The Wilderness Trail Part 8

She went out, leaving Jean bewildered and spent with emotion, trying to collect her scattered thoughts. Knowing that her father was busy, she returned to the papers, and tried to read. But the words pa.s.sed in front of her eyes without meaning, and, after fifteen minutes of this, she rose determinedly.

The knock on her father's study door elicited a growl of inquiry, and she went in without answering. Old Angus Fitzpatrick sat bent over his desk writing, his white beard sweeping the polished wood.

He wore large horn spectacles.

"Father," began the girl, coming straight to the point, "do you know an old Ojibway squaw by the name of Maria?"

Neither the bulk of the man nor his stolidity could hide the involuntary start the words gave him. He looked searchingly at his daughter from beneath his beetling brows.

"Yes, I have seen her, I think," he replied cautiously after a moment. "Why?"

"She came here to-day, and insisted, almost violently, on seeing you. b.u.t.ts was about to send her away when I interfered and talked to her myself. I don't like her; she frightens me."

"You talked with her?" asked the factor hastily, his agitation undisguised this time.

"Yes, but I couldn't learn anything definite. She has a lot of nasty rumors in her head. Maybe they're facts, but she only spoke in hints. She said the facts she would tell only to you."

Angus Fitzpatrick heaved an inaudible sigh of relief. The old squaw, then, had been discreet.

"What was the subject of her conversation?" he asked, sharply.

The girl hesitated and flushed.

"Horrid hints regarding Don--Captain McTavish," she said, finally.

Then, her indignation rising once more, she went on swiftly: "Just the sort of thing I have heard from you, from Tee-ka-mee, from every one who has a right or privilege to mention such things. Now, father, I have come in here to find out just what this thing is.

You can tell me in five minutes, if you will. Ah, yes, you can,"

she insisted, as the factor started to deny. "Yes, you can; old Maria said so, and I believe her. After last summer when he was here, and I--when I grew to be very fond of his company, you suddenly began putting things into my mind, uncertain hints, slurring intimations, significant gestures--all the things that can damage a character without positively defaming it. Something had happened!

Something had come to your notice that made you do all that. You never liked Donald, but you didn't really oppose him before that time. Now, I want to know what this is." Her voice hardened. "I'm tired of being treated like a schoolgirl; I'm twenty-four, and old enough to think for myself, and I demand to know what mystery has forced a black shadow between us."

She stopped, breathless, the color going and coming in her cheeks like the ebb and flow of northern lights in the sky.

Old Angus Fitzpatrick, amazed at the vehemence of his usually pa.s.sive daughter, had risen to his feet. To make him furious, it was only necessary to demand something. This the girl, in excellent imitation of his own manner, had done, and he resented it highly, glaring at her through his spectacles.

"Do you mean to stand there and say that you demand that I tell you something?" he roared. "Well, I refuse, that's all."

And he turned angrily away from her. The girl mastered herself, and asked in a cold, even voice:

"Will you tell me this? Is there anything definite against Donald McTavish?

"Do you demand to know?

"No, I ask it."

"Well, then, there is. A perfectly good reason why you can never marry him."

"What is it?"

"I can't tell you. And, if I can't, no one else can. Respect him all you will for himself, but don't love him. I tell you this to spare you pain later. And, if you please, Jean," he added more gently as his temper went down, "never let us speak of this painful subject again."

"Very well, father," she replied, calmly. "Oh, by the way, do you wish to see that woman? She leaves this afternoon."

"No, I never want to see her again."

"She said for me to tell you there was money in it this time,"

added the girl, a slight note of contempt in her tone.

The factor hesitated.

"No," he said finally; and, without another word, Jean left the room.

CHAPTER VIII

THE ALARM

Darkness had just fallen over the snow-enshrouded fort. Three hours ago, Maria, with her stoical Indian son, had pulled out behind a dog-train with fresh supplies. The old squaw had been balked in her attempt to see the factor. Since she had not been sent for, she did not dare try to force another entrance.

Angus Fitzpatrick and his daughters, Laura and Jean, were having tea in the drawing-room; preparations were under way for dinner in the kitchen. Outside, a couple of huskies got into a fight, the bell of the chapel rang for mid-week even-song, a couple of Indians called in Ojibway to each other across the snowy expanse of the courtyard.

Suddenly, from somewhere out on the frozen Severn, there came faint yells, followed by the staccato of revolver and rifle shots. Just as suddenly, all the life in the factory came to a dead stop, as everyone listened for more shots by which to make sure of the direction. Three minutes later, the additional reports sounded sharply.

With lightning speed, snowshoes were strapped on, rifles and cartridge-belts gathered up, and, almost in less time than it takes to tell, twenty men were racing across the ice to help.

It was the familiar winter's tragedy near the fort--a man traveling fast and nearing his destination at nightfall. Perhaps, he had five miles to go for food, warmth, light, and companions.h.i.+p. He took the risk, and pressed on in the dark. And, then, the wolf-pack, that had been d.o.g.g.i.ng him over many leagues, closed in for the kill, since the lone man's one security is his fire.

"When will these Indians learn that lesson?" asked the factor irritably, sipping his tea. The shots had reached his ears, and the swift departure of the rescuers had been heard from the courtyard.

It was, perhaps, an hour later when a tramping of feet and chorus of voices announced the return of the men. As there was no sad procession, it was evident that the trapper had been saved. Presently, b.u.t.ts entered the lamplit room.

"The trapper they just rescued is asking to see you, sir," he said.

"Claims his message to be most important, sir, 'e does."

"Life and death?"

"Might as well say so, sir, from the way he carries on."

"Show him in."

Five minutes later, Cardepie, the Frenchman from Fort d.i.c.key, stood in the presence of the factor's family, vastly embarra.s.sed, but bursting with news.

"Ah, by gar!" he cried when permission to speak had been given; "dere is gran' trouble in de distric'. Everywhere, de trapper is gone away--everywhere de shanty is desert'. B-gos.h.!.+ For sure, dere is somet'ing wrong! One, two, ten, dirteen days ago, dat brave Captain McTavish go on de long trail for Charley Seguis, an' have not been heard of since. _Diable!_ Perhaps, he no find heem in dat time; anyway, he sen' word to de fort. But dis time? _Non!_ We haf no word, an' by gar! I know somet'ing wrong.

"I call my dogs, Ba'tiste an' Pierre an' Raoul an' Saint Jean, an'

pack de sleigh. I cannot stan' my brother lost, so I go after heem.

_Bien donc!_ I hunt de distric' careful, but I fin' not wan track of heem. I go to trapper shanty one after de other. Peter Rainy, he gone four days before me, but I not even see heem. _Tonnerre, sacre!_ De hair stan' on my head wit' fear of somet'ing I do not know. Mebbe wan beeg _loup-garou_ eat every man in de distric', an' have his eye on me.

"I go into a shanty, an' fin' paper not burn' In stove just wan end. I pick it up; I read de English good, like I talk. McTavish teach me dat on long nights. B-gos.h.!.+ _m'sieur_, I read dat fas', once, twice. Den I go out, an' jump into de sleigh, an' point Ba'tiste's nose to Fort Severn. _Pauvre_ Saint Jean, he die I run heem so hard, an' now I got only t'ree dogs."