Menotah Part 13

'That's so,' said the other carelessly, glancing towards the kanikanik bush, beside which lay the corpse of the last killed.

The Factor continued, 'I've got a bit of a scheme in this old razzle-pate. There's a neat pile of shin-plasters getting bigger and mounting up all the time. When I'm given long leave, I'm going to blow 'em out by taking the boy back to the old country. Got into trouble at his University, he did, fired out, and came right on here. Derned silly thing to do, anyway, but he was scared of the folks. He's an only boy, so I reckon the people wouldn't want to come hard on him.'

'Lots of his cla.s.s around,' said Lamont, thinking of the heated faces and desperate struggle at Fish Creek.

'And they're darned sight better-hearted than the good ones that mope at home. Mind you, Lamont, not a word to the boy. Not a word, or you'd spoil the racket.'

Justin called to them from the slime-green rock which the big fir shadowed.

Lamont waved his hand. 'I reckon he's found,' he said shortly.

'What are you driving at anyway? Why should he want to stay out there?

Goldam! you're not making out--'

The sentence unfinished, he hurried away over the loose shingle. Lamont followed more leisurely, and presently they both stood at the half-breed's side.

Winton was still at the post of duty, clutching his cold rifle, with face turned towards the colours of the dawn. McAuliffe stooped, panting, then burst into a hearty laugh.

'Just as I said right along. He's played right out, and gone off to sleep. Well, well, I hate to wake him, but we must be getting across.'

Still laughing, he knelt and turned the young man over by his shoulder.

But the sleeping figure was of a board-like stiffness. Then his red face became grey tinted, and settled in fear.

For the eyes which looked up at his were unclosed and covered with light film; the forehead was like marble, over which the hair trembled in the raw air of morning, like gra.s.s on the dry rock; but the ears heard no sound of McAuliffe's deep cry, the stiff and parted lips gave back no cheerful word of welcome.

Young Winton had done with life and the troubles living brings.

[1] The Queen.

[2] See Glossary.

PART II

THE HEART'S GRIEF

CHAPTER I

THE TREE OF KNOWLEDGE

The presence of death, which casts so powerful a shadow of sorrow, and imposes so profound a silence, brooded along the smiling sh.o.r.es of the Saskatchewan. In the fort on the cliff summit, Justin had prepared food, and the two men had eaten, then sought sleep for a few hours. About mid-day the Factor appeared outside, swinging the store key, while Lamont stirred himself and began to chop tobacco in the outer office.

On the pure air came distant sounds of lamentation for the dead, shrill voices rising and falling in monotonous cadence, with dull drum beatings. Nearer there were different disturbances of the atmosphere--McAuliffe's deep voice, swearing angrily at some natives, alternating with the funereal strokes of a spade. The half-breed was preparing a grave for the cold figure lying in the other room.

The door swung open--no mosquitoes were stirring in that white heat--and the sun slanted inward with long dazzling rays. Presently a soft, hesitating step pattered along the planking outside, a shadow crossed the hot beams, then a face timidly peeped within.

Lamont called out lightly, and Menotah slipped inside. Warm colour shone in her cheeks, her bosom heaved slightly, while the radiant eyes were moist. Her red lips parted in a quick little sigh of surprised pleasure.

'I did not know you were here,' she said, the soft fringe dropping over her eyes. '_He_ said I might come--to say good-bye.'

Lamont bit his lip. 'He is inside.' Then she flashed a sudden look upon him and disappeared.

Sitting with the smoke rising to the log roof, he presently heard the sound of a kiss. He started and shuddered. It was a horrible idea for one so young, so warm, so beautiful, to press a kiss with ripe lips on the cold blue features of a corpse. When she appeared, somewhat more solemn and less smiling, he asked, 'Did you like him, Menotah?'

'Yes. He was nice, and used to kiss me; so I have kissed him, now that he has gone to the shadow land.'

She made a light step onward. Her heart was too happy to feel grief for long.

At that moment Lamont was almost glad a possible rival had been removed.

This girl was such an entirely perfect piece of nature.

'You may come with me if you like,' she said artlessly, holding out a small brown hand. 'I will talk to you. Perhaps, if you are nice to me, I will kiss you.'

Her colour deepened as she made the innocent promise. She had never felt this warm, elevating desire before. For her it had no name, yet she was certain it was a thing not to be lost lightly. Somehow she imagined a contact of lips would intensify that feeling, might bring it nearer consummation. That the awakening desire was a threatening danger to the 'heart of joy' she did not guess, she could not know.

But he was by her side, and they were walking through the cool of the forest, soothed by the whisperings of the leaves.

Beneath the spreading fir known to the Indians as the 'death tree,' they paused, while Lamont noticed that Menotah's long lashes were fringed with tear dew. 'You are crying,' he said quickly.

She laughed up at him gaily. 'No, I am not. But I am so happy.'

He smiled back at these innocent words, which contained a latent flattery. Then he looked with a growing tenderness at the dark cl.u.s.ters of hair and wonderful health bloom on the delicately curved features.

This beautiful girl would obey the natural impulses of inclination. She was ignorant of life--more, could scarce recognise the first emotion of love birth. Certainly he must teach her.

It was a strange spot for the meeting-place of lovers. At every breath of wind overhead branches rocked with a weird sound of bone creaking.

For there were many brown-ribbed skeletons swaying airily among the chafing boughs. Sometimes the breeze would fan aside a leaf cl.u.s.ter to disclose a jocund skull secured to the bark behind. They were surrounded by relics of the dead, for the ground and bushes were plentifully besprinkled with bones, which had decayed away, and been swept aside during dark nights when the storm howled through the forest.

'You are happy,' said Lamont almost enviously. 'Have you no wish--'

'Yes,' she interrupted joyously. 'I should like to be wise and know much, more even than old Antoine. Then I would go over the Great Water to the City of the Wind.[1] I would show the white chiefs that the poor Indians, though not great and powerful, are yet beings of flesh and blood. We see with eyes, hear with ears, speak with tongues and life breath. The Indian's body casts as good a shadow as the white man's. Oh, if I might only be wise, and do what I wish!'

'What gives you such a wish?'

With true native reverence for the unknown, she replied fearfully, 'The Dream Spirit whispers in my ear when I sleep. I do not forget.'

She stopped abruptly, so he added with a laugh, 'Your friends?'

'I could not,' she said simply. 'By forgetting friends you rob yourself of pleasure; by forgetting enemies you make yourself coward.'

Lamont gazed at the small face eagerly. 'You would seek for revenge, then?'

'It would be duty,' she returned, with new sternness. 'If it is right to do good to a friend, it must also be right to punish an enemy. If anyone should kill my heart with sorrow, I would give life and strength to the cause of vengeance. I should never turn back.'