The Peace of Roaring River Part 15

"'Old 'ard! 'Old 'ard!" shouted the Frenchman. "Vat for you tink Pat Kilrea an' McIntosh, an' Prouty an' Kerrigan and more, an' also vomans is goin' up dere to de Falls? Dey say go visitin'. Dey don't nevaire go make visits before dat vay. An' dey h'ask me all 'bout de _demoiselle_, de gal vat is up dere, an' I see Mis' Kilrea an'

Kerrigan's voman look one de oder in de face. Look mean lak' de devil, dem vomans! I dunno, but I tink dey up to no good, dem crowd. If I no have to stay for _docteur_ I go right back qvick. D'ye tink dey vant ter bodder Hugo, or de lady, Stefan?"

The latter swore again.

"If dey bodder 'em I tvists all dere necks like chickens, I tank," he cried, excitedly. "How long ago did they leave?"

"Vell, most a h'our, now, I tink, and dem's Kerrigan's horses, as is five year olds an' stronk lak' de devil. Dey run good on de five-mile flat, dey do, sure, an' odder places vhere snow is pack nice."

This time Stefan didn't answer. He shouted at his team, that started on the run, but Zeb Foraker's St. Bernard, who could lick any dog in Carcajou singly, chanced to leap over the garden fence and come at them. In a moment a half dozen dogs were piled up in a fight. Stefan stepped into the snarl. A moment later he had the biggest animal, that was supposed to weigh close to two hundred, by the tail. With a wonderful heave he lifted it up and swung it over his master's fence into a leafless copper beach that graced the plot, whence the animal fell to the ground, looking dazed. It took several minutes to straighten out the tangled traces and the leader was hopelessly lame.

He had to be taken out and left at home. All the time Stefan's language brought scared faces to the windows of neighboring shacks. It was a good thing, probably, that few people in Carcajou understood Swedish. Still, from the sound of it they judged that it must be something pretty bad. Finally he was off again, lacking the smartest animal in his team. The others, however, probably considered that this was no occasion for further bad behavior and old Jennie, mother of three of the bunch, led it without making any serious mistakes.

For the life of him Stefan couldn't conceive why anyone should want to bother Hugo or the pretty lady. It was the very strangeness and mystery of the thing that aroused him. He never entertained the idea that Papineau was mistaken. The Frenchman was a fine smart fellow, one who loved Hugo, and a man not given to idle notions or to exaggeration. If he thought there was something wrong this must be the case.

On a long upgrade he ran at the side of his dogs, his great chest heaving at the tremendous effort. On the level he rode, urging the animals on and keeping his eyes on the tracks of the horses and sleigh, while his strong stern face seemed immovably frozen into an expression of grim determination. Anyone who touched his friend Hugo would have to reckon with him, indeed. The man was one of the few beings he cared for, like his wife or the young ones. Such a friendship was a possession, something he owned, a treasure he would not be robbed of and was prepared to defend, as he would have defended his little h.o.a.rd of money, the home he had built, with the berserker fury of his ancestors. He was conscious of his might, conscious that there were few men on earth who could stand up against him in the rough and tumble fighting current in the far wilderness. He knew that he could go through such a crowd as was threatening his friend like a devastating cyclone through a cornfield.

"If dey's qviet un' reasonable I don't 'urt n.o.botty but yoost tell 'em git out of here, tarn qvick," he projected. "But if dem mens is up to anything rough I hope dey says dere prayers alretty, because I yoost bust 'em all up, you bet."

The team was pulling hard, the breaths coming out in swift little puffs from their nostrils. Sometimes they walked, with tongues hanging out, while again they trotted easily, or, down the hills, galloped with the long easy lope of their wolfish ancestors. And Stefan calculated the speed the horses could have made here, and again over there. By the tracks he saw where they had trotted along good ground, or toiled more slowly over rough places. The man grinned when he came to spots where they must have proceeded very slowly with the heavy sleigh, and his brows corrugated when he saw that they had speeded up again.

