a more desolate existence than the life of a fur-trading winterer in the far north can scarcely be imagined. penned in some miserable lodge a thousand miles from human companionship, only the wild orgies of the savages varied the monotony of dull days and long nights. the winter i spent with the mandanes was my first in the north. i had not yet learned to take events as the rock takes wave-blows, and was still at that mawkish age when a man is easily filled with profound pity for himself. a month after our arrival, father holland left the mandane village. eric hamilton had not yet come; so i felt much like the man whom a gloomy poet describes as earth's last habitant. i had accompanied the priest half-way to the river forks. here, he was to get passage in an indian canoe to the tribes of the upper missouri. after an affectionate farewell, i stood on a knoll of treeless land and watched the broad-brimmed hat and black robe receding from me.
"good-by, boy! god bless you!" he had said in broken voice. "don't fall to brooding when you're alone, or you'll lose your wits. now mind yourself! don't mope!"[pg 221]
for my part, i could not answer a word, but keeping hold of his hand walked on with him a pace.
"get away with you! go home, youngster!" he ordered, roughly shaking me off and flourishing his staff.
then he strode swiftly forward without once looking back, while i would have given all i possessed for one last wave. as he plunged into the sombre forest, where the early autumn frost of that north land had already tinged the maple woods with the hectic flush of coming death, so poignant was this last wresting from human fellowship, i could scarcely resist the impulse to desert my station and follow him. poorer than the poorest of the tribes to whom he ministered, alone and armed only with his faith, this man was ready to conquer the world for his master. "would that i had half the courage for my quest," i mused, and walked slowly back to the solitary lodge.
black cat, chief of the mandane village, in a noisy harangue, adopted me as his son and his brother and his father and his mother and i know not what; but apart from trade with his people, i responded coldly to these warm overtures. from father holland's leave-taking to hamilton's coming, was a desolately lonesome interval. daily i went to the north hill and strained my eyes for figures against the horizon. sometimes horsemen would gradually loom into view, head first, then arms and horse, like the peak of a ship preceding appearance of full canvas[pg 222] and hull over sea. thereupon i would hurriedly saddle my own horse and ride furiously forward, feeling confident that hamilton had at last come, only to find the horsemen some company of indian riders. what could be keeping him? i conjectured a thousand possibilities; but in truth there was no need for any conjectures. 'twas i, who felt the days drag like years. hamilton was not behind his appointed time. he came at last, walking in on me one night when i least expected him and was sitting moodily before my untouched supper. he had nothing to tell except that he had wasted many weeks following false clues, till our buffalo hunters returned with news of the sioux attack, diable's escape and our bootless pursuit. at once he had left fort douglas for the missouri, pausing often to send scouts scouring the country for news of diable's band; but not a trace of the rascals had been found; and his search seemed on the whole more barren of results than mine. laplante, he reported, had never been seen the night after he left the council hall to find the young nor'-wester. in my own mind, i had no doubt the villain had been in that company we pursued through the prairie fire. altogether, i think hamilton's coming made matters worse rather than better. that i had failed after so nearly effecting a rescue seemed to embitter him unspeakably.
out of deference to the rival companies employing us, we occupied different lodges. indeed,[pg 223] i fear poor eric did but a sorry business for the hudson's bay that winter. i verily believe he would have forgotten to eat, let alone barter for furs, had i not been there to lug him forcibly across to my lodge, where meals were prepared for us both. often when i saw the indian trappers gathering before his door with piles of peltries, i would go across and help him to value the furs. at first the indian rogues were inclined to take advantage of his abstraction and palm off one miserable beaver skin, where they should have given five for a new hatchet; and i began to understand why they crowded to his lodge, though he did nothing to attract them, while they avoided mine. then i took a hand in hudson's bay trade and equalized values. first, i would pick over the whole pile, which the indians had thrown on the floor, putting spoiled skins to one side, and peltries of the same kind in classified heaps.
"lynx, buffalo, musk-ox, marten, beaver, silver fox, black bear, raccoon! want them all, eric?" i would ask, while the indians eyed me with suspicious resentment.
"certainly, certainly, take everything," eric would answer, without knowing a word of what i had said, and at once throwing away his opportunity to drive a good bargain.
picking over the goods of hamilton's packet, the mandanes would choose what they wanted. then began a strange, silent haggling over prices. unlike oriental races, the indian maintains stolid[pg 224] silence, compelling the white man to do the talking.
"eric, running deer wants a gun," i would begin.
"for goodness' sake, give it to him, and don't bother me," eric would urge, and the faintest gleam of amused triumph would shoot from the beady eyes of running deer. running deer's peltries would be spread out, and after a half hour of silent consideration on his part and trader's talk on mine, furs to the value of so many beaver skins would be passed across for the coveted gun. i remember it was a wretched old squaw with a toothless, leathery, much-bewrinkled face and a reputation for knowledge of indian medicines, who first opened my eyes to the sort of trade the indians had been driving with hamilton. the old creature was bent almost double over her stout oak staff and came hobbling in with a bag of roots, which she flung on the floor. after thawing out her frozen moccasins before the lodge fire and taking off bandages of skins about her ankles, she turned to us for trade. we were ready to make concessions that might induce the old body to hurry away; but she demanded red flannel, tea and tobacco enough to supply a whole family of grandchildren, and sat down on the bag of roots prepared to out-siege us.
