Menotah: A Tale of the Riel Rebellion

Marie dropped her handkerchief a little, but made no reply.

'I reckon tears are sort of unsatisfactory.'

Still no answer.

McAuliffe grew desperate. 'Never mind Lamont. He's not worth troubling over, anyway. See here! this is first-class whisky. Have a good pull at it. It'll make you feel fine and comfortable.'

He rubbed his coat sleeve over the neck, then pushed it close to her mouth.

Then she raised an angry flushed face. 'Leave me alone!' she cried.

'You'll have a drink?' said the Factor, blankly. 'It's fine whisky; I'm not fooling.'

'I don't want it,' she said, with a passionate movement.

This rendered McAuliffe speechless. The person who refused a drink of good whisky was, in his estimation, something worse than a criminal.

'If you want to do something for me,' continued Marie, 'you can take her out of the house. She has no business here.'

'Reckon none of us have,' the Factor managed to exclaim. Then he comforted himself secretly by means of the rejected bottle.

Here Sinclair buttoned up his coat and announced his intention of going down to the river. Menotah had sufficiently recovered to walk, so Dave, with a stubborn determination not to have her captured, proposed they should return to the hotel and learn final results the next day.

The others agreed. 'How about you, though?' asked Sinclair.

Marie saw she had been addressed. 'I shall stay here,' she said fiercely. 'I want to learn whether the soldiers have caught that traitor. To-morrow I can go home.'

'She's provided for,' muttered the Factor. 'Come on, Captain. Dave's got his gal.'

They went down the slippery wooden steps, while silence fell again over the frame house where human passion had raged so fiercely that night.

Three men, heated with running, wet to the skin by the heavy rain, came to the shelving bank of the Red River. About three minutes earlier another runner had reached that spot. Without hesitation, he had ploughed a rapid course through the mud reach and sought the deeper water. The former had arrived in time to see the latter swimming towards the opposite shore, putting all the force he could muster into the arm strokes.

They stopped at the edge of the mud, with the knowledge that the adventurer had beaten them.

Lightning still played softly across the heavens. The officer pulled his revolver, then fired shot after shot into the deceptive red glow, glimmering over the waters round the indistinct and distant swimmer. With the shot that emptied the chamber they saw the fugitive drag himself to land by aid of the long willows which swept the stream. For a moment he paused at the foot of the tree-spread bank, to coolly wave his hand in their direction by way of farewell. The next minute he was swallowed up by the dark, pathless line of bush.

'No good following him there,' muttered one of the men resignedly.

The officer swore softly to himself. 'Follow! I should say not. He's as good a bushman as any nitchi!

Sullenly they began to retrace their steps, the officer wondering how he could summon courage to face his superiors; but before they had gone far they came across the hunter, tramping stolidly along the rapidly miring trail.

'Where is he?' cried the latter eagerly, as he recognised them.

The officer was sulkily silent, but one of the men answered for him. 'Safe in the bush.'

The hunter's face fell, for he had allowed himself to hope a capture might be made in the mud flats.

'Well, well,' he muttered savagely, as he joined the small band and tramped dismally back with them, 'the White Chief has escaped. That's the devil's business.'

Lamont did not penetrate very far into the dripping bush. He knew there could be no search before daybreak, and by that time he would be in a place of absolute safety. So he rested for some time beneath a bluff of black poplar, the while he planned his future course of action.

There were plenty of friendly half-breeds in the immediate vicinity. In one of these huts or dug-outs he could safely hide for a day or so, with his former disguise resumed. For he could make up and act the part of the native Indian to the life. Then he would steal or borrow a shaganappi pony and ride some night to the States, only forty miles distant in a bee-line across prairie. After, he would escape from that continent at his leisure.

'There's a rising in Brazil,' he muttered thoughtfully. 'That will be a good place for me to try my hand in next. A new rifle, and then for the strongest side. Besides, there are fine women among the Creoles.'

He laughed quietly to himself in the glory of this unexpected freedom and new life, then gathered up a handful of the clammy red clay which had earlier given the great river its name. He squeezed forth the moisture, then rubbed the soft slime across his features.

