The Silent Places Part 26

"How did you find him?" demanded the Factor, abruptly.

"We went with old Haukemah's band down as far as the Mattawishguia.

There we left them and went up stream and over the divide. d.i.c.k here broke his leg and was laid up for near three months. I looked all that district over while he was getting well. Then we made winter travel down through the Kabinikagam country and looked her over. We got track of this Jingoss over near the hills, but he got wind of us and skipped when we was almost on top of him. We took his trail. He went straight north, trying to shake us off, and we got up into the barren country. We'd have lost him in the snow if it hadn't been for that dog there. He could trail him through new snow. We run out of grub up there, and finally I gave out. d.i.c.k here pushed on alone and found the Injun wandering around snow-blind. He run onto some caribou about that time, too, and killed some. Then he came back and got me:--I had a little pemmican and boiled my moccasins. We had lots of meat, so we rested up a couple of weeks, and then came back."

That was all. These men had done a great thing, and thus simply they told it. And they only told that much of it because it was their duty; they must report to their chief.

Galen Albret seemed for a moment to consider, as was his habit.

"You have done well," he p.r.o.nounced at last. "My confidence in you was justified. The pay stands as agreed. In addition I place you in charge of the post at Lost River, and you, Herron, in charge of the Mattagami Brigade."

The men flushed, deeply pleased, more than rewarded, not by the money nor the advancement, but by the unqualified satisfaction of their commander.

They turned away. At this moment Virginia Albret, on some errand to her father, appeared outlined in slender youth against the doorway. On the instant she recognized them.

"Why, Sam and d.i.c.k," she said, "I am glad to see you. When did you get back?"

"Just back, Miss Virginia," replied Sam.

"That's good. I hope you've had a successful trip."

"Yes," answered Sam. The woodsman stood there a little awkwardly, wishing to be polite, not sure as to whether they should now go without further dismissal.

"See, Miss Virginia," hesitated Sam, to fill in the pause, "I have your handkerchief yet."

"I'm glad you kept it, Sam," replied the young girl; "and have you yours, d.i.c.k?"

And suddenly to d.i.c.k the contrast between this reality and that other came home with the vividness of a picture. He saw again the snow-swept plain, the wavering shapes of illusion, the mock suns dancing in unholy revel. The colour of the North burned before his eyes; a madness of the North unsealed his lips.

"I used it to cover a dead girl's face," he replied, bluntly.

The story had been as gray as a report of statistics,--so many places visited, so much time consumed. The men smoking cigars, lounging on cushioned seats in the tepid summer air, had listened to it unimpressed, as one listens to the reading of minutes of a gathering long past. This simple sentenced breathed into it life. The magnitude of the undertaking sprang up across the horizon of their comprehension. They saw between the mile-post markings of Sam Bolton's dry statements of fact, glimpses of vague, mysterious, and terrible deeds, indistinct, wonderful. The two before them loomed big in the symbolism of the wide world of men's endurance and determination and courage.

The darkness swallowed them before the group on the veranda had caught its breath. In a moment the voices about the cannon raised in greeting.

A swift play of question and answer shot back and forth. "Out all the year?" "Where? Kabinikagam? Oh, yes, east of Brunswick Lake." "Good trip?" "That's right." "Glad of it." Then the clamour rose, many beseeching, one refusing. The year was done. These men had done a mighty deed, and yet a few careless answers were all they had to tell of it.

The group, satisfied, were begging another song. And so, in a moment, just as a year before, d.i.c.k's rich, husky baritone raised in the words of the old melody. The circle was closed.

"_There was an old darky, and his name was Uncle Ned, And he lived long ago, long ago--_"

The night hushed to silence. Even the wolves were still, and the _giddes_ down at the Indian camp ceased their endless quarrelling.

d.i.c.k's voice had all the world to itself. The men on the Factory veranda smoked, the disks of their cigars dulling and glowing. Galen Albret, inscrutable, grim, brooded his unguessable thoughts. Virginia, in the doorway, rested her head pensively against one arm outstretched against the lintel.

"_For there's no more work for poor old Ned, He's gone where the good darkies go_."

The song finished. There succeeded the great compliment of quiet.

To Virginia it was given to speak the concluding word of this episode.

She sighed, stretching out her arms.

"'The greatness of my people,'" she quoted softly.

THE END