The Wilderness Trail Part 11

The maiden lady appeared uncertain as to the possible compliment in this statement, but at last decided to accept it.

"You're the same old flatterer, Captain, the very same," she gurgled.

Presently, the conversation dragged.

"Do you know why I came to see you today?" asked Miss Fitzpatrick, and, at Donald's negation, continued: "I thought you must be lonesome out here, particularly with everyone gone on the expedition, and--and--I came to tell you that I think your imprisonment is the most unjust thing I ever heard of."

"Do you, really?" cried the young man, eagerly.

"I certainly do, and I spoke to father about it, severely. For a time, I thought I was going to get you off, but something seemed to occur to him, and he got angry, and said not to mention the subject again. But I thought I would tell you just what I think of it."

"I can't thank you enough," said Donald, approaching her impulsively, for the little woman's efforts in his behalf really touched him.

"I didn't know I had a friend in the world until this minute, and I tell you I'm grateful--more so than you have any idea. You were more than good, and I sha'n't forget it."

At his approach, Miss Fitzpatrick had pushed her chair back nervously several inches, and, now, Donald turned away to hide the smile that would struggle to his face, despite his efforts at suppression. To bridge the situation, he pulled his pipe from his pocket, and began to examine it intently.

"And that isn't all," continued Miss Fitzpatrick, nerving herself for speech so that her curls quivered violently. "I want you to know that I will do anything in my power to make your confinement here easier, and will always have your interest at heart wherever you are... There!

"You are a dear little woman, and I'm overwhelmed with your kindness,"

said Donald, in the deep, rich voice he unconsciously used when moved. And, at that, the scarlet tide of joy that had been hovering uncertainly in Miss Fitzpatrick mounted with a rush and suffused her pale little face.

"Now," she went on briskly, to cover her confusion, "there are a lot of newspapers at the house that of course you haven't read.

I'll send them over, with a book or two Mrs. Ponshette, at York, sent down for Christmas. You really must do something to pa.s.s the time."

Once more, Donald thanked her, when suddenly, without the slightest intention, his pipe slipped from his fingers, and fell to the floor.

With an exclamation of annoyance, he picked it up, to find that the amber stem had broken off close to the brier, rendering it almost useless. Now he must have the other pipe, despite what Peter Rainy had hinted, and who could get it but Laura Fitzpatrick?

Showing her the broken pieces in his hand, he exclaimed that life would be unbearable without tobacco, and asked her to send his reserve pipe over from the rack in the hall. This she promised to do, and a little later rose to take her leave.

"You're not a good host, Captain McTavish," she said, at the doorway.

"Why?" he questioned.

"You haven't asked me to call again."

"Forgive me!" cried the confused man. "Please, come as often as you wish. I have enjoyed the visit immensely."

"So have I," she returned, with a coy, sidelong look from her mild blue eyes, and then, at last, she shut the door behind her.

Donald was really grateful for the call, as it had taken his mind from the brooding that had occupied it so continuously, and, for hours afterward, he smiled almost unconsciously at the quaint transparency, but utter good-heartedness, of the woman's character.

Early in the afternoon, the promised package of papers and the pipe arrived. The prisoner, who, like all northern woodsmen, found a pipe his boon companion, filled the bowl with tobacco, and tried to light it.

Somehow, the brier would not draw, and McTavish impatiently unscrewed the stem from the bowl to investigate. In the small cavity thus exposed, he saw an obstruction which, when dug out with a pin, proved to be a sheet of thin paper, very carefully rolled.

Straightening it out, Donald saw pencil-marks in strange triangles.

There were V's and U's placed in any of four positions, and queer symbols that resembled the "pot-hooks" of shorthand more than anything else.

For a moment, he stared perplexed, and then memory returned to him.

This was, indeed, a message from Peter Rainy, and written In the only language the old Indian could use--the Cree symbols into which the Bible had been translated by the zealous missionary, James Evans, back in the fifties. On long winter nights at Fort d.i.c.key, Peter Rainy had taught his superior to read and write in this obsolete fas.h.i.+on.

Now, Donald bent to the work. The first words came hard, but, before he had finished the paper, he was reading easily. And this, freely translated, is what he saw:

I will be a mile in the woods, along the old beaver trail, from the fifth night after Miss Jean's departure until the tenth. If you do not come by then I will go back to Fort d.i.c.key and return for you when your month is up. There is work for you to do. I have a clew as to Miss Jean, but you must act at once if you expect to save her. I have sawed the bars of your window almost through at the bottom. When in the woods call me with the cry of an owl.

PETER.