Next he scraped some powder from the roots of the black poplar and applied this also in carefully arranged markings. The change was startling. It would have required a very keen eye to have penetrated that disguise. Then he made his cautious way into the bush, destroying his trail as he went. There were no bloodhounds in Garry, very few Indians or breeds would lend assistance to track the White Chief Even so, none of them were better bushmen than himself. He was entirely safe from pursuit.

Once he thought of Menotah, but then he only laughed at the weak foolishness of a loving woman; he thought, indeed, more of Marie, but then he frowned with a longing to get her again within his power.

So he passed on until he came to a place of shelter.

Shortly before autumn, he made safe landing at Rio Janeiro.

CHAPTER X

McAULIFFE'S RESOLUTION

By the side of the Great Saskatchewan it was darkness and chill evening, with dead leaves spreading upon grey rocks, and sharp sting of frost along the breeze. For winter was again drawing near, closing round the land that year earlier than usual. The following day would witness the departure of the last boat, and after that dreary event the days would roll monotonously one into the other, until it became a matter of difficulty to reckon the actual flight of weeks. Christmas and New Year would pass unrecognised, the February blizzards would shriek, and the ice hills raise snowy caps to a leaden sky. Thus all would remain in desolation, until spring, rising with warm breaths from south and west, should disperse the snow palaces, break the ice fetters and bring new life to earth.

Within the fort a light shone dully. Presently the door opened and McAuliffe appeared. Somewhat wearily he gazed at the heaving line of bush ahead, with the black points of rock between. Soon he perceived the full moon, just rising above the tree tops, defining strongly the tapering summit of each sombre pine. He shivered, then buttoned his worn coat tightly. The frost crept noiselessly along, stiffening each grass blade, while not an insect stirred down the biting air.

Massive in proportion though the Factor still was, he appeared thinner than on that well remembered night of the fight. Also a careworn expression had settled over his face, while the grey in hair and beard was certainly more pronounced. When he stepped out to the open and commenced to pace up and down, it might have been noticed that his step had lost much of its former briskness, that the body leaned forward at a decided angle. He was growing elderly now, and neglected to give the body such care and attention as the years demanded.

A few hours earlier, he and Dave Spencer had quarrelled with such bitterness that Justin had been compelled to interfere. Menotah was the bone of contention. She had prevailed upon Dave to bring her back across the lake, that she might bid a last farewell to the land of her fathers. Then she would return with him to Selkirk, as the slave to do his unpleasant bidding. The time had now arrived. The boat was about to leave, so Dave had commanded the girl to be in readiness to sail with him early on the following morning. She had consented, asking only a single favour – that he would give her that last night entirely to herself. She wished to sleep in the hut, where she had spent the happiest days of youth; to go over again each hallowed spot; to revisit the inanimate objects, each of which brought back some sacred association. In the morning she would be his, and he might do with her whatsoever he desired.

When sober, McAuliffe's heart was large and sympathetic. He was sorry for the changed girl in his rough way, also secretly disgusted at the constant manner of Dave's bullying. Besides, he did not want to lose her from his district. So, as absolute despot of that part of the country, he had ordered Dave to relinquish his claims. The natural result followed, and the Factor came very near to smashing Dave up, as he had threatened. The sequel was that Dave, ejected from the fort after the manner of Denton, found himself compelled to seek shelter for the night within the boat.

The Factor was in a meditative mood, as he passed up and down on his evening exercise, the red sparks of his pipe glowing occasionally in the silver air. There was the rugged patch of bush, where Sinclair had frightened him so badly. That was on the night just about a year before, when Lamont made off, and Menotah went wild with her grief. Further along was a rough irregular mould, covered thickly with pine needles and brown cones. He did not clear these away from Winton's grave, because he had a superstitious fancy that they were keeping the dead body dry and warm.

Like most men accustomed to much living in solitude, he spoke aloud to himself as he walked along.

