V THE HALF-BREED BROTHER
The Northwest Fur Company's chief post was bustling with activity. TheNew Fort itself, a stockaded enclosure, had been completed the yearbefore, but work on the log buildings within the walls was still goingon. Quarters for the agents, clerks and various employees, storehouses,and other buildings were under construction or receiving finishingtouches. When the sloop _Otter_ came in sight, however, work ceasedsuddenly. Log cabin builders threw down their axes, saws and hammers,masons dropped their trowels, brick makers left the kilns that wereturning out bricks for chimneys and ovens, the clerks broke off theirbartering with Indians and half-breed trappers, and all ran down to theriverside. There they mingled with the wild looking men, squaws andchildren who swarmed from the camps of the voyageurs and Indians. Whenthe _Otter_ drew up against the north bank of the channel, the wholepopulation, permanent and temporary, was on hand to greet the first shipof the season.
From the deck of the sloop, Hugh Beaupre looked on with eager eyes. Itwas not so much of the picturesqueness and novelty of the scene, however,as of his own private affairs that he was thinking. Anxiously he scannedthe crowd of white men, half-breeds and Indians, wondering which one ofthe black-haired, deerskin-clad, half-grown lads, who slipped so nimblybetween their elders into the front ranks, was his half-brother. Many ofthe crowd, old and young, white and red, came aboard, but none sought outHugh. He concluded that Blaise was either not there or was waiting forhim to go ashore.
Hugh soon had an opportunity to leave the ship. He had feared that hemight be more closely questioned by Captain Bennett or by some of thecrew about what he intended to do at the Kaministikwia, and was relievedto reach shore without having to dodge the curiosity of his companions.Only Baptiste asked him where he expected to meet his brother. Hughreplied truthfully that he did not know.
Unobtrusively, calling as little attention to himself as possible, theboy made his way through the crowd, but not towards the New Fort. Nodoubt the Fort, with all its busy activity in its wildernesssurroundings, was worth seeing, but he did not choose to visit the placefor fear someone might ask his business there. He was keenly aware thathis business was likely to be, not with the Old Northwest Company, butwith its rival, the New Northwest Company, sometimes called in derisionthe X Y Company. In a quandary where to look for his unknown brother, hewandered about aimlessly for a time, avoiding rather than seekingcompanionship.
The ground about the New Fort was low and swampy, with thick woods ofevergreens, birch and poplar wherever the land had not been cleared forbuilding or burned over through carelessness. Away from the river bankand the Fort, the place was not cheerful or encouraging to a lonely boyon that chill spring day. The sky was gray and lowering, the wind cold,the distance shrouded in fog, the air heavy with the earthy smell ofdamp, spongy soil and sodden, last year's leaves. Hugh had looked forwardwith eager anticipation to his arrival at the Kaministikwia, but now allthings seemed to combine to make him low spirited and lonely.
That the X Y Company had a trading post somewhere near the New Fort Hughknew, but he had no idea which way to go, and he did not wish to inquire.At last he turned by chance into a narrow path that led through the woodsup-river. He was walking slowly, so wrapped in his own not very pleasantthoughts as to be scarcely conscious of his surroundings, when a voicesounded close at his shoulder. It was a low, soft voice, pronouncing hisown name, "Hugh Beaupre," with an intonation that was not English.
Startled, Hugh whirled about, his hand on the sheathed knife that was hisonly weapon. Facing him in the narrow trail stood a slender lad of lessthan his own height, clad in a voyageur's blanket coat over the deerskintunic and leggings of the woods and with a scarlet handkerchief boundabout his head instead of a cap. His dark features were unmistakablyIndian in form, but from under the straight, black brows shone hazel eyesthat struck Hugh with a sense of familiarity. They were the eyes of hisfather, Jean Beaupre, the bright, unforgettable eyes that had been themost notable feature of the elder Beaupre's face.
"Hugh Beaupre?" the dark lad repeated with a questioning inflection. "Mybrother?"