And, having read, Donald McTavish mechanically lighted his pipe, and began to smoke furiously.

CHAPTER X

THE ESCAPE

It was the old battle between love and duty. The pile of covered newspapers lay unheeded beside the young man's chair. He pictured Jean Fitzpatrick in every conceivable peril of the winter on those desolate barrens--as the prisoner of Indians, of trappers, as the prey of wild beasts, as the prey of men. He writhed at his impotence, and cursed the day that had seen his rescue on Death Trail. Better a skeleton without flesh, he thought, than a living being whose every thought tortured him to desperation.

And, yet, there was something in the idea of escape that seemed shameful to him. If he had done wrong, he must take his medicine; if he had failed, he must atone for the failure according to the decrees of his superior. That was the discipline in him responding to the discipline of Fitzpatrick. It was the iron McTavish to the fore rather than the pa.s.sionate flesh-and-blood McTavish.

A grim smile lighted his features for a moment, as he thought of Laura, the factor's daughter, innocently placing in his hands the means of setting at naught her father's commands. Her naive zeal for his welfare might react to her own loss.

The thing that at last decided Donald was the abiding sense of injustice that had all along burned in him against this humiliating confinement. Had he been actually unfaithful to duty, he would have put the thought of escape away harshly. As it was, the inherent fear of that great, inevitable Juggernaut, the Company, stirred in him. But he crushed it down resolutely. This was an affair of persons, not of companies... He would go!

To-night was the fifth after Jean's departure. There was much to be done before he could be ready. Then, too, something might have happened to Peter to prevent his reaching the rendezvous on time.

Donald decided that he would go the next night.

The manner Peter Rainy had indicated was the only feasible one for escape. The room in which the captive was confined was one of some twenty-odd built along the strong wall that surrounded the post.

Across the narrow corridor that connected the row of rooms on the inside, the heavy masonry of the wall jutted out roughly. At the end of the corridor, a stout door was locked and bolted at night, so that during the dark hours the window was the only means of egress.

Next morning, after breakfast, Donald called the old Indian servant to him.

"Michael," he said, "this Is just the time for me to do some work on my outfit. My fur suit is badly in need of repair, and one of my showshoes needs restringing near the curl. I want to be all s.h.i.+p-shape when my time is up. Will you bring them to me?"

The Indian's instant acquiescence gave the young man a pang. Such was his reputation for honor among these men that his jailer had often declared he could leave the doors unlocked and still have a prisoner in the morning. Now, Donald was about to blast this old man's faith. He shrugged his shoulders helplessly, however, and thought no more on the subject. Once his decision had been made, he would hold fast by it to the end.

McTavish had spoken truly. His hunting suit of white caribou was badly frayed and worn after his blind wanderings in the forest, and not only did one snowshoe need restringing, but both were loose from his frequent awkward falls. Even old Michael, whose eyes were weak, could see these things.

With _atibisc_--fine, tough sinews of the caribou--Donald strung the defective toe, and then made a not very successful s.h.i.+ft at tightening the center webbing of _askimoneiab_, or heavy, membranous moose filling. The mending of his clothes was a comparatively simple matter by means of needle and thread.

All day he worked at this, so planning that evening should find the task uncompleted, as an excuse for Michael to leave the equipment over night.

As fortune would have it, snow began to fall shortly before sundown, and McTavish was robbed of the stars for guidance once he should be free. But the heavy, swirling curtain of flakes made his work inside the fort much easier. At dinner-time, the wind had risen, and the storm outside was of such fury that only the hardiest Indian or trapper would have ventured out in it. This gave the captive some concern, but he realized that he must either go now, or else lose his opportunity.

As was his custom, Michael sat up smoking with a few cronies in a near-by room until about ten o'clock. Then, he let his friends out of the corridor, and securely fastened the door behind them with lock and bolt. After that, he looked into McTavish's room, to find the Scotchman almost ready for bed. With his customary respectful good-night, he shut and locked the door, and shuffled on to his own quarters.

Immediately, now, Donald dressed himself quickly, and then put out the lamp, which had made a square glow on the snow outside. Presently, the light in Michael's room, also, went out. McTavish, crossing the floor noiselessly in his moccasins, sat down in his chair, and smoked his new pipe, for the better part of an hour. By that time, a gentle buzzing, varied with wheezes and whines, attested that Michael was asleep.

Forthwith, Donald stepped cautiously to the window. He was fully acquainted with its peculiarities; he had studied them all day. It was one of those squares of wood and gla.s.s set into a frame without any means of opening either by lifting or swinging. To escape, he would have to push the window bodily from its frame.