In the Brooding Wild

And as he looked his breath suddenly ceased, and one hand clutched his brother’s arm with a force that bruised the softer flesh, and in silence the two men gaped at the vision which they beheld. There was what seemed an endless pause while the men and dogs alike focused their gaze upon the strange apparition.

A figure, calm, serene, stood before the door of the dugout, from which the logs had been removed. Like a sentry “at ease” the figure stood resting gracefully, leaning upon the muzzle of a long rifle. Fur crowned the head which was nobly poised, and a framing of flowing dark hair showed off to perfection the marble-like whiteness of the calm, beautiful face. The robes were characteristic of the Northern Indians; beads, buckskin and fur. A tunic reached to the knees, and below that appeared “chaps,” which ended where woollen stockings surmounted moosehide moccasins.

A wild, picturesque figure was this creature of the mountain solitude; and, to the wondering eyes of the two men, something which filled them with superstitious awe and a primitive gladness that was almost overpowering. The dogs alone seemed to resent the intrusion. There was no joy in their attitude which was one of angry protest.

Nick broke the silence.

“White–white,” he murmured, without knowledge that he spoke aloud.

Ralph’s face was working. His excitement, slow to rise, now overwhelmed him, and he answered in a similar tone.

“That hair,” he muttered. “Dark, dark; an’ them chaps wi’ beads of Injun patte’n. An’ the muzzle-loadin’ weapin.”

Nick took up the argument as his brother broke off.

“It’s a squaw, too.”

“Her eyes, he says, was blue,” Ralph murmured, breathing hard.

“An’ she was leanin’ on a gun,” Nick added softly.

“It’s–”

“By Gar! It is!”

Nick turned to the dogs with the wild impetuosity of a man who knows not the meaning of patience. His fiery orders fairly hurled the brutes at their task, and the sled leapt forward. On, on, they sped, till they halted within a few yards of the silent figure.

The woman showed no signs of fear, a matter which both men set down to the fact that she was a queen among her own people. She still stood in the position in which she had watched their approach. There was not a quiver of the delicate eyelids, not a tremor of the perfect mouth. Proud, haughty, and masked by the impassivity of the Indian races, she awaited the coming of the strangers.

And as men and dogs halted there was an awkwardness. How should they address her? They consulted, and their whisperings were loud enough to reach her ears. They did not attempt to suppress their tones unduly. This woman, they knew, did not understand the tongue of the whites, and probably knew only the language of the Moosefoot people. Therefore they spoke unguardedly. They admitted to each other the woman’s identity. Ralph was for speaking to her in Cree; Nick for the language of signs. And while they talked the woman looked on. Had they been keenly observant they would have seen the shadow of an occasional smile curl the corners of her beautiful lips. As it was they saw only the superb form, and eyes so wondrously blue, shining like sapphires from an oval face framed with waves of black hair.

At last Ralph advanced toward her.

“You’re welcome to our shack,” he said, in Cree.

The woman shook her beautiful head, but smiled upon him; and the simple soul felt the blood rush from heart to head.

“Try signs,” said Nick impatiently. “How’s the White Squaw o’ the Moosefoots goin’ to savvee a low-down bat like Cree. I sed so ’fore.”

The blue eyes were turned on Nick with a deep inscrutable smile. Nick felt that life at her feet was the only life possible.

And Ralph resorted to signs, while Nick alternated his attention between his idolatrous, silent worship of the lovely woman and clubbing his dogs into quiescence. Their angry protests seemed to express something more abiding than mere displeasure at the intrusion of a stranger. They seemed to feel a strong instinctive antagonism toward this beautiful woman.

Ralph persisted with his signs. The woman read them easily and replied in her own sign-language, which was wonderful to behold. Ralph and Nick read it as though they were listening to a familiar tongue.

She told them that she was Aim-sa, which is the Moosefoot for “Blue-Sky”; and that she was the White Squaw, the queen of her people. She indicated that she was out on a “long trail” hunting, and that she had found herself in this valley, with a snow-storm coming on. She had seen the dugout and had sought its shelter, intending to remain there until the storm had passed. She made it clear to them that a bull moose and four cows had entered the valley. She had trailed them for many days. She asked the brothers if, when the storm had passed, they would join her in the hunt.

