The Silent Places Part 12

He moved here and there, constructing, by means of flat stones, a trough to be used as a cooking-range. At the edge of the clearing he met the Indian girl returning with her little birch-bark saucer.

"Little Sister," said he.

She raised her eyes to him.

"I want the truth."

"What truth, Little Father?"

He looked searchingly into her eyes.

"It does not matter; I have it," he replied.

She did not ask him further. If she had any curiosity, she did not betray it; if she had any suspicion of what he meant, she did not show it.

Sam returned to where d.i.c.k lay.

"Look here, Sam," said he, "this comes of--"

"Shut up!" said Sam again. "Look here, you, you've made trouble enough.

Now you're laid up, and you're laid up for a good long while. This ain't any ordinary leg break. It means three months, and it may mean that you'll never walk straight again. It's got to be treated mighty careful, and you've got to do just what I tell you. You just behave yourself. It wasn't anybody's fault. That girl had nothing to do with it. If you weren't a great big fool you'd know it. We both got to take care of you. Now you treat her decent, and you treat me decent. It's time you came off."

He said it as though he meant it. Nevertheless it was with the most elaborate tenderness that he, a.s.sisted by May-may-gwan, carried d.i.c.k to his new quarters. But in spite of the utmost care, the transportation was painful. The young man was left with no strength. The rest of the afternoon he dozed in a species of torpor.

Sam's energy toward permanent establishment did not relax. He took a long tramp in search of canoe birches, from which at last he brought back huge rolls of thick bark. These he and the girl sewed together in overlapping seams, using white spruce-roots for the purpose. The result was a water-tight covering for the wigwam. A pile of firewood was the fruit of two hours' toil. In the meantime May-may-gwan had caught some fish with the hook and line and had gathered some berries. She made d.i.c.k a strong broth of dried meat. At evening the old man and the girl ate their meal together at the edge of the bluff overlooking the broil of the river. They said little, but somehow the meal was peaceful, with a content unknown in the presence of the impatient and terrible young man.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

During the days that ensued a certain intimacy sprang up between Sam Bolton and the Indian girl. At first their talk was brief and confined to the necessities. Then matters of opinion, disjointed, fragmentary, began to creep in. Finally the two came to know each other, less by what was actually said, than by the att.i.tude of mind such confidences presupposed. One topic they avoided. Sam, for all his shrewdness, could not determine to what degree had persisted the young man's initial attraction for the girl. Of her devotion there could be no question, but in how much it depended on the necessity of the moment lay the puzzle.

Her demeanor was inscrutable. Yet Sam came gradually to trust to her loyalty.

In the soft, sweet open-air life the days pa.s.sed stately in the manner of figures on an ancient tapestry. Certain things were each morning to be done,--the dressing of d.i.c.k's cuts and contusions with the healing balsam, the rebandaging and adjusting of the splints and steadying buckskin strap; the necessary cooking and cleaning; the cutting of wood; the fishing below the rapids; the tending of traps; the occasional hunting of larger game; the setting of snares for rabbits. From certain good skins of the latter May-may-gwan was engaged in weaving a blanket, braiding the long strips after a fashion of her own. She smoked tanned buckskin, and with it repaired thoroughly both the men's garments and her own. These things were to be done, though leisurely, and with slow, ruminative pauses for the dreaming of forest dreams.

But inside the wigwam d.i.c.k Herron lay helpless, his hands clenched, his eyes glaring red with an impatience he seemed to hold his breath to repress. Time was to be pa.s.sed. That was all he knew, all he thought about, all he cared. He seized the minutes grimly and flung them behind him. So absorbed was he in this, that he seemed to give grudgingly and hastily his attention to anything else. He never spoke except when absolutely necessary; it almost seemed that he never moved. Of Sam he appeared utterly unconscious. The older man performed the little services about him quite unnoticed. The Indian girl d.i.c.k would not suffer near him at all. Twice he broke silence for what might be called commentatorial speech.

"It'll be October before we can get started," he growled one evening.

"Yes," said Sam.

"You wait till I _can_ get out!" he said on another occasion, in vague threat of determination.

At the beginning of the third week Sam took his seat by the moss and balsam pallet and began to fill his pipe in preparation for a serious talk.

"d.i.c.k," said he, "I've made up my mind we've wasted enough time here."

Herron made no reply.

"I'm going to leave you here and go to look over the other hunting districts by myself."

Still no reply.

"Well?" demanded Sam.

"What about me?" asked d.i.c.k.

"The girl will take care of you."

A long silence ensued. "She'll take everything we've got and get out,"

said d.i.c.k at last.

"She will not! She'd have done it before now."

"She'll quit me the first Injuns that come along."

Sam abandoned the point.

"You needn't take the risk unless you want to. If you say so, I'll wait."

"Oh, d.a.m.n the risk," cried d.i.c.k, promptly. "Go ahead."

The woodsman smoked.

"Sam," said the younger man.

"What?"

"I know I'm hard to get along with just now. Don't mind me. It's h.e.l.l to lie on your back and be able to do nothing. I've seemed to hinder the game from the first. Just wait till I'm up again!"

"That's all right, my boy," replied Sam. "I understand. Don't worry.

Just take it easy. I'll look over the district, so we won't be losing any time. And, d.i.c.k, be decent to the girl."

"To h.e.l.l with the girl," growled d.i.c.k, lapsing abruptly from his expansive mood. "She got me into this."

Not another word would he speak, but lay, staring upward, chewing the cud of resentment.

Promptly on the heels of his decision Sam Bolton had a long talk with May-may-gwan, then departed carrying a little pack. It was useless to think now of the canoe, and in any case the time of year favoured cross-country travel. The distances, thus measured, were not excessive, and from the Indian's descriptions, Sam's slow-brooding memory had etched into his mind an accurate map of the country.

At noon the girl brought d.i.c.k his meal. After he had eaten she removed the few utensils. Then she returned.

"The Little Father commanded that I care for your hurt," she said, simply.

"My leg's all right now," growled d.i.c.k. "I can bandage it myself."

May-may-gwan did not reply, but left the tent. In a moment she reappeared carrying forked switches, a square of white birch-bark, and a piece of charcoal.