The Heart of Unaga Part 17

The purpose of the visit was achieved. Steve desired nothing more. These Indians would take him to the place where the two white men had fought out the old, old battle for a woman. Yes, he was convinced now that An-ina's original story was the true one. His visit to these squalid creatures had served a double purpose. The old man's willingness to comply with his demands amply convinced him that the wife's belief had no foundation in the facts. Had the Indians murdered Marcel Brand and his partner, the whole att.i.tude of the chief must have been very different.

It was some moments before he replied. It was necessary that he should play his part to the end. So he appeared to consider deeply before he accepted the chief's offer.

At length he raised his eyes from the flickering blaze of the fire. He gazed round the dimly lit room where the Indians lay about in their deathlike slumber. There was a stirring as of waking in a far corner, and for awhile he contemplated the direction. Then, at last, his eyes came back to the crumpled face of the old man awaiting anxiously his reply.

"Tell him," he said, addressing the squaw without withdrawing his gaze from the face of the old man, "that the officer of the Great White Chief will wait till the snow goes. Tell him he'll need to have his young men ready then to make the trail. And when they've shown the officer all they've found, and told him all they know, then the officer will tell the Great White Chief that the 'Sleeper' men are good men, who deserve all that is good. Tell him, there will be no thunder or lightning. And if white men come again to the fort and find it as it has been left, nothing taken, nothing destroyed, then maybe they'll bring good trade for the Indian men, and presents for the big chief. But if they come and find that one little thing has been destroyed or stolen, then the thunder and lightning will speak, and there'll be no more Indians."

When Steve and An-ina emerged from the woods utter and complete darkness reigned. The world had been swallowed up under an inky pall. The moon, the brilliant stars, the blazing northern lights--all were extinguished, and not a ray of light was left to guide them the last few hundred yards to safety. Furthermore snow was falling. It was falling in great flakes half as big as a man's hand.

The life-line which the woman had set up was all that stood between them and complete disaster.

CHAPTER IX

THE VISION OF THE SPIRE

Winter with all its deadly perils had become a memory. Life was supreme again on the plateau of Unaga. It was in the air, in the breezes sweeping down from the Northern hills, where the crystal snow caps no longer had power to inspire distrust. It was in the flowing waters of the river. It was in the flights of swarming wildfowl, winging to fresh pastures of melting snows. It was in the new-born gra.s.s blades, thrusting up their delicate heads to rid the world of winter's unsightliness. The animal world, too, was seeking to alleviate the pangs of semi-starvation to which it had so long been condemned. The sense of gladness was stirring, lifting the world upon a glorious pinacle of youthful hope.

Gladness was in An-ina's heart as she moved over the dripping gra.s.s, bearing the water fresh dipped from the river whose banks were a-flood in every direction. Was not the darkness of winter swallowed up by the brilliant sunlight? Was not the child of her heart trudging manfully at her side, firmly grasping the bucket handle in a vain belief in the measure of his help? Was not the moment rapidly approaching, when the white man officer would return with the young men of the Sleepers from the "deep place" by the "big waters?" Would not the day soon come when the trail to the southlands would again be broken? And would she not gaze once more upon the pleasant lands that gave her birth? Oh, yes. She knew. It was a great rush to the promised home, far from the desperate life on the plateau of Unaga, with the child, whose dancing eyes and happy smile were like a ray of sunshine amidst the shadows of her life.

Morning and night, now, An-ina looked for the return of those who had set out before the break of the winter. A month had pa.s.sed since Steve's going. She was quite alone with her boy, with the wakened Indians preparing for their labours of the open season. The "white man officer"

would return. An-ina had no fear for him even on the winter trail of Unaga. He would return, and then--and then--And so she watched and waited, and worked with all the will of her simple, savage heart.

It was no easy task that lay ahead. An-ina knew that. Steve had told her much during those dark days of winter. He had spoken of a thousand miles. What was a mile? She did not know. A sun. A moon. These things she knew. But his tone she understood. And she knew what he meant when he declared his intention of beating schedule, and his determination not to spend another winter on Unaga if it were the last trail he ever made.

She was ready. And, in her simple woman's way she beguiled the days of waiting with speculation as to the white woman who had inspired in this white man's heart so great a desire.

Life was more than good to An-ina just now. She was young. She was thrilling with the wild emotions of her untamed blood. She was an Indian of the finest ancestry, but more than all she was a devoted woman. She had lost a mistress whom she had loved, and a master whom she had been glad to serve. She had found one to take their places, one whose first act had been his re-a.s.surance that she should not be robbed of the child who was her all. There was no one greater in all the world to her than the "white man officer" whose courage and will she counted as powers greater than the storms of Unaga.

All day she laboured at her many tasks. And the boy, faithful to his doctrine of helpfulness, found a world of recreation in his idea. Thus, with the pa.s.sing of the sun, they stood together at the gateway of the fort with eyes searching, as many times they had searched before, for a sign of the return of the trail men.

"Us wants Uncle Steve."

There was a plaintive appeal in the boy's tone which found an echo in the woman's heart. She sighed, but her voice was steady as she replied:

"Bimeby him come," she said.

"'Ess. Bimeby him come."