And to all she said Ralph replied in his less perfect signs, prompted by Nick with blundering impetuosity; and, at the end of the parley, a perfect harmony prevailed. Two great rough men, with hearts as simple and trusting as those of infants, led this stranger into their home, and made it clear that the place was hers for so long as she chose to accept their hospitality.

A fire was kindled. A meal was cooked. The hut grew warm and comforting. The dogs outside yelped pitifully and often snuffed angrily at the sill of the door. And the White Squaw calmly accepted the throne of that silent world, which had so long known only the joint rule of the two brothers. She looked out upon her subjects with eyes which drove them wild with adoration, but which said nothing but that which she chose to convey. Nor did her features betray one single thought that might chance to be passing in the brain behind. She wore an impenetrable mask of reserve while she watched the effect of the womanly power she wielded.

And that night saw a change in the ordering of the trappers’ household. The two men talked it over after their meal. Ralph broached the subject.

He waved his arm, the bowl of his pipe gripped in his horny hand, while its stem indicated the entire hut.

“Hers,” he said. And his eyes were dragged from the object of his solicitude and turned upon Nick.

His brother nodded as he puffed at his pipe.

“The shed,” Ralph went on. “The huskies must burrow in the snow.”

Again Nick nodded.

“Wants sweepin’ some,” observed Ralph again.

“Yup. We’ll fix it.”

“Best git to it.”

“Ay.”

And so the brothers moved out of their home, and went to live in the place which had been given over to the dogs. They would have done more, far more, in their love for the woman who had so strangely come into their midst. They felt that it was little enough that they must lie where the dogs were wont to herd. They needed little comfort, and she must have the best they could give. And so the brothers moved out of their home.

The snow fell that night; a silent, irresistible mountain snow-storm, without a breath of wind, in flakes as big as a tennis-ball. Down they ambled, seeming to loiter in indolent playfulness on the way. And up, up, mounted the earth’s white carpet, thicker and thicker, softer and softer. And at daylight the men confronted eight feet of snow, through which they had to dig their way. They cleared the dugout that their priceless treasure, the wondrous creature who had come to them, might see the light of day. And as they laboured the snow continued to fall; and at night. The next day, and the next, they cleared while the forest below was being slowly buried, and all the world about them seemed to be choked with the gentle horror.

But Ralph and his brother, Nick, feared nothing. They loved the labour; for was it not on behalf of the beautiful White Squaw?

CHAPTER VI.

THE WEIRD OF THE WILD

For five days the snow fell without ceasing. Then the weather cleared and the sun shone forth, and the temperature, which had risen while the ghostly snow filled the air, dropped with a rush many degrees below zero.

Again the call of the forest came to the two men, claiming them as it ever claims those who are bred to the craft of trap and fur; and for the first time in their lives, the call was hearkened to by unwilling ears, ears which sought to turn from the alluring cry, ears that craved only for the seductive tones of love. But habit was strong upon these woodsmen, and they obeyed the voice which had always ruled their lives, although with the skeleton of rebellion in their hearts.

The days passed, and March, the worst month of the mountain winter, was rapidly nearing; and with it a marked change came over the routine of the Westleys’ home. Hitherto Ralph and Nick were accustomed to carry out their work singly, each scouring the woodlands and valleys in a direction which was his alone, each making his own bag of furs, which, in the end, would be turned over to the partnership; but Aim-sa joined them in their hunting, and, somehow, it came about that the men found it necessary to work together.

They no longer parted at daybreak to meet again when the stealing night shades fell. It became the custom for a party of three to set out from the hut, and the skilled trappers found themselves willingly deferring to a woman in the details of their craft, the craft of which they were acknowledged masters.

But this was not the only change that took place with the coming of the White Squaw. For a woman of the wild, for a woman who had been bred in the mysterious depths of the northern forests, away from her fellow creatures, shut off from all associations of men, Aim-sa displayed a wondrous knowledge of those arts which women practise for the subjugation of the opposite sex. She set herself the task of administering to her companions’ welfare in the manner which has been woman’s from the first. She took to herself the bothersome duties with which no man, however self-reliant, loves to be burdened. She went further. She demanded and accepted the homage of each of the brothers, not impartially, but favouring first one and then the other, with the quiet enjoyment of a woman who looks on at the silent rivalry of two men who seek her smiles.

