though many years have passed since that dismal storm in the spring of 1815, when hamilton and i spent a long disconsolate night of enforced waiting, i still hear the roaring of the northern gale, driving round the house-corners as if it would wrench all eaves from the roof. it shrieked across the garden like malignant furies, rushed with the boom of a sea through the cedars and pines, and tore up the mountain slope till all the many voices of the forest were echoing back a thousand tumultuous discords. again, i see hamilton gazing at the leaping flames of the log fire, as if their frenzied motion reflected something of his own burning grief. then, the agony of our utter helplessness, as long as the storm raged, would prove too great for his self-control. rising, he would pace back and forward the full length of the hunting-room till his eye would be caught by some object with which the boy had played. he would put this carefully away, as one lays aside the belongings of the dead. afterwards, lanterns, which we had placed on the oak center table on coming in, began to smoke and give out a pungent, burning smell, and each of us involuntarily walked[pg 39] across to a window and drew aside the curtains to see how daylight was coming on. the white glare of early morning flooded the room, but the snow-storm had changed to driving sleet and the panes were iced from corner to corner with frozen rain-drift. how we dragged through two more days, while the gale raved with unabated fury, i do not know. poor eric was for rushing into the blinding whirl, that turned earth and air into one white tornado; but he could not see twice the length of his own arm, and we prevailed on him to come back. on the third night, the wind fell like a thing that had fretted out its strength. morning revealed an ocean of billowy drifts, crusted over by the frozen sleet and reflecting a white dazzle that made one's eyes blink. great icicles hung from the naked branches of the sheeted pines and snow was wreathed in fantastic forms among the cedars.
we had laid our plans while we waited. after lifting the canvas from the camping-ground and seeking in vain for more trace of the fugitives, we despatched a dozen different search-parties that very morning, eric leading those who were to go on the river-side of the chateau, and i some well-trained bushrangers picked from the habitants of the hillside, who could track the forest to every indian haunt within a week's march of the city. after putting my men on a trail with instructions to send back an indian courier to report each night, i hunted up an old habitant guide, named paul larocque, who had often helped me to thread the woods of quebec after big game. now[pg 40] paul was habitually as silent as a dumb animal, and sportsmen had nicknamed him the mute; but what he lacked in speech he made up like other wild creatures in a wonderful acuteness of eye and ear. indeed, it was commonly believed among trappers that paul possessed some nameless sense by which he could actually feel the presence of an enemy before ordinary men could either see, or hear. for my part, i would be willing to pit that "feel" of paul's against the nose of any hound that dog-fanciers could back.
"paul," said i, as the habitant stood before me licking the short stem of an inverted clay pipe, "there's an indian, a bad indian, an iroquois, paul,"—i was particular in describing the indian as an iroquois, for paul's wife was a huron from lorette—"an iroquois, who stole a white woman and a little boy from the chateau three days ago, in the morning."
there, i paused to let the facts soak in; for the mute digested information in small morsels. grizzled, stunted and chunky, he was not at all the picturesque figure which fancy has painted of his class. instead of the red toque, which artists place on the heads of habitants, he wore a cloth cap with ear flaps coming down to be tied under his chin. his jacket was an ill-fitting garment, the cast-off coat of some well-to-do man, and his trousers slouched in ample folds above brightly beaded moccasins. when i paused, paul fixed his eyes on an invisible spot in the snow and ruminated. then he hitched the baggy trousers[pg 41] up, pulled the red scarf, that held them to his waist, tighter, and, taking his eyes off the snow, looked up for me to go on.
"that iroquois, who belongs to the north-west trappers——"
"pays d'en haut?" asks paul, speaking for the first time.
"yes," i answered, "and they all disappeared with the woman and the child the day before the storm."
the mute's eyes were back on the snow.
"now," said i, "i'll make you a rich man if you take me straight to the place where he's hiding."
paul's eyes looked up with the question of how much.
