Menotah Part 14

A gust of hot wind sighed through the dreary tree. The branches shifted with sullen movements. But, as she ceased speaking, a brown object bounded through the rustling leaves and lay on the gra.s.s before them, gazing upward with ghastly mirth.

Lamont started back with white face, and crossed himself hurriedly. But Menotah only laughed. 'The Wind Spirit is throwing skulls at us. But why are you frightened?'

He pointed at the symbol of death. 'It is a bad omen,' he said huskily.

'It means approaching evil.'

'To me?' asked Menotah, astounded at this fresh wisdom.

'Or to me--perhaps to both.'

She smiled and shook her small head. 'Ah! but you are wrong; I should only despise a G.o.d, who could only warn me by rolling a skull at my feet. My heart has always been happy; I know the G.o.d would never harm me.'

'Trouble comes to all at some time in life.'

'No, not to all; never to me. I have been born that I may laugh and be happy. I must not try to teach you. Yet, when you have made something with your own hands that you think beautiful, you could never destroy it, unless you were mad. You would feel you were cutting away a part of your life. So the G.o.d could never destroy my happiness. For he would have to spoil the work of his own making; and the G.o.d is never mad.'

She picked up the skull and ran her bright eyes over the mouldering symbol. Then, as she perceived, high up on the bony forehead, a small, rounded fissure, she gave a sad little cry of recognition.

'This is the skull of a white man. But his story was a very sad one.'

'Who was he?' cried Lamont, in surprise.

'I never saw him alive. But when he lay dead, I washed the dry blood from his face. That was eight years ago, when I was very young. See!

here is the place where the bullet pa.s.sed.'

'Who was he?' repeated Lamont, in lower tones.

'He came from the Spirits' pa.s.sing place.[2] His name was Sinclair.'

'Sinclair!' he muttered to himself. 'Pshaw! it's the commonest name of the Province.' Then to the girl, 'Who shot him?'

'He had an enemy who was a coward. He tracked him down through the forest as you would follow a moose. One evening Sinclair was resting and smoking his pipe. Then this other man crept up and shot him through the bushes.'

Lamont moistened his lips. 'Did he escape?'

Menotah shook her head gladly. 'They caught him, and the warriors tied him to a tree, then shot at him with arrows. Some day I will show you that tree. But he was a coward. He cried for mercy when the women tied his arms.'

'But he was only doing his duty,' argued Lamont, with his careless air.

'You say that vengeance is necessary.'

'But I would never steal upon my enemy and shoot him down. That is the act of a man who fears to fight. I would meet him face to face. Perhaps Sinclair had never done this man an injury after all.' Then she laughed in her happy manner, and set the skull carefully in the cleft of a stunted kanikanik bush. She turned to him and laid a small hand on his arm. 'You would not act as he did,' she said.

He looked at the little fingers curved upon his coat sleeve. Then he placed his hand over and held them. 'Then you do not think me a coward?'

'You!' she said slowly. 'No, you are a brave man, who would fight until death for any you loved.'

'For you?' he said, bending his head to the soft, waving tresses.

'And even after death; your soul would protect me.'

He drew a little back and laughed scornfully. 'Do you believe in such a thing?'

She lifted her face, which was animated with belief. 'You may see it; on the winter's day the shadowy vapour rises to the lips and escapes in breath. You cannot tell where it goes to. But it is the soul.'

She stopped and glanced half shyly. 'Go on,' he said.

'In the summer we do not need to see it. Then everything is alive and happy. But in the dreary winter the Spirit shows itself to our eyes.

Then we may know the higher life stirs within us, though the world is dead. Shall I tell you any more?'

She stood like the child repeating a well-known lesson. Her fingers twisted within his, and she lowered her eyes. He pa.s.sed his arm round the slight figure, and drew her from the shadow of the death tree.

'It is gloomy here; let us go out to the sunshine.'

'Then I must go. I have to bring the old Chief to mourn at the grave.'

Her manner changed quickly as she continued, 'I don't think you believe in me.'

He laughed outright. 'Have I said so? Don't you think I would keep any promise I made you?'

They stopped in the dimly-marked forest trail, and he drew her to him.

She looked up quickly, sighed, then pa.s.sed her right arm impulsively across to his shoulder. Her long hair, floating unbound, caressed the hand that held her waist. 'Yes,' she faltered, with a strange little laugh, 'for you are brave.'

The light darted into her l.u.s.trous eyes, and her small mouth twitched.

He placed his hand beneath her chin and raised her graceful head as he bent his own down. Her quick breathing fanned his face. 'Your promise,'

he whispered. Then the sunlight disappeared.

Later, a strange procession started from the fort. Winton's body lay uncovered on resinous pine branches, the ends of which were sustained by the shoulders of McAuliffe and the half-breed. At a short distance behind walked Lamont, smoking carelessly.

The grave had been dug about fifty paces from the door. Arriving there, they placed the body upon the gra.s.s, while the Factor mopped his forehead and remarked upon the weather. He was grinning broadly, as a necessary covering to his real feelings. Subsequently he confided to Lamont that he had been compelled to recall the most humorous incidents connected with his past career as a preventive to foolish signs of grief. Justin stood by stolidly, and spat into the grave.

'Shouldn't wonder if we didn't get an electric storm presently,'

observed the Factor. There was no reply to this attempt at conversation.

'What'll we do now?' he continued, smiling expansively.

Justin grunted, then pointed expressively to the dark hole surrounded by fresh gra.s.s.

'Plant him, eh? well, I guess so. Got any ropes?'

There were none handy, so the half-breed went off to the store for some.

The Factor filled the interval by relating a ludicrous anecdote for his companion's benefit, and chopping a pipeful of plug. When Justin returned, ropes were pa.s.sed round the leafy bier and the body was lowered by concerted effort.

Then McAuliffe lit his pipe, and knocked his great boots together clumsily. He looked across at Lamont, leaning against the tree which shadowed the open grave. 'How are you on the prayer racket?' he blurted forth.

The young man shook his head and muttered something unintelligible.

'Seems kind of hard to cover the boy up and get off without saying a word, don't it? Say, Justin, can't you do something that way?'