"what's this, eric?" i asked, knowing no more of roots than the old woman did of values.
"seneca for drugs. for goodness' sake, buy it quick and don't haggle."[pg 225]
"but she wants your whole kit, man," i objected.
"she'll have the whole kit and the shanty, too, if you don't get her out," said hamilton, opening the lodge door; and the old squaw presently limped off with an armful of flannel, one tea packet and a parcel of tobacco, already torn open. such was the character of hamilton's bartering up to the time i elected myself his first lieutenant; but as his abstractions became almost trance-like, i think the superstition of the indians was touched. to them, a maniac is a messenger of the great spirit; and hamilton's strange ways must have impressed them, for they no longer put exorbitant values on their peltries.
after the day's trading eric would come to my hut. pacing the cramped place for hours, wild-eyed and silent, he would abruptly dash into the darkness of the night like one on the verge of madness. thereupon, the taciturn, grave-faced la robe noire, tapping his forehead significantly, would look with meaning towards little fellow; and i would slip out some distance behind to see that hamilton did himself no harm while the paroxysm lasted. so absorbed was he in his own gloom, for days he would not utter a syllable. the storm that had gathered would then discharge its strength in an outburst of incoherent ravings, which usually ended in hamilton's illness and my watching over him night and day, keeping firearms out of reach. i have never seen—and hope i never may—any other being age so swiftly and[pg 226] perceptibly. i had attributed his worn appearance in fort douglas to the cannon accident and trusted the natural robustness of his constitution would throw off the apparent languor; but as autumn wore into winter, there were more gray hairs on his temple, deeper lines furrowed his face and the erect shoulders began to bow.
when days slipped into weeks and weeks into months without the slightest inkling of miriam's whereabouts to set at rest the fear that my rash pursuit had caused her death, i myself grew utterly despondent. like all who embark on daring ventures, i had not counted on continuous frustration. the idea that i might waste a lifetime in the wilderness without accomplishing anything had never entered my mind. week after week, the scouts dispatched in every direction came back without one word of the fugitives, and i began to imagine my association with hamilton had been unfortunate for us both. this added to despair the bitterness of regret.
the winter was unusually mild, and less game came to the missouri from the mountains and bad lands than in severe seasons. by february, we were on short rations. two meals a day, with cat-fish for meat and dried skins in soup by way of variety, made up our regular fare for mid-winter. the frequent absence of my two indians, scouring the region for the sioux, left me to do my own fishing; and fishing with bare hands in frosty weather is not pleasant employment for a youth of soft up-bringing. protracted bachelordom[pg 227] was also losing its charms; but that may have resulted from a new influence, which came into my life and seemed ever present.
at christmas, hamilton was threatened with violent insanity. as the mandanes' provisions dwindled, the indians grew surlier toward us; and i was as deep in despondency as a man could sink. frequently, i wondered whether father holland would find us alive in the spring, and i sometimes feared ours would be the fate of athabasca traders whose bodies satisfied the hunger of famishing crees.
how often in those darkest hours did a presence, which defied time and space, come silently to me, breathing inspiration that may not be spoken, healing the madness of despair and leaving to me in the midst of anxiety a peace which was wholly unaccountable! in the lambent flame of the rough stone fireplace, in the darkness between hamilton's hut and mine, through which i often stole, dreading what i might find—everywhere, i felt and saw, or seemed to see, those gray eyes with the look of a startled soul opening its virgin beauty and revealing its inmost secrets.
a bleak, howling wind, with great piles of storm-scud overhead, raved all the day before christmas. it was one of those afternoons when the sombre atmosphere seems weighted with gloom and weariness. on christmas eve hamilton's brooding brought on acute delirium. he had been more depressed than usual, and at night when we sat down to a cheerless supper of hare-skin[pg 228] soup and pemmican, he began to talk very fast and quite irrationally.
"see here, old boy," said i, "you'd better bunk here to-night. you're not well."
"bunk!" said he icily, in the grand manner he sometimes assumed at the quebec club for the benefit of a too familiar member. "and pray, sir, what might 'bunk' mean?"
"go to bed, eric," i coaxed, getting tight hold of his hands. "you're not well, old man; come to bed!"
"bed!" he exclaimed with indignation. "bed! you're a madman, sir! i'm to meet miriam on the st. foye road." (it was here that miriam lived in quebec, before they were married.) "on the st. foye road! see the lights glitter, dearest, in lower town," and he laughed aloud. then followed such an outpouring of wild ravings i wept from very pity and helplessness.
"rufus! rufus, lad!" he cried, staring at me and clutching at his forehead as lucid intervals broke the current of his madness. "gillespie, man, what's wrong? i don't seem able to think. who—are—you? who—in the world—are you? gillespie! o gillespie! i'm going mad! am i going mad? help me, rufus! why can't you help me? it's coming after me! see it! the hideous thing!" tears started from his burning eyes and his brow was knotted hard as whipcord.