"Dey drive tern horses fast," he reflected. "Dey don't vant trafel dis road back in dark, sure ting, to break dere necks. Dey vant make qvick vork. But I ban goin' some, too, you bet."

He was taking man's eternal pleasure in swift motion, yet the anxiety remained with him that he might not catch up with them before they arrived. He knew that nothing could take place if he were there a minute before them. But if he was a minute late, what then? When this idea recurred, his face would take on its grim expression, the look wherewith Vikings once struck terror among their enemies. He hoped for the sake of that crowd that he might not be late, as well as for the good of his friend, for he would crush them, the men at any rate, and send the women trudging home, wishing they had never been born.

In him the two individualities that make up nearly every human being swung and seesawed. The kind-hearted, helpful, considerate man kept on surging upward, in the trust that his arrival would avert all trouble.

Then this phase of his being would pa.s.s off and the great primal creature would take its place and come uppermost, with l.u.s.tful ideas of vengeance, visions in which everything was tinged with red, and then his great voice would ring out in the still woods and the dogs would pull desperately, with never a pause, and the toboggan would slither and slide and groan, and the crunching snow seemed to complain, and the ma.s.ses of snow suspended to great hemlocks and firs dropped down suddenly, with thuds that were like the echoes of great smiting clubs.

When again he ran beside the dogs, in a long pull uphill, the sense of personal effort comforted him. He was doing something. Once the toe of one of his snowshoes caught in the snaky root of a big spruce and he fell ponderously, without a word, and picked himself up again. Dimly he was conscious that it had injured him a little, but he scarcely felt it. It was like some hurt received in the heat and pa.s.sion of battle, that a man never really feels till the excitement has pa.s.sed.

His team had kept on, galloping fast, but he never called to them, knowing that harder ground would presently slow them. And he ran on, his great limbs appearing to possess the strength of machinery wrought of steel and iron, while his enormous chest hoa.r.s.ely drew in and cast forth great clouds. But he was not working beyond his power, merely getting the best he knew out of the thews that made him more efficient than most men, when it came to the toil of the wilds. He knew better than to play himself out so that he would arrive exhausted and unable to contend with the whole of his might. He was conscious as he ran that he would arrive nearly unbreathed and ready for any fray. And after he had swept off the intruders he would look upon the face of his friend, the man who for months had shared food with him, and the scented bedding of the woods, and the toil, and the downpours, and the clouds of black flies and mosquitoes, and who had always smiled through fair days and foul, and who, at the risk of his life, had saved him.

And that friendship was so strong that it must help the sick man. How could one be ill with a friend near by who had so much strength to give away, such determination to make all things well, such fierce power to contend with all inimical things? He would take him in his arms and bid him be of good cheer and courage, and the man would respond, would smile, would feel that strength being added to his own, so that he would soon be well again.

All this might be deepest folly, and was not formulated as we have been compelled to put it down in these pages. Rather it was but a simple trust, a faith based on love and hope, a belief originating in the mind of one of a nature so trusting and inclined to goodness that until the last moment he would never believe in the victory of powers of evil.

So Stefan caught up with his dogs again and stepped on the toboggan, without stopping them, and the great trunks of forest giants seemed to slip by him swiftly, while here and there, by dint of some formation of hillside or gorge, his ears grew conscious of the far-away roar of the great falls. From a little summit he saw the cloud of rising vapor, all of a mile away. At every turn he peered ahead, keenly disappointed on each occasion, for the party was not in sight. So he urged the dogs faster. The big sleigh must surely be just ahead, beyond the next turn.

"Oh, if dey touch one hair of de head of Hugo, den G.o.d pity dem!" he cried out.

And the dogs ran on, more swiftly than ever, breathing easily still in spite of the nearly three hundred pounds of manhood they drew, and the roar of the falls became more distinct, while to the right, away down below, the river swirled under the groaning ice and sped past wildly, towards the east and the south, as if seeking to save itself from the embrace of the North.