"five pounds a day." this was four more than we paid for the cariboo hunts.
again he stood thinking, then darted off into the forest like a hare; but i knew his strange, silent ways, and confidently awaited his return. how he could get two pair of snow-shoes and two poles inside of five minutes, i do not attempt to explain, unless some of his numerous half-breed youngsters were at hand in the woods; but he was back again all equipped for a long tramp, and as soon as i had laced on the racquets, we were skimming over the drift like a boat on billows. in the mazy confusion of snow and underbrush, no one but paul would have found and kept that tangled, forest path. where great trunks had fallen across the way, paul planted his pole and[pg 42] took the barrier at a bound. then he raced on at a gait which was neither a run nor a walk, but an easy trot common to the coureurs-des-bois. the encased branches snapped like glass when we brushed past, and so heavily were snow and icicles frozen to the trees we might have been in some grotesque crystal-walled cavern. the habitant spoke not a word, but on we pressed over the brushwood, now so packed with snow and crusted ice, our snow-shoes were not once tripped by loose branches, and we glided from drift to drift. in vain i tried to discern a trail by the broken thicket on either side, and i noticed that my guide was keeping his course by following the marks blazed on trees. at one place we came to a steep, clear slope, where the earth had fallen sheer away from the hillside and snow had filled the incline. first prodding forward to feel if the snow-bank were solid, paul promptly sat down on the rear end of his snow-shoes, and, quicker than i can tell it, tobogganed down to the valley. i came leaping clumsily from point to point with my pole, like a ski-jumping norwegian, risking my neck at every bound. then we coursed along the valley, the habitant's eyes still on the trees, and once he stopped to emit a gurgling laugh at a badly hacked trunk, beneath which was a snowed-up sap trough; but i could not divine whether paul's mirth were over a prospect of sugaring-off in the maple-woods, or at some foolish habitant who had tapped the maple too early. how often had i known my guide to exhaust[pg 43] city athletes in these swift marches of his! but i had been schooled to his pace from boyhood and kept up with him at every step, though we were going so fast i lost all track of my bearings.
"where to, paul?" i asked with a vague suspicion that we were heading for the huron village at lorette. "to lorette, paul?"
but paul condescended only a grunt and whisked suddenly round a headland up a narrow gorge, which seemed to lead to the very heart of the mountains and might have sheltered any number of fugitives. in the gorge we stopped to take a light meal of gingerbread horses—a cake that is the peculiar glory of the habitant—dried herrings and sea biscuits. by the sun, i knew it was long past noon and that we had been traveling northwest. i also vaguely guessed that paul's object was to intercept the north-west trappers, if they had planned to slip away from the st. lawrence through the bush to the upper ottawa, where they could meet north-bound boats. but not one syllable had my taciturn guide uttered. clambering up the steep, snowy banks of the gorge, we found ourselves in the upper reaches of a mountain, where the trees fell away in scraggy clumps and the snow stretched up clear and unbroken to the hill-crest. paul grunted, licked his pipe-stem significantly and pointed his pole to the hill-top. the dark peak of a solitary wigwam appeared above the snow. he pointed again to the fringe of woods below us. a dozen wigwams were visible among the[pg 44] trees and smoke curled up from a central camp-fire.
"voilà, monsieur?" said the habitant, which made four words for that day.
the mute then fell to my rear and we first approached the general camp. the campers were evidently thieves as well as hunters; for frozen pork hung with venison from the branches of several trees. the sap trough might also have belonged to them, which would explain paul's laugh, as the whole paraphernalia of a sugaring-off was on the outskirts of the encampment.