And as the days lengthened, and the winter crept on toward spring, the peace of the house was slowly but surely undermined. Eve had appeared in the Garden.

The calm that still remained was as the smooth surface of water about to boil. Beneath it was chaos which must soon break out into visible tumult. The canker of jealousy fastened itself like a secret growth upon the uncultured hearts of the men, sapping and undermining that which was best in their natures.

And Aim-sa looked on with eyes which smiled inscrutably; with silent tongue, and brain ever busy. In due course she showed signs of beginning to understand her comrades’ language. She even essayed to speak it herself; and, as she stumbled prettily over the words, and placed them wrongly, she became more and more a source of delight, an object of adoration to the poor souls who had been so suddenly born to this new life. With keen appreciation she saw these things while she listened to their speech between themselves, and her great, deep eyes would wear many varying expressions, chief among which was the dark, abiding smile.

There could be no doubt that what she saw she interpreted aright. She was too clever in everything else to do otherwise. Nick, impatient, headstrong, could never long conceal his feelings. His eyes would express displeasure the moment the quieter Ralph chanced to monopolize Aim-sa’s attention. Every smile she bestowed upon the elder brother brought a frown to the younger man’s brow. Every act or look which could be interpreted into an expression of regard for his brother fired his soul with feelings of aversion and anger till he was well-nigh distracted. Nor was Ralph any less disturbed. In his undemonstrative way he watched Nick, and suffered the acutest pangs of jealousy at what he believed was Aim-sa’s marked preference. But the woman continued to stir the fire she had kindled with a childlike naiveté which was less of the wild than of the drawing-room.

And as day succeeded day, and week followed week, the companionship of these men became forced. The old tacit understanding was replaced by a feverish desire to talk; and this forced conversation only helped to widen the rift which was already gaping between them.

One night the friction almost resulted in a blaze.

Ralph was lying prone upon his back, buried to the neck in his “Arctic bag.” He was smoking, as was his custom, while waiting for sleep to come. An oil lamp reeked upon the earthen floor and threw its bilious rays little further than the blankets spread out upon either side of it. For a long time Ralph had lain silently gazing up at the frosted rafters above him, while his brother sat cross-legged at work restringing his snow-shoes with strands of rawhide. Suddenly Ralph turned his face towards him in silent contemplation. He watched Nick’s heavy hands with eyes that wore a troubled look. Then he abruptly broke the long silence.

“Victor don’t know as she’s here,” he said.

Nick looked up, glanced round the room, shook his head, and bent over his work again.

“No,” he answered shortly.

“Maybe he won’t jest laff.”

“No.”

Again came Nick’s monosyllabic reply.

“Guess we’d best let him know.”

There was a pause. Ralph waited for his brother to speak. As no answer came he went on.

“Who’s goin’ to tell him?”

Still there was no reply. The silence was broken only by the “ping” of the rawhide strands which Nick tested as he drew tight.

“We need some fixin’s fer her,” Ralph went on, a moment later. “Wimmin, I ’lows, has fancies. Now, maybe, Victor’s got a mighty fine show o’ print stuffs. A bit o’ Turkey red wouldn’t come amiss, I dessay. Likewise beads.”

“Maybe.”

“Why don’t you take the dogs an’ run in?”

Nick’s hands suddenly became motionless; his eyes were raised until they looked into the face of his brother. His seared, weather-beaten skin flushed a desperate hue, and his eyes were alight and shining angrily. His lips twitched with the force of the passion stirring within him, and for some seconds he held himself not daring to trust to speech.

When at last he answered it was in a tone of fiery abruptness.

“Guess not,” he said. And it was Ralph’s turn to hold back the anger which rose within him.

“Why?”

“Say, brother,” said Nick, with a biting distinctness, “quit right there. Ther’ ain’t no need fer another word.”

For a moment Ralph peered into the other’s face; but he remained silent. Then he turned over upon his pillow with a sound very like a muttered curse. And from that moment the gulf between them became impassable. Aim-sa was a subject henceforth tabooed from their conversation. Each watched the other with distrust, and even hatred, full grown within him.

