The Wilderness Trail Part 10

"What's the matter with you, you demon?" growled the factor. "Have you been drinking again?"

"No, no, no," cried the Indian, hastily. "I am afraid--I must tell you--Miss Jean--Oh, what can I say?"

"In heaven's name, what's the matter? What's this about Miss Jean?"

shouted the factor.

"She is gone, sir, disappeared completely!" cried the frightened Indian. "Her serving-woman has been searching for hours. She went tobogganing out behind the fort at ten o'clock, with the missionary's wife. Mrs. Gates came in at noon, but Miss Jean said she would slide once or twice more, alone. She hasn't come in, and we can find no trace of her."

"Why wasn't I told of this?" cried the factor, in a weak, pitiful voice.

"We didn't want to alarm you unnecessarily, sir," Said Tee-ka-mee.

"Oh, get out of here! Leave me alone," groaned Fitzpatrick; and the two men quietly went out, and closed the door on the old man's grief.

CHAPTER IX

THE BROKEN PIPE

For nearly the whole night, Donald McTavish had paced the bare little room that had been set aside for him. Now, he looked at his watch. It was four o'clock.

The thought occurred to him that he ought to get some rest, but immediately his common sense told him that for twenty-five days more he would have nothing to do but rest, and, spurred on by the witches that rode his racing mind, he continued his animal-like pacing. Up one side, across past the foot of the bed; back again and down; that was his route. And, while his feet traversed but seven or eight yards, his mind was speeding across all the leagueless s.p.a.ces of the Northland.

Where was she? Where was she? This was the continual refrain that rang in his ears. For five days now, Jean Fitzpatrick had been gone; swallowed up in the silent, snowy wastes. Who had taken her?

Why? And whither?

When Tee-ka-mee's announcement spread through the post, fifty men had rushed out to the search, cursing, sobbing, or praying, each according to his own temperament; for nowhere in all the Northland was a girl more beloved than was Jean Fitzpatrick. Summer and winter, the days were full of little kindnesses of hers, so that her disappearance was not a signal for a "duty" search, but one in which every man worked as though he alone had been to blame for her loss.

Her toboggan had been found at the top of the hill where she and Mrs. Gates had spent the morning, and on the hard crust a few dim tracks could be seen leading into the forest, with now and then a dent where, perhaps, the girl's snowshoe had gone through. But aside from these unsatisfying clews not a trace of her could be located.

For two days, the searchers took every trail, traveling light and running swiftly, but to no avail. The girl had disappeared as though evaporated by the sun.

Then did old Angus Fitzpatrick, bowed with grief, summon his council and deliberate as to the affairs at Sturgeon Lake. Stern old disciplinarian with others, he was none the less so with himself in his dark hour, and even begrudged the two days of the Company's time that he had used in the search for Jean.

Unanimously against him stood the entire council when he mentioned the free-traders, and suggested that they be run to earth. His chiefs of departments almost refused to embark on any project until the factor's daughter should be found. But old Fitzpatrick with the autocracy of thirty years in the Far North, snarled their sentiments down with his own, and forced them to the Company's business in hand.

And so it was at last decided that almost the entire force of men, well-armed and well-provisioned, should take the trail for Sturgeon Lake, led by the factor himself. Vainly, his lieutenants begged the white-haired chief to remain in the comparative safety and comfort of the fort. Declaring that this was the only trouble in all his years in the North, and that he would put it down himself, Fitzpatrick remained inexorable.

"Besides," he added pathetically, "if anything should be heard from Jean, I would be there to follow it up."

All this Donald heard from Peter Rainy and his guards, as he sat chafing in his little room. During the excitement, the captain of Fort d.i.c.key and his miraculous escape from death never entered the minds of the community. Had it not been for Peter Rainy and the guard, he would have fared ill indeed.

The morning of the fourth day, was hardest of all. Then, the fifty men, with many dogs, sledges, and packs, tinkled out from the fort across the icy river, sped on their way by the waving hands of women, old men, and the furious few selected by lot to remain and keep the big fort.

That same day, Peter Rainy, under strict orders from the factor, who had at last recollected his prisoner, hitched up Buller's dogs, and departed for Fort d.i.c.key. Before he went, he had only a minute's speech with McTavish, saying something at which the Scotchman shook his head violently, and scowled with anger. Then, the guard came, and the interview was at an end.

