South from Hudson Bay: An Adventure and Mystery Story for Boys

Entering the circle around the fire, Louis introduced the stranger. “This is the man who sent for us, the trader.”

The tall man pulled off his fur cap and ducked his head to Mrs. Brabant. “I’m Duncan McNab, at your service, Madame,” he said. He caught sight of Neil’s freckled face and blue bonnet. “Ye’re a Scot,” he said accusingly in English.

“I am that, and sa are you,” Neil retorted promptly.

“Aye. Ye’ll be fra Kildonan na doot, but there’s na time ta be talkin’ aboot that.” He turned to Louis and spoke in French again. “You are camped on the edge of a coulee. Did you pick this spot on purpose?”

The boy nodded.

“Then you know what to do. The coulee leads towards the Bois des Sioux. Leave your fire burning. The savages will think you’re still here.”

“Our carts make so much noise,” interposed Walter. “If any of their scouts or camp guards should hear that squeaking – ”

“Leave the carts behind,” McNab interrupted. “I doubt if you could take them up the coulee.”

“We can go faster without them anyway,” Louis agreed, “and get more out of our horses.”

“Travel light, a little pemmican, your weapons and ammunition, nothing else. It is hard to lose all your things, Madame,” the trader said bluntly to Mrs. Brabant, “but better than to run the risk of your children falling into the hands of Tatanka Wechacheta and the Black Murray.”

“Murray?” cried Mr. Perier.

“You know him?”

“We all know him. We have good cause to,” said Walter.

“That makes it all the worse, if he has anything against you. No, don’t tell me the story now. We have no time to exchange tales.”

“If we must leave the carts behind,” Neil suggested, “why not hide them in the coulee? Then the Indians may think we have taken them along. Later we can come back from Lake Traverse and get them.”

“It micht work oot that wa’,” returned McNab, falling into Scots’ English again, “but I’m thinkin’ they’ll find the cairts easy eneuch.”

“We’ll tak them doon the coulee a bit,” Neil insisted, in the same tongue. “If Murray finds the tracks he’ll maybe think we’ve gane doon ta the Wild Rice and back across.”

The trader shook his head. “He’ll be findin’ your trail all richt, but ye can maybe delay him for a bit. Weel, do what you’re goin’ ta do quick, an’ be awa’ wi’ ye. I maun be gettin’ back or they’ll miss me.”

“You’re na comin’ wi’ us?” cried Neil.

“Na, na, I’m not rinnin’ awa’ yet.” He switched to French and took his leave of the others. “Cross the Bois des Sioux and make speed for Lake Traverse,” he advised. “Tell Renville I’ll be back there in a few days. It was Renville sent me to find out what that rascal Murray was up to. Good speed and God go with you.”

XXXVII

FLIGHT

Louis and Walter decided that Neil’s plan was worth trying. They muffled the axles of the two carts with strips torn from a ragged blanket, and carefully cased the vehicles over the edge of the coulee. The moon, shining into the rift, lighted them down the steep slope. Along the bed of the shallow brook that ran through the coulee to join the Wild Rice River, they pushed and pulled the carts, and left them well hidden among willows and cottonwoods where the ravine widened.

“There,” said Neil when the job was done, “if those Indians follow straight up the coulee after us, they won’t find the carts at all. If they come down here and find them, they may think we have gone back across the river.”

“Probably,” Louis returned, “they will divide into two parties, one to go up, the other down the coulee. But if they get all our things they may be content to let us go.”

Hiding the carts had taken less than a half hour. In the meantime Mrs. Brabant and the children had gone down into the coulee, Jeanne and Max stumbling along, scarcely awake enough to realize what was happening. While the horses were being led down, Walter remained behind as rear guard. As he threw a last armful of fuel on the fire, a burst of hideous noise came across the prairie from the Indian camp. Howls and yells, to the thumping of many drums, proved that Murray’s medicine dance was in full swing. A picture flashed through the boy’s mind; a picture of that central space within the circle of tipis as it must look now, with scores of naked, painted, befeathered savages, stamping, leaping, yelling around the blazing fires. There was no time to lose.