"not the indians we're after," said i, noting the signs of permanency; but paul larocque shoved me forward with the end of his pole and a curious, almost intelligent, expression came on the dull, pock-pitted face. strangely enough, as i looked over my shoulder to the guide, i caught sight of an indian figure climbing up the bank in our very tracks. the significance of this incident was to reveal itself later.
as usual, a pack of savage dogs flew out to announce our coming with furious barking. but i declare the habitant was so much like any ragged indian, the creatures recognized him and left off their vicious snarl. only the shrill-voiced children, who rushed from the wigwams; evinced either surprise or interest in our arrival. men and women were haunched about the fire, above which simmered several pots with the savory odor of cooking meat. i do not think a soul of the company as much as turned a head on our approach.[pg 45] though they saw us plainly, they sat stolid and imperturbable, after the manner of their race, waiting for us to announce ourselves. some of the squaws and half-breed women were heaping bark on the fire. indians sat straight-backed round the circle. white men, vagabond trappers from anywhere and everywhere, lay in all variety of lazy attitudes on buffalo robes and caribou skins.
i had known, as every one familiar with quebec's family histories must know, that the sons of old seigneurs sometimes inherited the adventurous spirit, which led their ancestors of three centuries ago to exchange the gayeties of the french court for the wild life of the new world. i was aware this spirit frequently transformed seigneurs into bush-rangers and descendants of the royal blood into coureurs-des-bois. but it is one thing to know a fact, another to see that fact in living embodiment; and in this case, the living embodiment was louis laplante, a school-fellow of laval, whom, to my amazement, i now saw, with a beard of some months' growth and clad in buckskin, lying at full length on his back among that villainous band of nondescript trappers. something of the surprise i felt must have shown on my face, for as louis recognized me he uttered a shout of laughter.
"hullo, gillespie!" he called with the saucy nonchalance which made him both a favorite and a torment at the seminary. "are you among the prophets?" and he sat up making room for me on his buffalo robe.[pg 46]
"i'll wager, louis," said i, shaking his hand heartily and accepting the proffered seat, "i'll wager it's prophets spelt with an 'f' brings you here." for the young rake had been one of the most notorious borrowers at the seminary.
"good boy!" laughed he, giving my shoulder a clap. "i see your time was not wasted with me. now, what the devil," he asked as i surveyed the motley throng of fat, coarse-faced squaws and hard-looking men who surrounded him, "now, what the devil's brought you here?"
"what's the same, to yourself, louis lad?" said i. he laughed the merry, heedless laugh that had been the distraction of the class-room.
"do you need to ask with such a galaxy of nut-brown maidens?" and louis looked with the assurance of privileged impudence straight across the fire into the hideous, angry face of a big squaw, who was glaring at me. the creature was one to command attention. she might have been a great, bronze statue, a type of some ancient goddess, a symbol of fury, or cruelty. her eyes fastened themselves on mine and held me, whether i would or no, while her whole face darkened.
"the lady evidently objects to having her place usurped, louis," i remarked, for he was watching the silent duel between the native woman's questioning eyes and mine.
"the gentleman wants to know if the lady objects to having her place usurped?" called louis to the squaw.
at that the woman flinched and looked to laplante.[pg 47] of course, she did not understand our words; but i think she was suspicious we were laughing at her. there was a vindictive flash across her face, then the usual impenetrable expression of the indian came over her features. i noticed that her cheeks and forehead were scarred, and a cut had laid open her upper lip from nose to teeth.
"you must know that the lady is the daughter of a chief and a fighter," whispered louis in my ear.
i might have known she was above common rank from the extraordinary number of trinkets she wore. pendants hung from her ears like the pendulum of a clock. she had a double necklace of polished bear's claws and around her waist was a girdle of agates, which to me proclaimed that she was of a far-western tribe. in the girdle was an ivory-handled knife, which had doubtless given as many scars as its owner displayed.
"what tribe, louis?" i asked.
"i'll be hanged, now, if i'm not jealous," he began. "you'll stare the lady out of countenance——" but at this moment the indian who had come up the bank behind us came round and interrupted laplante's merriment by tossing a piece of bethumbed paper between my comrade's knees.
"the deuce!" exclaimed louis, bulging his tongue into one cheek and glancing at me with a queer, quizzical look as he unfolded and read the paper.[pg 48]
if he had not spoken i might not have turned; but having turned i could not but notice two things. louis jerked back from me, as if i might try to read the soiled note in his hand, and in raising the paper displayed on the back the stamp of the commissariat department from quebec citadel.
neither laplante's suppressed surprise, nor my observations of his movement, escaped the big squaw. she came quickly round the fire to us both.
