog or canoe journey. At the end of that period, when no runner had brought word of his master, the Indian became restless and anxious.

Finally, having nothing himself, he had mended an old sleigh at the fort, borrowed Buller's dog-team, and set out to locate McTavish, against the desire and advice of Cardepie and Buller.

How he had followed the blind trail, how he had escaped capture at Lake Sturgeon by a hair's breadth and a snowfall that obliterated his tracks, and how he had, finally, in despair, started for Fort Severn for help, took long in the telling.

But the same snowfall that saved him, saved McTavish, for, in taking a cut through the woods, Rainy had come upon the erratic tracks of the blind man, and followed them without the slightest suspicion of whose they were, only knowing that someone was in distress.

The meeting between man and master, just barely in time to save the latter's life, had been fervent, but reserved. McTavish gave himself up to the ministrations of the other like a child, and obediently rode almost all the way to the fort on the sledge, his eyes covered. Food there had been in plenty, so that, by the time the snowy masses of Fort Severn showed themselves, he had regained nearly all his strength.

But, while Peter Rainy was satisfying curious ears outside, a far different scene was taking place in the factor's private office. Donald, the covering removed from his eyes in the darkened room, faced Angus Fitzpatrick across the latter's desk, and briefly told the story of his adventures.

When he had finished the account, there was silence in the room for a minute. Fitzpatrick scowled. Something about this young man, even his presence itself, seemed to irritate him.

“Where is the man you went out to get, McTavish?” asked the factor.

“At Sturgeon Lake.”

“He ought to be here in jail.”

“I know it, sir. I did the best I could.”

“The Hudson Bay Company doesn't take that for an excuse. It wants the man. This is a hard country and a hard rule, but no other rule will keep a respect for law in our territories. A shot, a dagger-thrust, anything to punish Seguis for his crime, and this ruffianly collection of free-traders would have disbanded, leaderless.”

“But,” expostulated McTavish, “surely you do not counsel murder as a punishment for murder.”

“I counsel measures to fit needs. In this vast desolation, I am the law; I represent the inevitable result of a cause, the inexorable, never-failing punishment of a wrong. As my lieutenant, you also represent it. Charley Seguis should either be dead or a prisoner here.”

Donald did not answer. Theoretically, the factor was right; according to all the traditions of the Company, he spoke the truth. But he had evidently forgotten that even the Company he worshiped was made up of men, who were human and not omnipotent. Carried too far, his premises were unjust, ridiculous, and untenable. But of what good were arguments?

“Then, I have failed in my duty?” McTavish asked, wearily.

“Judge for yourself.”

“What are your next orders for me?”

“A hundred dollars fine and a month's confinement in the fort here.”

McTavish shrank back as though a blow had been aimed at him.

“You can't mean it, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” he cried, passionately. “I have earned no such disgrace. Command anything but that; send me to the ends of the district; let me go back to Sturgeon Lake, and throw my life away there, if you must have it; send me to the loneliest trading-post in Keewatin, but don't disgrace me needlessly, unjustly.”

“I can only do what my conscience dictates,” said the factor coldly.

“Well, all I can say is, that, if heaven has a conscience like yours, God help you when you die, Mr. Fitzpatrick.”

The factor touched a bell, and, an instant later Tee-ka-mee stepped noiselessly into the room.

“Take Mr. McTavish to his room in the old barracks,” Fitzpatrick directed. “And, by the way, please ask Miss Jean to come here a moment. I wish to speak with her.”

At the innocent request, Tee-ka-mee almost fell to the floor with terror.

“What's the matter with you, you demon?” growled the factor. “Have you been drinking again?”

“No, no, no,” cried the Indian, hastily. “I am afraid – I must tell you – Miss Jean – Oh, what can I say?”

“In heaven's name, what's the matter? What's this about Miss Jean?” shouted the factor.

“She is gone, sir, disappeared completely!” cried the frightened Indian. “Her serving-woman has been searching for hours. She went tobogganing out behind the fort at ten o'clock, with the missionary's wife. Mrs. Gates came in at noon, but Miss Jean said she would slide once or twice more, alone. She hasn't come in, and we can find no trace of her.”

“Why wasn't I told of this?” cried the factor, in a weak, pitiful voice.

“We didn't want to alarm you unnecessarily, sir,” Said Tee-ka-mee.

“Oh, get out of here! Leave me alone,” groaned Fitzpatrick; and the two men quietly went out, and closed the door on the old man's grief.

CHAPTER IX

THE BROKEN PIPE

For nearly the whole night, Donald McTavish had paced the bare little room that had been set aside for him. Now, he looked at his watch. It was four o'clock.

The thought occurred to him that he ought to get some rest, but immediately his common sense told him that for twenty-five days more he would have nothing to do but rest, and, spurred on by the witches that rode his racing mind, he continued his animal-like pacing. Up one side, across past the foot of the bed; back again and down; that was his route. And, while his feet traversed but seven or eight yards, his mind was speeding across all the leagueless spaces of the Northland.