Mrs. Brabant was impatient and anxious to be away. She had made no protest at leaving the carts behind. All her household belongings were in them, but what were blankets and copper kettles, and the precious wooden chest of clothing and little things, compared with the safety of her children? She and little Jeanne had been placed on one of the ponies. There were only four horses for ten people. Mr. Perier took Max with him on another, and the remaining two were given to Elise and Marie. Marie could ride almost as well as her brothers, and Elise had learned since leaving Pembina.

It was very dark at the bottom of the coulee among the willows that fringed the stream. Speed was not possible, and the foot travelers could easily keep up with the ponies. Yet there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that this was the only route to take. On the open prairie, in the moonlight, they would be plainly visible from every direction. Here they were completely hidden. They hoped to be miles away before the Indians discovered that they had gone.

Progress seemed heart-breakingly slow, however, as the little party picked their way up the bed of the brook in the darkness. Louis, on foot, went ahead as guide. Walter, Neil and Raoul brought up the rear. The stream was not much over a foot deep at its deepest, with a sticky mud bottom. Luckily the ponies were sure-footed and almost cat-eyed. One or another slipped or stumbled now and then, but recovered quickly without unseating the rider. The night remained oppressively warm. Not a breath of breeze stirred the willows down below the level of the prairie. Pale flashes lit up the narrow strip of sky overhead, and distant thunder rumbled.

The coulee grew narrower and shallower. The brook dwindled to a rivulet, the fringing willows were smaller and met above the stream. It was difficult to push a way through. At last Louis called a halt.

“Wait a little,” he said. “I will go on and find a way.”

Strung out along the narrow streamlet, which scarcely covered the hoofs of the horses, the rest waited for his return. The mosquitoes were bad, and the tormented horses twisted, turned, pawed the mud, and slapped their tails about. Walter made his way among the willows to Elise’s side to be at hand if her mount should become unmanageable. But they exchanged only a word or two. The oppression of the night and the danger lay too heavy upon them both.

After what seemed a long time, Louis returned. “The coulee ends a little way ahead,” he reported. “The stream comes from a wet marsh that we must go around. I have found a place where we can climb the right bank.”

Without further words, he took hold of the bridle of his mother’s horse and led it through the willows and up a dry gully. The gully was one of the channels by which the marsh waters, during spring floods and rainy periods, found their way into the coulee. The prairie at the head of the gully was dry in July, the marsh being shrunken to dry weather proportions.

There was a certain relief in being up on the open plain again. For one thing there was more light. The western sky was banked with clouds. Over there lightning flashed and thunder rumbled, but the moon remained uncovered. Looking back to the northwest across the flat prairie, Walter could see, against the dark clouds, the glow of the fires in the Indian camp. A flash of lightning showed the pointed tips of the tipis black against the white light.

It seemed a long time since the fugitives had gone down into the coulee. The boy was disappointed and alarmed to find that they had not come farther. Had the Indians discovered their absence yet? He scanned the prairie for moving figures. To his great relief he could see not one. Not even a buffalo or a wolf appeared to be abroad on that wide, moonlit expanse. Only an occasional puff of breeze stirred the tall grass.

The party were gathered together at the head of the gully. Louis was speaking, and Walter turned to listen.

“We can go faster now, but one must go ahead to keep the course and – ”

“You must do that, Louis,” Neil interrupted. “You are guide. It is your place. The two girls will have to ride one horse.”

Louis hesitated. “It is not right for me to ride away and leave you three to follow on foot.”

“It is the only way,” put in Walter. “The ponies can’t carry us all. The others can’t go on without a guide. You will have to do it, Louis. We won’t be far behind.”

“Neil can guide as well as I can,” Louis began.

“I can’t and I won’t,” retorted the Scotch boy stubbornly. “You have your mother and sisters to take care of, and you are going on ahead.”

“One of you boys can take my horse,” Mr. Perier proposed. “I am the least experienced and the least useful of all.” He started to dismount.

“No, no,” cried Louis. “You will be too slow with your crippled foot. You will hold the others back. You must ride.”

“There are the children to think of,” Walter added earnestly. “You must go with them. Neil and Raoul and I can go much faster on foot than you could.”

“Stop talking and get away,” exclaimed Raoul impatiently. “Marie, come off that horse.”