CHAPTER XI

A Visit Cut Short

Like the great majority of the denizens of the wilderness, Maigan could be a steadfast friend or a bitter enemy. He would readily have given his life for the one and torn the other asunder. Not being very far removed from a wolfish ancestry he was necessarily suspicious, intolerant at first of strangers and prepared to use his clean and cutting fangs at the shortest notice. But he was also more cautious than the dog of civilization and less apt to blurt his feelings right out. After his first outburst he appeared to quiet down, growling but a very little, very low, and stood at the girl's side, watchful and ready for immediate action.

Madge stood on the wooden step that had been cleared of snow, in front of the little door of rough planks. She watched the people coming in Indian file down the path that had been beaten down in the deep snow.

For a moment she had thought that they might be bringing help, that miraculously a doctor had been found at once, that these people were friends eager to help, to remove the sick man to Carcajou and thence to some hospital further down the railway line. But such people would have cried out inquiries. They would have come with some shout of greeting. But these newcomers came along without a word until their leader was but a few yards away, when he stopped and looked at the girl during a moment's silence.

"Where's Hugo Ennis?" he finally asked, gruffly.

"He is in the shack," replied the girl, timidly. "He is dreadfully ill and lying on his bunk."

"What's the matter with him?"

"He was shot--shot by accident, and now I'm afraid that he is going to die."

"Well, I'll go in and see. We'll all go in. We're mighty cold after that long ride. Stand aside!"

"I think you might go in," the girl told him, still blocking the way, "but the others must not. I--I won't allow him to be disturbed.

Don't--don't you understand me? I'm telling you that he's dying. I--I won't have him disturbed. And--and who are you? You don't look like a friend of his. What's your purpose in coming here?"

The first feeling of timidity that had seized her seemed to have left her utterly. There remained to her but an instinct--a will to defend the man, to protect him from unwarranted intrusion, and she spoke with authority. But another of the visitors addressed her.

"We're folks belongin' to these townships," he said. "What we want to know is who you are, and what right ye've got to order us about and say who's goin' in and who's to keep out?"

Something in his words caused her cheeks to burn, but strangely enough she felt quite calm and strong in her innocence of any evil, and she answered quietly enough.

"My name is Madge Nelson, if you want to know, and I am here at this moment because I am taking care of Mr. Ennis. I feel responsible for his welfare and will continue until he is better and able to speak for himself, or--or until he is dead. I repeat that one of you may come in--but no more."

It appeared that her manner impressed the men to some extent, if not the three women who crowded behind. One of the visitors was scratching the back of his neck.

"Look a-here, Aleck, I reckon that gal is talking sense, if Hugo's real bad like she says. We ain't got no call to b.u.t.t in an' make him worse. I know when Mirandy was sick the Doc he told me ter take a club if I had to, to keep folks out. Let Pat Kilrea go in if he wants to an' we'll stay outside an' wait."

"Sure, that's right enough," said old man Prouty.

Pat advanced, but Maigan began to growl.

"Say, young 'ooman, I'll bash that dog's head in if you don't keep him still," he said, truculently. "Keep a holt of him."

Madge pulled the dog back and quieted him.

"Be good, Maigan," she said. "It's all right, old fellow."

She entered the shack behind Pat Kilrea and closed the door. In doing this she meant no offense to the others, who didn't mind, knowing that with a cold of some twenty below people don't care for an excess of ventilation. They stood, the men silently, the women putting their heads together and whispering.

"Ain't she the brazen sa.s.sy thing?" remarked Mrs. Kilrea.

"Guess she ain't no better'n she should be," opined Sophy, acidly, as she watched the door keenly.

Pat Kilrea went to the bunk and for an instant considered the sick man's face. Then he scratched his head again.

"h.e.l.lo, Hugo!" he finally called out. "What's the matter with ye?

Ain't--ain't tryin' to hide behind a gal's skirts, are ye?"