Where was she? Where was she? This was the continual refrain that rang in his ears. For five days now, Jean Fitzpatrick had been gone; swallowed up in the silent, snowy wastes. Who had taken her? Why? And whither?

When Tee-ka-mee's announcement spread through the post, fifty men had rushed out to the search, cursing, sobbing, or praying, each according to his own temperament; for nowhere in all the Northland was a girl more beloved than was Jean Fitzpatrick. Summer and winter, the days were full of little kindnesses of hers, so that her disappearance was not a signal for a “duty” search, but one in which every man worked as though he alone had been to blame for her loss.

Her toboggan had been found at the top of the hill where she and Mrs. Gates had spent the morning, and on the hard crust a few dim tracks could be seen leading into the forest, with now and then a dent where, perhaps, the girl's snowshoe had gone through. But aside from these unsatisfying clews not a trace of her could be located.

For two days, the searchers took every trail, traveling light and running swiftly, but to no avail. The girl had disappeared as though evaporated by the sun.

Then did old Angus Fitzpatrick, bowed with grief, summon his council and deliberate as to the affairs at Sturgeon Lake. Stern old disciplinarian with others, he was none the less so with himself in his dark hour, and even begrudged the two days of the Company's time that he had used in the search for Jean.

Unanimously against him stood the entire council when he mentioned the free-traders, and suggested that they be run to earth. His chiefs of departments almost refused to embark on any project until the factor's daughter should be found. But old Fitzpatrick with the autocracy of thirty years in the Far North, snarled their sentiments down with his own, and forced them to the Company's business in hand.

And so it was at last decided that almost the entire force of men, well-armed and well-provisioned, should take the trail for Sturgeon Lake, led by the factor himself. Vainly, his lieutenants begged the white-haired chief to remain in the comparative safety and comfort of the fort. Declaring that this was the only trouble in all his years in the North, and that he would put it down himself, Fitzpatrick remained inexorable.

“Besides,” he added pathetically, “if anything should be heard from Jean, I would be there to follow it up.”

All this Donald heard from Peter Rainy and his guards, as he sat chafing in his little room. During the excitement, the captain of Fort Dickey and his miraculous escape from death never entered the minds of the community. Had it not been for Peter Rainy and the guard, he would have fared ill indeed.

The morning of the fourth day, was hardest of all. Then, the fifty men, with many dogs, sledges, and packs, tinkled out from the fort across the icy river, sped on their way by the waving hands of women, old men, and the furious few selected by lot to remain and keep the big fort.

That same day, Peter Rainy, under strict orders from the factor, who had at last recollected his prisoner, hitched up Buller's dogs, and departed for Fort Dickey. Before he went, he had only a minute's speech with McTavish, saying something at which the Scotchman shook his head violently, and scowled with anger. Then, the guard came, and the interview was at an end.

Now, on this dark morning, dismal thoughts marched through Donald's mind. But what chafed him most was his forced inaction. For twenty-five days more, he must sit in that pestilential prison while all about him events of great moment were being lived, and the girl he loved was perhaps dying in the merciless hands of her father's enemies.

And, then, there was temptation because of something, barely understood, that Rainy had mumbled.

“Break your pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway,” he had said.

This enigmatic remark should be explained. For years, the factor at Fort Severn had kept in his hallway an enormous pipe-rack. Here, in appropriate rings were souvenir pipes from every white man that had ever visited the post. Most prized of all was one that had belonged to the great governor of the Company, Sir George Simpson, who yearly traveled thousands of miles in regal state, with red banners floating from his canoes, and a matchless crew of Iroquois paddlers whose traditional feats are unbroken even to this day.

There were pipes of all the governors and all the factors of the post from its earliest foundation. Many of the men whose souvenirs were there had long since been forgotten, yet their names and pipes still remained.

In the fifth row, seventh from the left, hung a splendid briar that Donald had contributed, and it was to this that Peter Rainy had referred, since there was a rule that a man might borrow his pipe if he needed it, but must be sure to have it returned to its proper place.

Why should he break his pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway? That in his pocket was sweet and rich and mellow, the one in the hall an unsmoked instrument, which would keep his tongue blistered for many a day. But how to get it, even should he want it? That was a question he could not solve.

After a while, the prisoner, worn out with his long tramp, lay down on his cot, and fell into a heavy sleep, from which he was awakened by the old Indian, who came to bring him his breakfast. With the latter came a message utterly disconcerting.

“Captain McTavish,” said the man, “there will be someone here to visit you later this morning.”

“Who?”

“Miss Laura Fitzpatrick.”

Donald gasped.

“What have I done to deserve this punishment?” he asked himself. And then, aloud: “Why is she coming to see me?”

“I don't know,” was the answer; “she merely told me to tell you.”

When the expedition departed to Sturgeon Lake, but two white women had been left – Mrs. Gates, the missionary's wife, and Laura Fitzpatrick. The latter, a maiden upward of thirty-five, had decided to remain in solitary glory as mistress of the factor's house, feeling amply protected by the few white men left at the post.