For once in her life Marie obeyed her next older brother. She took his hand and slipped quickly to the ground. Raoul helped her up in front of Elise. Louis, without further argument, mounted and took the lead. He knew as well as anyone that they had already wasted too much time in argument.

As Raoul drew back from helping Marie up, his mother bent down from her horse to throw her left arm about his neck. “God guard you, my son,” she said softly.

“And you,” muttered Raoul huskily.

At first the lads on foot kept almost at the heels of the ponies. The prairie grass grew high and rank, and there was no beaten path. The animals could not go fast, and all three boys were good runners. But running through tall grass is not like running on an open road or even on a well-trodden cart track. They soon tired, and had to slow their pace and fall behind. The ponies were double burdened and far from fresh, but they were tough, wiry beasts, capable of extraordinary endurance. When they struck firmer ground beyond the marsh, they made better speed. The rear guard fell still farther behind. They tried to keep in the track made by the horses, but it was not always easy to do so, especially when flying clouds covered the moon and left them in darkness.

No rain fell, however. The storm that had been threatening for so long was working around to the north. The rumblings of thunder grew fainter, the lightning flashes less bright. Before dawn they had ceased altogether. A fresh, cool breeze sprang up, billowing the grass and putting new life into the tired boys, as they plodded on, carrying their heavy muskets. They no longer tried to run, but they kept up a steady walking pace.

Dawn showed a line of trees ahead that did not appear to be much over a half mile away. Those trees, the boys felt sure, must mark the course of the Bois des Sioux. It was from one of the groves on its bank that the stream took its name. The foot travelers had lost the horse track some time before, but Neil and Raoul had managed, with the aid of the stars, to keep a general course towards the east. The rest of the party were nowhere in sight. Probably they had crossed the river long ago.

Though the trees seemed such a short distance away, the sun was rising above them before the lads reached the river. Wet, marshy ground had forced a detour. The stream, where they came out upon it, proved larger and wider than they had expected.

“If we cross here we will have to swim,” said Neil, as he looked down at the muddy water. “I think we are too far down. See there.” He pointed to the opposite shore up stream. “Either the river makes a sharp bend there, or another one comes in.”

“It is the Ottertail,” suggested Raoul. “That must be where the two come together to make the Red.”

“It looks like it,” Walter agreed. “Anyway this doesn’t seem to be a good place to cross. We know nothing about the current. We had better go on up and look for a ford.”

The boys did not have to go far along the west bank of the united rivers to convince themselves that the stream coming in from the east was indeed the Ottertail. They could see plainly enough that it was larger than the branch from the south. Single file, with Walter in the lead, they were making their way along the bank opposite the mouth of the Ottertail, when from the willows directly in front of them an Indian appeared.

“Bo jou,” he said, and added a few words in his own language.

Walter, startled, had half raised his musket, but Raoul, who was close behind him, seized his arm.

“That’s a Saulteur, not a Sioux,” the younger boy whispered, then answered the man in his own tongue.

Neil pushed forward to join in the conversation. He also knew a little of the Saulteur or Ojibwa language, though he did not speak it so readily as Raoul, who had played with Indian and half-breed lads since babyhood. Walter, unable to understand more than an occasional word or two – picked up at Pembina and among the hunters – stood back and looked on.

The sudden appearance of this lone Saulteur near the southern limits of the debatable ground surprised him greatly. What puzzled him most, however, was the man’s familiar face. Surely he had seen that scarred cheek, where the skin drew tight over the bone, before, but where? On the way from York Factory, at Fort Douglas, at Pembina, at the Company post when the hunters were bringing in their winter’s catch? Then he remembered. It was at the post he had seen the Ojibwa; not in the spring, but in the autumn. This was the hunter who had been beaten and robbed, as he was loading his canoe to return to his hunting grounds at Red Lake. What was he doing here?

The Indian was speaking rapidly, in a low voice. Walter caught two words he knew, “Murrai Noir.” Neil swung around, excitement in his eyes.

“Walter,” he exclaimed, “this fellow says Murray is his enemy. He is after Murray to get revenge. Is he – ”

“Yes.” Walter did not wait for Neil to finish the question. “He is the man Murray and Fritz Kolbach attacked. I know that scar on his cheek. At the post they said a grizzly bear once clawed him in the face. How did he learn that Murray was in this part of the country? Ask him.”