'Sort of seems to me everything's over now. There's not much for an old chunk like me to do, 'cept settle down quiet and wait for my name to get stuck on the death list. There's old Billy settling comfortable at home. Lamont knocking around somewhere, the Lord knows where, likely enough deceiving some other poor fool of a gal with his handsome face and fine ways. And here's old Mac himself, planted again in his district, just about as lonely as ever. Didn't have so much of a time down in Garry after all. Afraid I made a darned old fool of myself; always do when I get loose for a while, but then it's so quiet and desolate 'way up here, with nobody but the nitchies to talk to. Folks don't think, when they see us old chaps rocketing around, what it is to find yourself in a civilised sort of place, where there are lots of people, with nice bright saloons, where you can get your own mixture fresh and spicy, and a few good fellows on each side of you. Well, well, I'll not be leaving the fort many more times. Then they'll get to work and plant me alongside of young Winton. There we'll lie, a couple of good pards, until the angels come fooling around to wake us. Well, well, life's a queer thing anyway.

He laughed a little sadly, and rubbed his hands together to restore circulation. Suddenly he bent quickly. 'Ah! there's that rheumatism jumping up my leg again. Reckon I shouldn't be strolling around on a cold night. Guess I'll get inside.'

Presently he closed the door of the fort and watched Justin shoving pine sticks into the box stove. More interested than usual, he gazed upon the small bent figure, with grey hair falling over the neck, and heavily lined, expressionless face. Then he exclaimed, —

'Say, boy, how are the years going for you?'

The half-breed looked up and shook his head slowly.

'Don't know, eh? I guess you can't be far off sixty, boy. Anyway, I reckon you're older than this child.'

The other merely grunted. Age was a matter of perfect indifference to him.

'That's what it is, Justin. We're getting two stiff old baldheads. Say, boy, mind the time I thrashed Que-dane?'

A light crept into the half-breed's heavy eyes. He nodded his head violently.

'Couldn't do it now. Haven't got the nerve.'

'He walk this way now,' said Justin, shambling in awkward fashion across the floor.

'Must have twisted his spine. Didn't want to spoil him, but I reckon it did him good. He hasn't been stealing other men's wives since, anyway.'

There was a dreary pause before the Factor continued, 'We won't lose track of days this winter, boy. I'll fix the calendar right up behind the stove, so as we can see it easy of an evening. When I forget to mark off the day, you let me know before I get to bed. We got terrible off the reckoning last year. Time we thought Christmas was 'way behind New Year. We'll have some fun this year, just you and I, boy. I'll make a fine big pudding, and you shall eat it, eh?'

He laughed heavily, then the half-breed, who was not communicative at any time, left the 'office' to prepare the supper moose meat. So the Factor was again left to his uncongenial thoughts.

'Darn it, I'm terribly lonely to-night. Feeling sort of uncomfortable, too. Got to pull through the winter without a friend to talk to or quarrel with. An old chap like me ought to have grandchildren fooling round his knees, digging into his pockets for candies, wanting him to monkey around with them, or spin long lies by way of yarns. I should have stayed east and got married. Then I might have known a decent sort of life. Well, this sort's got to slip off some time.'

He sat at the table, drumming his big fingers on it fretfully. Presently the virtuous fit wrapped itself more closely round his soul. Then his musings became of the following nature, —

'Going to turn over a new leaf right now. Going on a different sort of track from this day forth. There's to be no more deep drinking, or any such bad habits. I'm going to be what Peter used to try and make out he was. I start this night. Some fellows are always fixing up new resolutions – a brand new set once a month regular. Believe they only set them up just for the fun of knocking them down again. I'm not that way. 'Tisn't often I make a resolution, but when I do I stick to it. Goldam! I hang on to it by the eyelids. It's time I thought of turning reformed character, for I'm shuffling along in life pretty fast, getting down to the last few years at a terrible rate.'

He paused in his reflections, as if summoning courage to form a mighty resolution. Soon he wagged his head gravely.

'There's my winter stock of whisky just laid up. A fellow can't resist the smell of a nice mixed glass. If I once start at it, I shall slide back to the old life, and not be a darned bit better. I'll fix that racket right off.'

In his stentorian voice he called out to the half-breed.

There was a slow shuffling within the little passage, then Justin appeared from the kitchen, his tobacco-charged mouth moving slowly.

'You mind my fresh whisky keg – one Dave's just brought along for me, eh?'