"give me that," she commanded, holding out her hand to the french youth.
"the deuce i will," he returned, twisting the paper up in his clenched fist. half in jest, half in earnest, just as louis used to be punished at the seminary, she gave him a prompt box on the ear. he took it in perfect good-nature. and the whole encampment laughed. the squaw went back to the other side of the fire. laplante leaned forward and threw the paper towards the flames; but without his knowledge, he overshot the mark; and when the trader was looking elsewhere the big squaw stooped, picked up the coveted note and slipped it into her skirt pocket.
"now, louis, nonsense aside," i began.
"with all my soul, if i have one," said he, lying back languidly with a perceptible cooling of the cordiality he had first evinced.
i told him my errand, and that i wished to search every wigwam for trace of the lost woman and child. he listened with shut eyes.[pg 49]
"it isn't," i explained in a low voice, eager to arouse his interest, "it isn't in the least, laplante, that we suspect these people; but you know the kidnappers might have traded the clothing to your people——"
"oh! go ahead!" he interjected impatiently. "don't beat round the bush! what do you want of me?"
"to go through the tents with me and help me. by jove! laplante! i thought at least a spark of the man would suggest that without my speaking," i broke out hotly.
he was on his feet with an alacrity that brought old paul larocque round to my side and the squaw to his.
"curse you," he cried out roughly, shoving the squaw back. for a moment i was uncertain whether he were addressing the woman or myself. "you mind your own business and go to your indian! here, gillespie, i'll do the tents with you. get off with you," he muttered at the squaw, rumbling out a lingo of persuasive expletives; and he led the way to the first wigwam.
but the squaw was not to be dismissed; for when i followed the frenchman, she closed in behind looking thunder, not at her abuser, but at me; and the mute, fearing foul play and pole in hand, loyally brought up the rear of our strange procession. i shall not retail that search through robes and skins and blankets and boxes, in foul-smelling, vermin-infested wigwams. it was fruitless. i only recall the lowering face of the big[pg 50] squaw looking over my shoulder at every turn, with heavy brows contracted and gashed lips grinning an evil, malicious challenge. i thought she kept her hands uncomfortably near the ivory handle in the agate belt; but larocque, good fellow, never took his beady eyes off those same hands and kept a grip of the leaping pole.
thus we examined the tents and made a circuit of the people round the fire, but found nothing to reveal the whereabouts of miriam and the child. laplante and i were on one side of the robe, larocque and the squaw on the other.
"and why is that tent apart from the rest and who is in it?" i asked laplante, pointing to the lone tepee on the crest of the hill.
the fire cracked so loudly i became aware there was ominous silence among the loungers of the camp. they were listening as well as watching. up to this time i had not thought they were paying the slightest attention to us. laplante was not answering, and when i faced him suddenly i found the squaw's eyes fastened on his, holding them whether he would or no, just as she had mine.
"eh! man?" i cried, seizing him fiercely, a nameless suspicion getting possession of me. "why don't you answer?"
the spell was broken. he turned to me nonchalantly, as he used to face accusers in the school-days of long ago, and spoke almost gently, with downcast eyes, and a quiet, deprecating smile.
"you know, rufus," he answered, using the[pg 51] schoolboy name. "we should have told you before. but remember we didn't invite you here. we didn't lead you into it."
"well?" i demanded.
"well," he replied in a voice too low for any of the listeners but the squaw to hear, "there's a very bad case of smallpox up in that tent and we're keeping the man apart till he gets better. that, in fact, is why we're all here. you must go. it is not safe."
"thanks, laplante," said i. "good-by." but he did not offer me his hand when i made to take leave.