Raoul put the question and translated the answer. “He was at Pembina just after the hunt left. Fritz Kolbach and two other DeMeurons were there at the same time. Scar Face attacked Kolbach, but the other fellows separated them. Then Kolbach declared it was Murray who hit Scar Face over the head, and offered to put him on Murray’s trail. He told Scar Face that Murray was near Lake Traverse trading with the Dakotas and pretending to be a medicine man. Some men going from Traverse to Pembina with carts had seen him. So Scar Face is trailing him.”

“Alone?” queried Walter.

“No, he has some young braves with him who want to get a reputation by raiding enemy country. They came down the Ottertail River.”

“Where are they?”

“Near here somewhere. I don’t know how he learned that Murray was with Tatanka Wechacheta’s band, but he knew it before I told him.”

“Did you tell him that we are running away from them?”

“Yes. Wait a minute.”

The Indian was speaking. He pointed up the river and his manner was earnest and emphatic. When Scar Face paused, Raoul turned to the others again.

“He says he has heard that there is a good ford a little way up the river. That is probably where our people crossed. He thinks that Murray and the Sioux will follow the horse tracks to the ford. If Scar Face and his braves lie in wait there, they can get a shot at Murray when he tries to cross. They will take us to the ford in their canoes.”

Before Raoul had finished this explanation, the Indian was showing signs of impatience. He turned now and led the way in among the willows. There, where the river current had taken a crescent-shaped bite out of the mud bank, two birch canoes were pulled up. Five young braves, arrayed in feathers and war paint, came out from hiding places among the bushes, where they had been waiting for their leader, who had been for a look across the prairie west of the river.

They were a wild and fearsome looking little band. Had the boys not known that they were, for the time being at least, on the Saulteur side of the quarrel, they might have hesitated to trust themselves with the war party. But they had given Scar Face and his comrades information of value, and had nothing to fear from them.

XXXVIII

THE FIGHT AT THE BOIS DES SIOUX

The Indians wasted few words and little time. Walter and Raoul were assigned to one canoe, Neil to the other. Riding as passengers, they took the opportunity to munch the chunks of pemmican they had brought with them, but had not paused to eat.

The Bois des Sioux, above the Ottertail, proved to be an insignificant stream. It had no valley, but meandered crookedly through a mere trench in the flat prairie. Willows and other bushes fringed its muddy waters. Its banks were sometimes open, sometimes wooded with groves or thin lines of cottonwood, poplar, wild cherry, and other trees. It would be possible to ford the stream almost anywhere, Walter thought, if one did not stick fast in the mud. He watched the shores anxiously for signs that horses had recently been across.

The Indians had been paddling for not more than a half hour, when Scar Face, who was in the bow of the canoe that carried Walter and Raoul, gave a little grunt, and pointed with his paddle blade to the low west bank. Undoubtedly animals had gone up or down there. The willows were broken, the mud trampled. The Indians swerved the canoe close in. The broken bushes were still fresh.

“Mistatim,” said Scar Face, his keen eyes on the tracks.

“That’s the Cree word for horse,” Raoul explained to Walter, “but we can’t be sure. They may have been buffalo.”

“If they were, there were only a few of them,” Walter returned. “A big band would have done more damage.”

“Yes. I believe myself our own people crossed here.”

The canoe was brought to the bank, and Scar Face stepped lightly out. Walter and Raoul followed. The Saulteur examined the trampled ground carefully. He gave a low grunt of satisfaction. He had found the print of a moccasined foot, where a rider had dismounted. But he was not satisfied yet. He followed the trail through the willows, examining it intently. Presently he straightened up and spoke to Raoul who was close behind.

“They came to the river,” he said.

“You mean,” the boy questioned, “that they came from there,” – he nodded towards the west, – “and went” – he pointed east across the stream.

Scar Face grunted assent.

“It must have been our people,” Raoul said to Walter. “They are safe across the river.”

“That is where we had better be, as soon as we can get there,” was Walter’s reply.

But the Saulteur was not quite ready to cross. He went on through the belt of small trees beyond the willows. Walter and Raoul hesitated an instant, then followed. They too wanted a view of the open ground.