The other grunted in affirmation.

'Roll it outside, boy, turn on the tap, and let it run dry.'

The order sped forth in a breath. After speaking, the Factor sat sheepishly gazing at the lamp, half ashamed and half frightened.

Justin stared at his master with unspoken sorrow. Even he felt it a matter of grief, to behold in a man of the Factor's size and strength an obvious weakening of reason. Had he been commanded to go forth and murder someone – that would have been explicable. But to waste the whisky!

'Git now, Justin. Hustle yourself, and let it run. Tell you, this religious fit won't last much longer.'

The half-breed grunted in more knowing a fashion, then shuffled away, presumably to execute the heart-breaking mandate.

Left to himself again, McAuliffe muttered softly, 'Well, I've seen something new to-night. I know now what Justin looks like when he's surprised. That's my first good stroke of work. Now I must think out another one.' Then he added regretfully, 'I shall be kicking myself for having done it in less than a week.'

Then he allowed his thoughts to wander over past events. After a few minutes his lips parted again, and he drifted off into a fresh soliloquy, this time addressing the pipe which lay on the table in front, —

'Now, if I was well enough fixed with shin plasters, I should get to work, resign my post here, and make off east, 'way back to St Catherine's. Then I'd settle down in a little frame house and live comfortable. Wouldn't cost so much. I shouldn't want to go deep into household expenses. Just that, with a couple of suits of clothes, one in spring, another for winter, tobacco, and a little bit for the saloons. S'pose I ought to give that up, though. Well, it's no use thinking about it. This sort of life's spoilt me for anything else. I've got no relations, nobody depending on me. Still, it seems a sort of pity and a waste of your last years to rust out here in the solitude.'

He rose from his chair and paced the narrow floor. 'That's where young Winton used to sit, sucking his pipe stem; Billy over there, on the York factory box; while Peter would be snivelling in yon corner.' His face lit up suddenly into a smile. 'Peter got a fortnight. 'Twas an extra bad case, the magistrate said. He'd have to leave the fort soon as they let him out of the cooler. That magistrate's a sharp lad. He could see through Peter's virtues clean enough.'

After another turn, he bent to rub his legs. 'Well, well, I almost reckon I'll lie down for sleep. I'm sort of tired, and this dirty rheumatism is jumping around in my legs again. Nothing like bed on a frosty night when you're not feeling good.'

A sudden thought perplexed his mind. He stood wagging his great head slowly. 'There's no real harm in it. Not in moderation. All the best men say that. Besides, it's hard to go without it, terrible hard. I do hope Justin didn't think I was talking seriously.'

To ease his mind, he again called out loudly to the half-breed. A muffled grunt came back from the direction of the kitchen.

'Done what I told you, boy?'

A decided reply in the negative was speedily returned.

The Factor rubbed his hands together cheerfully. 'Don't do it, Justin,' he called out. 'That crazy sort of fit's over. Say, boy, mix me a good stiff glass. Take one yourself to keep the frost out.'

After which command he paced the floor again, muttering, 'Darn it, whisky mayn't be a necessity, still a fellow can't pull along without it.'

Presently a curious sound came from within, and arrested his attention. After listening, he dived into the passage, there to discover the cause of disturbance. Justin was pouring some hot water from a kettle into glasses half full of a dark brown compound. But, besides this, he was indulging in an unheard of performance.

He was laughing to himself, with occasional chuckles, as the water splashed into the glasses, and a mist of steam rose round his head.

CHAPTER XI

THE HEART'S PEACE

Once more out to the lonely forest.

Those dark trees of death, the ever-sighing pines, tossed their solemn heads in unquiet motion; boughs chafed one against the other with moaning sound; the wind passed with dreary murmur through hanging clusters, causing at times the skulls and other grisly trophies of the death tree to scrape with horrid fitfulness one against the other. It was late night, and the moon shone with extraordinary brightness, while frost needles quivered along the silvery air. Even the dead leaves, carpeting thickly the open spaces, glittered radiantly with Nature's diamonds, while the soil became crisp and grey. Above the distant trees might be seen the shivering spindles of the Aurora. These crept up the sky with strange undecided movement, then retreated with a shudder, to again advance.