"come," he said. "i'll go as far as the gorge with you;" and he stood on the embankment and waved as we passed into the lengthening shadows of the valley.
now, in these days of health officers and vaccination, people can have no idea of the terrors of a smallpox scourge at the beginning of this century. the habitant is as indifferent to smallpox as to measles, and accepts both as dispensations of providence by exposing his children to the contagion as early as possible; but i was not so minded, and hurried down the gorge as fast as my snow-shoes would carry me. then i remembered that the indian population of the north had been reduced to a skeleton of its former numbers by the pestilence in 1780, and recalled that my uncle jack had said the native's superstitious dread of this disease knew no bounds. that recollection checked my sudden flight. if the indians had[pg 52] such fear, why had this band camped within a mile of the pest tent? it would be more like indian character to reverse samaritan practises and leave the victim to die. this man might, of course, be a french-canadian trapper, but i would take no risks of a trick, so i ordered paul to lead me back to that tepee.
the mute seemed to understand i had no wish to be seen by the campers. he skirted round the base of the hill till we were on the side remote from the tribe. then he motioned me to remain in the gorge while he scrambled up the cliff to reconnoitre. i knew he received a surprise as soon as his head was on a level with the top of the bank; for he curled himself up behind a snow-pile and gave a low whistle for me. i was beside him with one bound. we were not twenty pole-lengths from the wigwam. there was no appearance of life. the tent flaps had been laced up and a solitary watch-dog was tied to a stake before the entrance. down the valley the setting sun shone through the naked trees like a wall of fire, and dyed all the glistening snow-drifts primrose and opal. at one place in the forest the red light burst through and struck against the tent on the hill-top, giving the skins a peculiar appearance of being streaked with blood. the faintest breath of wind, a mere sigh of moving air-currents peculiar to snow-padded areas, came up from the woods with far-away echoes of the trappers' voices. perhaps this was heard by the watch-dog, or it may have felt the disturbing presence of my half-wild[pg 53] habitant guide; for it sat back on its haunches and throwing up its head, let out the most doleful howlings imaginable.
"oh! monsieur," shuddered out the superstitious habitant shivering like an aspen leaf, "sick man moan,—moan,—moan hard! he die, monsieur, he die, he die now when dog cry lak dat," and full of fear he scrambled down into the gorge, making silent gestures for me to follow.
for a time—but not long, i must acknowledge—i lay there alone, watching and listening. paul's ears might hear the moans of a sick man, mine could not: nor would i return to the chateau without ascertaining for a certainty what was in that wigwam. slipping off the snow-shoes, i rose and tip-toed over the snow with the full intention of silencing the dog with my pole; but i was suddenly arrested by the distinct sound of pain-racked groaning. then the brute of a dog detected my approach and with a furious leaping that almost hung him with his own rope set up a vicious barking. suddenly the black head of an indian, or trapper, popped through the tent flaps and a voice shouted in perfect english—"go away! go away! the pest! the pest!"
"who has smallpox?" i bawled back.
"a trader, a nor'-wester," said he. "if you have anything for him lay it on the snow and i'll come for it."
as honor pledged me to serve hamilton until he found his wife, i was not particularly anxious to exchange civilities at close range with a man[pg 54] from a smallpox tent; so i quickly retraced my way to the gorge and hurried homeward with the mute. my old school-fellow's sudden change towards me when he received the letter written on citadel paper, and the big squaw's suspicion of my every movement, now came back to me with a significance i had not felt when i was at the camp. either intuitions like those of my habitant guide, which instinctively put out feelers with the caution of an insect's antennæ for the presence of vague, unknown evil, lay dormant in my own nature and had been aroused by the incidents at the camp, or else the mind, by the mere fact of holding information in solution, widens its own knowledge. for now, in addition to the letter from the citadel and the squaw's animosity, came the one missing factor—adderly. i felt, rather than knew, that louis laplante had deceived me. had he lied? a lie is the clumsy invention of the novice. an expert accomplishes his deceit without anything so grossly and tangibly honest as a lie; and louis was an expert. though i had not a vestige of proof, i could have sworn that adderly and the squaw and louis were leagued against me for some dark purpose. i was indeed learning the first lessons of the trapper's life: never to open my lips on my own affairs to another man, and never to believe another man when he opened his lips to me.