Now, on this dark morning, dismal thoughts marched through Donald's mind. But what chafed him most was his forced inaction. For twenty-five days more, he must sit in that pestilential prison while all about him events of great moment were being lived, and the girl he loved was perhaps dying in the merciless hands of her father's enemies.

And, then, there was temptation because of something, barely understood, that Rainy had mumbled.

"Break your pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway," he had said.

This enigmatic remark should be explained. For years, the factor at Fort Severn had kept in his hallway an enormous pipe-rack. Here, in appropriate rings were souvenir pipes from every white man that had ever visited the post. Most prized of all was one that had belonged to the great governor of the Company, Sir George Simpson, who yearly traveled thousands of miles in regal state, with red banners floating from his canoes, and a matchless crew of Iroquois paddlers whose traditional feats are unbroken even to this day.

There were pipes of all the governors and all the factors of the post from its earliest foundation. Many of the men whose souvenirs were there had long since been forgotten, yet their names and pipes still remained.

In the fifth row, seventh from the left, hung a splendid briar that Donald had contributed, and it was to this that Peter Rainy had referred, since there was a rule that a man might borrow his pipe if he needed it, but must be sure to have it returned to its proper place.

Why should he break his pipe, and ask for the one in the hallway?

That in his pocket was sweet and rich and mellow, the one in the hall an unsmoked instrument, which would keep his tongue blistered for many a day. But how to get it, even should he want it? That was a question he could not solve.

After a while, the prisoner, worn out with his long tramp, lay down on his cot, and fell into a heavy sleep, from which he was awakened by the old Indian, who came to bring him his breakfast. With the latter came a message utterly disconcerting.

"Captain McTavish," said the man, "there will be someone here to visit you later this morning."

"Who?"

"Miss Laura Fitzpatrick."

Donald gasped.

"What have I done to deserve this punishment?" he asked himself.

And then, aloud: "Why is she coming to see me?"

"I don't know," was the answer; "she merely told me to tell you."

When the expedition departed to Sturgeon Lake, but two white women had been left--Mrs. Gates, the missionary's wife, and Laura Fitzpatrick. The latter, a maiden upward of thirty-five, had decided to remain in solitary glory as mistress of the factor's house, feeling amply protected by the few white men left at the post.

The captive had reasons for not desiring this visit, outside of the possible impropriety. The summer before, during his happy weeks in Jean's company, circ.u.mstances often shaped themselves so that there were three persons on their little canoe trips and picnics--and the third was Miss Fitzpatrick. Her ingenuity in these matters had been positively remarkable. And the entire post had grinned up its sleeve, knowing old Fitzpatrick's declaration that Jean should not marry until Laura had been taken off his hands.

For the first time in her life, Laura had evinced an interest in the _genus_ man. Consequently, Donald now awaited her arrival with some trepidation.

About eleven o'clock she came, unaccompanied except by the old Indian who looked after McTavish's wants. She was small and spare, and wore gla.s.ses that enlarged her mild blue eyes. She had overcome nature's delinquency in the matter of luxurious hair by the application of a "transformation," done into numerous elastic curls.

Because of the difficulty of communication with the outside world, this was now several shades lighter than her own, a fact which gave her great pain, but was really quite unavoidable.

Leaving the door open, she sat down in the one chair, while Donald leaned on his elbow in the deep window embrasure.

"Oh," she gasped breathlessly, "I suppose you think I'm awful, don't you, Captain?"

Her curls bobbed, and a faint color showed in her cheeks.

"Quite the contrary, Miss Fitzpatrick," he replied, gravely. "I feel that only the highest motives of--well--er--pity, have actuated you to look in upon a man forced to take a month's rest. It was really kind of you, but have you--er--that is, thought of yourself, and what people might say when it becomes known?"

"Oh, dear," she sighed, "of course that will have to be faced, won't it? But I guess I'm old enough to be past scandal. Really, you have no idea how old I'm getting to be, Captain McTavish."

"A woman is only as old as her impulses, Miss Fitzpatrick," replied the captain, gallantly. "And your impulse this morning could hardly place you above--let's see--twenty at the outside."