Their first glance across the prairie was reassuring. Except for a few birds on the wing, the only living creature in sight was one lone animal; a buffalo from its size and humped shape.

“No Sioux yet,” exclaimed Raoul. “I don’t believe they are coming after us at all. Nothing to be seen, except that one old buffalo.”

Scar Face knew the French word boeuf, commonly used by the Canadians for buffalo. “Not buffalo,” he said, pointing to the creature moving through the tall grass. “Man on horse.”

“What?” cried Raoul.

“Man on horse, buffalo skin over him,” the Indian insisted. “See,” he added, pointing to the northwest. “More come.”

Walter had understood the dialogue and gestures well enough to guess that Scar Face found something wrong with the distant buffalo and that he saw or thought he saw something else beyond. Following the Indian’s pointing finger, the boy strained his eyes. He believed he could make out something, – moving objects.

“More buffalo,” said Raoul.

Scar Face shook his head doubtfully. The three stood gazing across the prairie. The lone buffalo was drawing nearer. There was something queer about it, Walter concluded. Its head was too small. Its shape was wrong.

“He is right,” exclaimed Raoul. “That is a man on horseback, stooped over, a buffalo hide thrown over him.”

Walter recalled Murray’s queer costume of the night before. What about those far-away figures? Were they buffalo?

The day was bright and clear. There was not a trace of haze in the air, now that the sun was climbing higher. And the land was so flat one could see for miles. There was no longer any doubt in Walter’s mind that there was something else coming from the northwest, far away still, far beyond the lone buffalo or horseman, but drawing nearer. Whether that something was a band of buffalo or of mounted men he could not tell, though he strained his eyes to make out.

Scar Face had made up his mind that this was no place for him to stay longer. Abruptly he turned back among the trees. Neil and Raoul asked no questions. With Walter they heeded the silent warning and followed the Indian back to the river.

With scarcely a word spoken, the Ojibwas paddled across the stream to the spot where the party that had taken the ford had left the water. Scar Face motioned to the boys to get out. He spoke earnestly to Raoul and Neil, and the latter translated to Walter.

“He wants us to go on, out of the way. He and his braves are going back to that little island.” Neil pointed to a low, willow-covered islet that parted the current just above where they had crossed and nearer to the west bank. “If it is Murray coming they will have a good chance at him from there.”

Taking for granted that there could be no objection to this manœuvre, Neil started along the trail, his comrades after him. The Indians stepped back into their canoes. Walter felt surprised that the hot-headed Neil should be so willing to run away from a fight. In a moment, however, he found that Neil had no intention of running away. Instead of seeking the open, the Scotch boy turned aside among the bushes. After searching a little, he found a spot that suited him.

“This will do,” he said, crouching down behind a spreading osier dogwood.

Joining Neil and looking between the red stems of the bush, Walter had an almost clear view of the river. He could see the lower end of the tiny islet and the spot on the opposite shore where the trail came to the water.

“You’re going to stay and see what happens?” he asked.

“Of course. We may have to take a hand in the fight. Murray and his Dakotas must not cross the river, Walter. We must see to that.”

Walter nodded. Even if the Periers and Brabants had passed the Bois des Sioux before daybreak, they could not have reached Lake Traverse yet. They had a long way to go with tired horses. It was not impossible for the Indians, riding hard on fresh ponies, to overtake them. Murray and his savages must not cross.

The Ojibwas were concealed among the willows of the low island. The lads could get no glimpse of them. The canoes were visible in part from where the boys were, but must be completely hidden from the opposite shore. Crouched among the bushes, the three waited, silent and almost motionless. Walter had about made up his mind that the horseman with the buffalo robe, – if it actually was a horseman, – was not coming to the ford, when Neil laid a hand on his arm and pointed across the river.

The willows were stirring, – not with wind. An animal of some kind was coming through. It was a horse. Walter could see its head, as it pushed through the growth. Then the rider came into view; a tall man with a buffalo hide wrapped about him. He was no longer trying to conceal himself under the robe. He had let it slip down as he straightened up in the saddle.

Neil uttered a low exclamation, and Walter started up from his hiding place. The whole width of the Bois des Sioux at this place was not fifty yards. The man on the opposite shore was in full sunlight at the edge of the water. He was tall, like Murray, but he was fully clothed and he wore a beard.