In that unutterably weird conflict of lights, the white walls of the fort were dimly visible. For long a dull yellow gleam poured from the single window, casting a tremulous shaft across the open, a sickly beam of light, in the heart of which trembled the frost crystals. Suddenly a dark shadow passed unsteadily, the light disappeared, the window grew black, night settled closely round the log walls.

Even then, at another mean dwelling, situated some way along the faintly defined trail, a feeble ray appeared. The crazy door was partially open, while a slow wood fire burnt within, the smoke winding its way from a hole in the grass roof. At the threshold stood a figure, strangely bent, gazing out on the white night. He seemed to have no feeling of the biting cold, though the weak hands were blue and shrivelled, and the grey face pinched with grief, hideous also with embittered age. Those bleared eyes saw little, his tottering knees could scarce support the withered frame, no thickness of clothing might furnish life warmth to the parched limbs. He was like the dead branch of a tree, which has been snapped from the parent trunk and lies rotting upon the ground, to be broken by the feet of those passing.

The trembling jaws moved faster. The dry lips parted to form the words of his customary evening salutation to the Spirit. Sounds fell from the almost powerless tongue, murmurs which could not disturb the soft sighing of the keen, frost-laden wind.

'I live,' he gasped, 'and I shall live, for the gods have forgotten me. They have left me here to decay and not to die, to fall limb from limb, while breath remains in the body, and the heart within stirs feebly. They are all gone, those with whom I lived. The men who sprang up with me have passed through the fire. Those who were born when I was already old have gone to the shadow land, white-headed and full of years. But I live. The god passes me as one not worth the taking.

'What happiness is there in life? Memory has gone from me, and I have none to call friend. Nor do I love any, be it man or god. She for whom I lived is traitor. My affection has changed to the bitterness of hatred, and all that lies upon my tongue is a curse. Where is the beauty of life?

'The God of the white men would not listen to my prayers, perchance He had not the power, and to the voice of my pleading was He dumb. Now have I come back to the gods of my fathers, the great gods, who are at least as powerful. Yet from them I receive no answer, nor does any message stir within me through the night. Perchance there are no gods. Perchance the world is ruled by evil passion and cruel might.'

Dry leaves rustled beneath footsteps. But the useless ears were closed to all sounds from without.

'I live,' he repeated, clutching with claw-like hand the corner of his blanket. 'Life is mine, but I need it not. Long have I lived to gather much wisdom. Ay, and I shall live.'

Along, in the full light of the white moon, came the figure of a woman, upright and stern. She gazed neither to the right nor left, but kept the eyes, cold as the crystals that cut her face, fixed upon the winding path that trailed away in front. She was scantily clad, her head uncovered, save for the wild beauty of luxuriant hair; her feet were bare, and crushed, without feeling, the frost-covered leaves. Hanging from her shoulders was a trembling, frightened bundle. A child, shivering with the cold, wondering at his mother's sternness; a child, who touched her icy cheek with tiny fingers, who cried again and again the one love-word which had always before that night brought to him some response, —

'Mother! Oh, mother!'

She was insensible, alike to the wailing of her child and the sharpness of frost bite. Up to the hut door she came, until her cloak almost swept against the crouched figure, yet without sign of recognition, with no turn of the head. But the Ancient knew her. As she approached and struck his vision, he crept feebly back, gathering his blanket more closely round him, lest it should suffer contamination by touch. As she passed, unheeding that the last friend had forsaken her, he collected his failing energies, spat after her, raised his hands with malediction, and spoke bitter words of execration. All this effort might have been spared the feeble frame, for she trod on through the night with no heed to his curses, regardless even of his presence.

So he crawled weakly into the hut and closed the door.

But she kept on her course, dead to the present, forgetful of the past, conscious only of the immediate future. Her body brushed apart silver-lined bush, scattered the light hoar frost from dried grass stalks, and still she gazed before her, still she clasped the trembling child without word or sign. For her, joy had been spent; now even grief was a thing of the past. Behind her lay darkness, one stern resolution lay in front – then darkness again.