And soon there came a further disturbing element in that mountain home. It awoke all the dormant atmosphere of mystery, which, in the minds of the two men, surrounded the lovely Aim-sa. It awoke afresh the “Dread of the Wild” that had assailed them on their journey north.

It came in the early morning, when the world about them was cloaked in the grey shroud of daylight mists; when the silent forests above and below them were rendered even more ghostly and sepulchral by reason of the heavy vapour which depressed all on which it settled. Nick was standing, rifle in hand, preparing to sling it across his back. Ralph was stooping to adjust his snow-shoes. Aim-sa had been left within the hut.

A gentle breeze, like the icy breath of some frozen giant on the peak above the hut, came lazily down the hillside. It broke the fog into a turmoil of protest. The heavy vapour rolled in huge waves, sought to return to its settled calm, then slowly lifted from the flustered tree-tops. Another breath, a little stronger than the first, shot forcefully into the heart of the morning fog and scattered it mercilessly. Then the whole grey expanse solemnly lifted. Up it rose; nor did it pause until the lower hills were bared, and the wintry sun shone splendidly down upon the crystal earth.

And as the air cleared the keen eyes of Nick flashed out in a swift survey of the prospect. Suddenly his breathing was sharply indrawn. His rifle never reached his shoulder, but remained gripped in his hand. His eyes had become riveted upon a low hill far out across the valley. It looked as though it rose sheer out of the forest below, but the watching man knew full well that it was only a spur of the giant that backed it. It was the summit of this clear-cut hill, and what was visible upon it, that held his fascinated attention. Suddenly a half-whispered word escaped him and Ralph was beside him in a moment.

“Look!” And Nick’s arm was outstretched pointing.

And Ralph looked in time to see the ghostly form of the Hooded Man as it slowly passed from view over the hill.

“The Hood!” exclaimed Ralph, in awestruck tones.

“Ay.”

“What’s–what’s he doin’ here?” Ralph asked, more of himself than of his brother. Then he added: “He’s on our trail.”

There was a slight pause.

“It’s somethin’ on her account,” Nick said, at last, with uneasy conviction.

As if actuated by a common thought, both turned and looked back at the hut. Nor was their uneasiness lessened when they beheld Aim-sa standing directly behind them, gazing out across the woodland hollow with eyes distended with a great fear. So absorbed was she that she did not observe the men’s scrutiny, and only was her attention drawn to them when she heard Nick’s voice addressing her. Then her lids drooped in confusion and she hastily turned back to the house. But Nick was not to be denied.

“Ye’ve seen him,” he said sharply; “him wi’ the hood?” And he made a motion with his hand which described the stranger’s headgear.

Aim-sa nodded, and Nick went on.

“We seen him up north. On the trail to the Moosefoot.”

The woman again nodded. She quite understood now, and her eyes brightened suddenly as she turned their dazzling depths of blue upon her questioner. She understood these men as they little thought she understood them.

“It is the Spirit–the Great Spirit,” she said, in her broken speech. “The Spirit of–Moosefoot Indian. Him watches Aim-sa–Queen of Moosefoot. She–White Squaw.”

Ralph turned away uneasily. These mysterious allusions troubled him. Nick could not withdraw his fascinated gaze. Her strange eyes held him captive.

They took her words without a doubt. They accepted all she said without question. They never doubted her identity with the White Squaw. Primitive superstition deeply moved them.

“You was scared when you see him just now?” said Ralph, questioningly.

Aim-sa nodded.

“He come to–take me,” she said, halting over the words. “The Moosefoot–they angry–Aim-sa stay away.”

“Hah!”

Nick thrust his rifle out towards her.

“Here take it. It shoots good. When ‘The Hood’ comes, shoot–savvee?”

Aim-sa took the gun and turned back to the hut. And the men passed out into the forest.

Aim-sa left the hut soon after the brothers had departed. For long she stood just beyond the door as though not sure of what she contemplated doing.