"look! it's there!" he screamed, pointing to the fire, and he darted to the door, where i caught him. he fought off my grasp with maniacal[pg 229] strength, and succeeded in flinging open the door. then i forgot this man was more than brother to me, and threw myself upon him as against an enemy, determined to have the mastery. the bleak wind roared through the open blackness of the doorway, and on the ground outside were shadows of two struggling, furious men. i saw the terrified faces of little fellow and la robe noire peering through the dark, and felt wet beads start from every pore in my body. both of us were panting like fagged racers. one of us was fighting blindly, raining down aimless blows, i know not which, but i think it must have been hamilton, for he presently sank in my arms, limp and helpless as a sick child.
somehow i got him between the robes of my floor mattress. drawing a box to the bedside i again took his hands between mine and prepared for a night's watch.
he raved in a low, indistinct tone, muttering miriam's name again and again, and tossing his head restlessly from side to side. then he fell into a troubled sleep. the supper lay untouched. torches had burned black out. one tallow candle, that i had extravagantly put among some evergreens—our poor decorations for christmas eve—sputtered low and threw ghostly, branching shadows across the lodge. i slipped from the sick man's side, heaped more logs on the fire and stretched out between robes before the hearth. in the play of the flame hamilton's face seemed suddenly and strangely calm. was it the dim[pg 230] light, i wonder. the furrowed lines of sorrow seemed to fade, leaving the peaceful, transparent purity of the dead. i could not but associate the branched shadows on the wall with legends of death keeping guard over the dying. the shadow by his pillow gradually assumed vague, awesome shape. i sat up and rubbed my eyes. was this an illusion, or was i, too, going mad? the filmy thing distinctly wavered and receded a little into the dark.
an unspeakable fear chilled my veins. then i could have laughed defiance and challenged death. death! curse death! what had we to fear from dying? had we not more to fear from living? at that came thought of my love and the tumult against life was quieted. i, too, like other mortals, had reason, the best of reason, to fear death. what matter if a lonely one like myself went out alone to the great dark? but when thought of my love came, a desolating sense of separation—separation not to be bridged by love or reason—overwhelmed me, and i, too, shrank back.
again i peered forward. the shadow fluttered, moved, and came out of the gloom, a tender presence with massy, golden hair, white-veined brow, and gray eyes, speaking unutterable things.
"my beloved!" i cried. "oh, my beloved!" and i sprang towards her; but she had glided back among the spectral branches.
the candle tumbled to the floor, extinguishing all light, and i was alone with the sick man[pg 231] breathing heavily in the darkness. a log broke over the fire. the flames burst up again; but i was still alone. had i, too, lost grip of reality; or was she in distress calling for me? neither suggestion satisfied; for the mean lodge was suddenly filled with a great calm, and my whole being was flooded and thrilled with the trancing ecstasy of an ethereal presence.
if i remember rightly—and to be perfectly frank, i do—though i was in as desperate straits as a man could be, i lay before the hearth that christmas eve filled with gratitude to heaven—god knows such a gift must have come from heaven!—for the love with which i had been dowered.
how it might have been with other men i know not. for myself, i could not have come through that dreary winter unscathed without the influence of her, who would have been the first to disclaim such power. among the velvet cushions of the east one may criticise the lapse of white man to barbarity; but in the wilderness human voice is as grateful to the ear as rain patter in a drouth. there, men deal with facts, not arguments. natives break the loneliness of an isolated life by not unwelcomed visits. comes a time when they tarry over long in the white man's lodge. other men, who have scouted the possibility of sinking to savagery, have forsaken the ways of their youth. who can say that i might not have departed from the path called rectitude?[pg 232]
religion may keep a holy man upright in slippery places; but for common mortals, devotion to a being, whom, in one period of their worship men rank with angels, does much to steady wavering feet. hers was the influence that aroused loathing for the drunken debauches, the cheating, the depraved living of the indian lodges: hers, the influence that kept the loathing from slipping into indifference, the indifference from becoming participation. indeed, i could wish a young man no better talisman against the world, the flesh and the devil, than love for a pure woman.
how we dragged through the hours of that night, of christmas and the days that followed, i do not attempt to set down here. hamilton's illness lasted a month. what with trading and keeping our scouts on the search for miriam and waiting on the sick man, i had enough to busy me without brooding over my own woes. hard as my life was, it was fortunate i had no time for thoughts of self and so escaped the melancholy apathy that so often benumbs the lonely man's activities. and when eric became convalescent, i had enough to do finding diversion for his mind. keeping record of our doings on birch-bark sheets, playing quoits with the mandanes and polo with a few fearless riders, helped to pass the long weary days.
so the dismal winter wore away and spring was drizzling into summer. within a few weeks we should be turning our faces northward for the[pg 233] forks of the red and assiniboine. the prospect of movement after long stagnation cheered hamilton and fanned what neither of us would acknowledge—a faint hope that miriam might yet be alive in the north. i verily believe eric would have started northward with restored courage had not our plans been thwarted by the sinister handiwork of le grand diable.