But the boy's agreement lacked conviction. A moment later, with his big eyes turned to the southeast, the way he had seen the expedition set out, he went on:

"Boy's Pop didn't come. An-ina said him's do. Boy's Mummy go 'way 'cos Uncle Steve said her does. Uncle Steve hims all goes, too. Boy want Uncle Steve."

"Him come bimeby."

The woman had no words with which to comfort. It was not lack of desire.

Though her conviction was unwavering, she, too, in her heart, echoed the plaint.

For some moments they continued their evening vigil. The eyes of both searched the growing shadows. And, as was always the case, it was the child who finally broke the silence.

"Us cries," he said half tearfully.

It was then the Indian in the woman a.s.serted itself.

"Squaw-men him weeps. 'Brave' him fight. No cry. Oh, no. Only fight. Boy great white 'brave.' Him not cry. No."

Marcel nodded, but his eyes were turned to the hills.

"'Ess. Boy great white 'brave,'" he agreed, in a choking voice. "Boy not cry--never. What's hims little things all dancing in the fog, An-ina?"

he enquired, his mind suddenly distracted, pointing at a gap between two low hills, where a thin vapour of fog was slowly rising. "Is them's debble-mens?"

The keen eyes of the squaw followed the pointing finger. In a moment there leapt into them a light which required no words to interpret. But even in her excited joy the Indian calm remained uppermost. She drew nearer the child, and one of her soft brown hands rested caressingly on his shoulder.

"Him not devil-men," she said, in a deep tone of exaltation. "Him Uncle Steve an' all fool 'Sleeper' men. They all come so as An-ina say."

Then the smile in her eyes suddenly transformed her, and her joy could no longer be denied. She stooped over the small figure and pressed her lips upon the soft white forehead.

"Us go by river. An-ina hide. Boy hide. Then Uncle Steve come. Boy jump out. Him say 'Boo!' Uncle Steve all scairt. Much frightened all dead.

So?"

The appeal was irresistible. The boy's excitement leapt. In a moment he was transformed from a tearful "brave" to a happy, laughing child. He set off at a run for the river, with An-ina close upon his heels, utterly regardless of the fact that they were within full view of the on-coming trail men. This was a detail. The child's enthusiasm permitted no second thought, and his breathless orders to his nurse were flung back as he ran. The cover of the bush-lined river was reached, and the hiding-place was selected just short of the flood water.

The child crouched down trembling with excitement. And the sound of Uncle Steve's voice giving orders as he came up on the far side of the water made the suspense almost unendurable. He talked to An-ina, who crouched at his side. He chattered incessantly. The splash of a canoe, dropped into the water, was exquisite torture. The dip of paddles set him well-nigh beside himself. Then, a few moments later, when the light craft slithered on the mud of the shallows, just beyond the hiding-place, he felt the psychological moment had come. Out he sprang at his victim, who was still ankle deep in the water.

"Boo-o-o!" he shrieked, with all the power of his little lungs, and, a moment later, he was gathered into the caressing arms of a terrified "uncle."

The work was accomplished. The police officer had fulfilled his mission, a mission detailed to him coldly, officially, without a shadow of regard for the tremendous trials entailed, and with only an eye for the capacity of the officer selected.

So far he had beaten his own schedule. He had calculated his work would occupy two years from the moment of his going to his return to Deadwater, but he meant to cut this down by something like six months.

The resolve to do so had been taken during the drear of winter. He had been haunted by the appealing eyes of the woman he loved, and by the memory of the soft clutch of baby hands. And his desire had become irresistible.

Under his new resolve it had become necessary to speed the waking of the Indians. He had had no scruple. Again he had bearded the chief and forced his will upon him. For all the old man's fears of the white man's threats it had been no easy task. But at last he had convinced him of the hopeless recklessness of denying him. So twenty of the young men were found who reluctantly enough gave up the last month of their winter's sleep. And now he had returned with his work accomplished.

Steve had no illusions upon the desperate nature of the rush for home.

He knew the chances he was taking. A week's preparation. He could spare no more time. A journey on foot of some hundreds of miles. An Indian carry-all hauled by reindeer for the boy and the camp outfit, the dogs to be herded without burden till their usefulness could serve. For each man, and An-ina, the burden of a heavy pack. Such preparations were wholly inadequate. He knew that. He was staking the courage and endurance of those he was responsible for against a ruthless, inhospitable world.

Oh, yes, his eyes were wide to the dangers that lay ahead. He knew them all. He had visions of a dripping, melting land. He knew the spring rains with their awesome powers of washout and flood. The blinding, steaming fogs of the high alt.i.tudes. So with the glacial avalanches, and the terror of thawing tundra, shaking, treacherous, bottomless.

The week pa.s.sed rapidly and the moment for the "pull-out" came. The Indians were awake, and their winter quarters in the woods had been abandoned for the domed igloos of the open season. The fort was alive with their comings and goings. They were alert for the promised spoils.

Peaceable, kindly, the st.u.r.dy undersized people of the outlands were driven to a supreme selfishness by reason of the conditions under which they lived. They cared little for anything but that which the white folk could provide. Without interest or ambitions, beyond such comfort as they could s.n.a.t.c.h from life, they desired only to be left in peace. But with real amiability they wished the stranger well in his going.

The post presented a curious enough scene on the morning of departure.