The Promise Part 36

The man's mind worked rapidly as he watched in silence while the girl removed some bacon and bannock from his pack-sack and set the coffee-pot upon the coals. When she had finished her meal he spoke, slowly but firmly.

"Jeanne, you have waited here a night and a day; you are rested, you have eaten. I will now make up the pack, and we will take the trail."

"To-night?"

"Yes, to-night--now. The back trail for the lodge of Jacques." The girl regarded him in amazement, and then smiled sadly, as a mother smiles on an erring child.

"We cannot return," she said, speaking softly. "Wa-ha-ta-na-ta would kill me. She thinks we came away together. Wa-ha-ta-na-ta was married; we are not married; we cannot go back." The man rolled the blankets and buckled the straps of his pack-sack. He was about to swing it to his shoulders when the girl grasped his arm.

"I love you," she repeated, "and I will go with you."

"But, Jeanne," the man cried, "this cannot be. I cannot marry you. In my life I have loved but one woman----"

"And she is the wife of another!" cried the girl.

Bill winced as from a blow, and she continued, speaking rapidly:

"I do not ask that you marry me--not even that you love me. It is enough that I am at your side. You will treat me kindly, for you are good. Marriage is nothing--empty words--if the heart loves; nothing else matters, and some day you will love me."

The man slowly shook his head:

"No, Jeanne, it is impossible. Come, we will return to the lodge of Jacques. I myself will tell Wa-ha-ta-na-ta that no harm has befallen you, and----"

"Do you think she will believe _you_? Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, who hates all white men and, next to Moncrossen, you most of all, for she has seen that I love you. We have been gone three nights. She will not believe you. If you will not take me I will go alone to the land of the white men; I have no place else to go."

The man's jaw squared, his eyes narrowed, and the low, level tones of his voice cut upon the silence in words of cold authority:

"We are going back to-night. Wa-ha-ta-na-ta will believe me. She is very old and very wise; and she will know that I speak the truth."

The words ceased abruptly, and the two drew closer together, their eyes fixed upon the blanketed form which, silent as a shadow, glided from the bushes and stood motionless before them.

Within an arm's reach, in the dull, red glow, the somber figure stood contemplating the pair through beady, black eyes, that glowed ominously in the half-light.

Slowly, deliberately, a clawlike hand was withdrawn from a fold of the blanket, and the feeble rays of the fire glinted weakly upon the cold, gray steel of a polished blade.

CHAPTER x.x.xIII

THE PROMISE

The silent, shadowy figure swayed toward Bill Carmody, who met the stabbing glare of the black eyes with the steady gaze of his gray ones.

For long, tense moments their eyes held, while the girl watched breathlessly.

Raising the blade high above her head, the old squaw brought it crashing upon a rock at Carmody's feet. There was the sharp ring of tempered steel, and upon the pine-needles lay the broken blade, and beyond the rock the hilt, with a scant inch of blade protruding at the guard.

Stooping, the old woman picked up the two pieces of the broken sheath-knife, and, handing the hilt gravely to the astonished man carefully returned the blade to her blanket. She pointed a long, skinny finger at Bill, and the withered lips moved.

"You are the one good white man," she said. "I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, have spoken. I--who, since the death of Lacombie, have said 'there is no good white man'--was wrong, and the words were a lie in my mouth. In your eyes I have read it. You have the good eye--the eye of Lacombie, who is dead.

"I have followed upon the trail of my daughter, thinking it was in your heart to meet her here and carry her to her ruin in the land of the white man. With this blade I would have killed you--for all men die--would have followed and killed you in the land of your people. But now I know that your heart is good. I have broken the knife.

"You will keep the hilt, and when you are in trouble, in need, in want of a friend, you will send me this hilt, and I, Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, will come to you."

Her eyes rolled upward as though seeking among the tiny, far-winking stars the words of some half-forgotten ritual, and her voice rose in a weird, hesitating chant:

"Through the snows of Winter, Through the heat of Summer, Across high Mountains, Over broad Waters, Braving lean Want, Scorning fat Plenty, Nor turning aside From the fang of Wolf, From the forked arrows of Lightning, From the mighty voice of Thunder, From the hot breath of Fire, From the rush of Waters, From the sting of Frost.

Nor lingering to the call of Love, Nor heeding the words of Hate.

In the face of Sickness, In defiance of Death Will I come That you may know I am your Friend.

Hear all ye Spirits and Devils that rule the World, And sit upon the High Places of the Great World, This is my Vow!

Should my feet lag upon the Trail, Should my heart turn to Water, Should I forget-- So that in the time of my friend's need I answer not his call; Then, upon my head--upon the heads of my children--and their children Shall descend the Curse--the Great Curse of the Yaga Tah!

The Man-Who-Lies-Hid-in-the-Sky!"

The quavering chant ceased, and the undimmed old eyes looked again into the face of the man.

"And because you are good," she went on, "and because you have heard the vow, when this broken blade comes to your hand you will know that Wa-ha-ta-na-ta, the daughter of Kas-ka-tan, the chief, in the last extremity of her need, is calling you.

"And because you are strong and brave and have the good eye--you will come. And no people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the earth, shall prevent you. I have spoken."

Bill Carmody listened in awed silence until the old woman finished.

"I, whom you choose to regard as the one good white man," he replied with a dignity matching her own, "will one day prove my friendship.

Upon sight of the fragment of blade I will come.

"No people of the earth, and nothing that is upon the earth, nor of the earth, shall prevent me--and one day you will know that my words are true."

He raised his hand and, gazing upward, repeated the words of the strange chant. At their conclusion he gazed steadily into the face of the old squaw.

"This is _the promise_," he said gravely. "I have spoken."

CHAPTER x.x.xIV

THE NEW BOSS

The twilight of late autumn darkened the landscape as Bill Carmody found himself once again at the edge of the tiny clearing surrounding the cabin of Daddy Dunnigan.

Through the window, in the yellow lamplight of the interior, he could see the form of the old man as he hobbled back and forth between the stove and the table.

Remembering Creed, Bill feared the effect upon the old man should he present himself suddenly at the door. Advancing into the clearing, he whistled. Daddy Dunnigan paused, frying-pan in hand, and peered futilely out of the window. Again Bill whistled and watched as the other returned the pan to the stove and opened the door.

"Come on in out av that, ye shpalpeen!" called Dunnigan. "Ut's toime ye be comin' back to let th' owld man know how ye're farin'!"