And as she stood her eyes travelled acutely over the silent valley. At last, however, she moved leisurely down the hill. Her easy gait lasted just so long as she was in the open; the moment she entered the forest her indifference vanished and she raced along in the dark shadow with all the speed she could summon. The silence, the heavy, depressing atmosphere, the labyrinth of trees so dark and confusing; these things were no deterrent to her. Her object was distinct in her mind and she gave heed to nothing else. She ran on over the snow with the silent movements of some ghostly spirit, and with a swiftness which told of the Indian blood in her veins. Her dilating eyes flashed about her with the searching gaze of one who expects to see something appear, while not knowing whence it will come. Her flowing hair trailed from under her cap with the speed of her going, and the biting air stung her face into a brilliant glow. Her direction was plainly in her mind, for, though dodging her way through trees, she never deviated from a certain course; all her thoughts, all her attention, were centred upon the object of her quest.

Nor did she pause till she came to the low hill which stood on the far side of the valley. As she came to the edge of the forest which skirted its base she drew up and stood for a moment hesitating. Once she raised a hand to her mouth as though about to give voice to a prolonged mountain call, but she desisted, and, instead, set out to round the hill, always keeping to the shadow of the forest edge.

At length she stopped. Her hand went up to her mouth and her head was thrown back, and out upon the still air rang a cry so mournful that even the forest gloom was rendered more cheerless by its sound. High it rose, soaring upwards through the trees until the valley rang with its plaintive wail. As if recognizing the distressful howl of their kind, the cry came back to her from the deep-toned throats of prowling timber-wolves. The chorus rang in her ears from many directions as she listened, but the sound? had little effect. As they died down she still waited in an attitude of attention.

The moments slipped by. Presently she again sent the call hurtling through the trees. Again came the chorus; again she waited. And the sounds of the chorus were nearer at hand, and a crackling of undergrowth warned her of the presence of the savage creatures she had summoned. The deep blue eyes were alert and watchful, but she showed no signs of fear; nor did she move. Suddenly a less stealthy and more certain crackling of the bush made itself heard; and the roving eyes became fixed in one direction. Beneath the shadow of the laden boughs a tall grey figure appeared moving towards her. But this was not all, for several slinking, stealing forms were moving about amongst the barren tree-trunks; hungry-looking creatures these, with fierce burning eyes and small pricked ears, with ribs almost bursting through the coarse hides which covered their low, lank bodies.

But all the woman’s attention was centred upon the form of the other–the hooded figure she had seen in the morning. He came with long, regular strides, a figure truly calculated to inspire awe. Even now, near as he was to her, there was no sign of his face to be seen. He was clad in the folds of grey wolfskin, and a cowl-like hood utterly concealed his face, while leaving him free to see from within.

As the man came up Aim-sa plunged into voluble speech.

They talked together long and earnestly; their tones were of dictation on the part of the woman and subservience on the part of the man. Then the Spirit of the Moosefoot Indians moved away, and the White Squaw retraced her steps to the dugout.

A look of triumph was in Aim-sa’s blue eyes as she returned through the forest. She gave no heed to the slinking forms that dogged her steps. She saw nothing of the forest about her; all her interest was in the dugout and those who lived there.

When she came to the house she received a shock. Nick had returned during her absence. He had come for the dog sled, and had since brought the vast carcass of a grizzly into camp. Now he was stripping the rich fur from the forest king’s body. The five huskies, with shivering bodies and jowls dripping saliva, were squatting around upon their haunches waiting for the meal they hoped would soon be theirs.

The man, still kneeling over his prize, greeted Aim-sa without pausing in his work.

“Wher’?” he asked, sparing his words lest he should confuse her.

The unconcern of the query reassured her.

“The forest,” replied Aim-sa easily, pointing away down the hill.

There was a long pause while the woodsman plied his knife with rough but perfect skill. The thick fur rolled under his hands. The snick, snick of his knife alternated with the sound of tearing as he pulled the pelt from the under-flesh. Aim-sa watched, interested, then, as Nick made no further remark, she went on. She pointed back at the forest.

“The wolves–they very thick. Many, many–an’ hungry.”

“They’ve left the open. Guess it’s goin’ to storm, sure,” observed the man indifferently. He wrenched the fur loose from the fore paws.

“Yes–it storm–sure.” And Aim-sa gazed critically up at the sky. The usual storm sentries hung glittering upon either side of the sun, and the blue vault was particularly steely.