"You are my half-brother Blaise?" Hugh asked, somewhat stiffly, inreturn.
"_Oui_," the other replied, and added apologetically in excellent French,"My English is bad, but you perhaps know French."
"Let it be French then, though I doubt if I speak it as well as you."
A swift smile crossed the hitherto grave face. "I was at school with theJesuit fathers in Quebec four winters," Blaise answered.
Hugh was surprised. This new brother looked like an Indian, but he was nomere wild savage. The schooling in Quebec accounted for the well writtenletter. Before Hugh could find words in which to voice his thoughts,Blaise spoke again.
"I was on the shore when the _Otter_ arrived. I thought when I saw you,you must be my brother, though you have little the look of our father,neither the hair nor the eyes."
"I have been told that I resemble my mother's people." Hugh's manner wasstill cool and stiff.
Without comment upon the reply, Blaise went on in his low, musical voicewith its slightly singsong drawl. "I wished not to speak to you thereamong the others. I waited until I saw you take this trail. Then, after alittle while, I followed."
"Do you mean you have been following me around ever since I came ashore?"Hugh exclaimed in English.
"Not following." The swift smile so like, yet unlike, that of JeanBeaupre, crossed the boy's face again. "Not following, but,"--he droppedinto French-"I watched. It was not difficult, since you thought not thatanyone watched. We will go on now a little farther. Then we will talktogether, my brother."
Passing Hugh, Blaise took the lead, going along the forest trail with alithe swiftness that spurred the older lad to his fastest walking pace.After perhaps half a mile, they came to the top of a low knoll where anopening had been made by the fall of a big spruce. Blaise seated himselfon the prostrate trunk, and Hugh dropped down beside him, more eager thanhe cared to betray to hear his Indian brother's story.
A strange tale the younger lad had to tell. Jean Beaupre had spent theprevious winter trading and trapping in the country south of the Lake ofthe Woods, now included in the state of Minnesota. Blaise and his motherhad remained at Wauswaugoning Bay, north of the Grand Portage. Just atdusk of a night late in March, Beaupre staggered into their camp, hisface ghastly, his clothes blood stained, mind and body in the last stagesof exhaustion. At the lodge entrance he fell fainting. It was some timebefore his squaw and his son succeeded in bringing him back toconsciousness. In spite of his weakness he was determined to tell hisstory. Mustering all his failing strength, he commenced.
Before the snow had begun to melt under the spring sun, he had started,he told them, with one Indian companion and two dog sleds loaded withpelts, for Lake Superior. Travelling along the frozen streams and lakes,he reached the trading post at the Fond du Lac on the St. Louis River.While he was there, a spell of unusually warm early spring weathercleared the river mouth. The winter had been mild, with little ice inthat part of the lake. At Fond du Lac Beaupre obtained a bateau, as theCanadians called their wooden boats, and rigged it with mast and sail. Heand his companion put their furs aboard, and started up the northwestshore of Lake Superior.
Thus far he succeeded in telling his story clearly enough, then, worn outwith the effort, he lapsed into unconsciousness. Twice he rallied andtried to go on, but his speech was vague and disconnected. As well as hecould, Blaise pieced together the fragments of the story. Somewherebetween the Fond du Lac and the Grand Portage the bateau had been wreckedin a storm. When he reached this part of his tale, Jean Beaupre becamemuch agitated. He gasped out again and again that he had hidden the fursand the "packet" in a safe cache, and that Blaise and his other son Hughmust go get them. He called the furs his sons' inheritance, for he wasclearly aware that he could not live. The pelts were a very good season'scatch, and the boys must take them to the New Northwest Com
pany's post atthe Kaministikwia. But it was the packet about which he seemed mostanxious. Hugh must carry the packet to Montreal to Monsieur Dubois.Blaise asked where his brother was to be found, and received instructionsto go or send to the Sault. Before the lad learned definitely where tolook for the furs and the packet, Jean Beaupre lapsed once more intounconsciousness. He rallied only long enough for the ministrations of apriest, who happened to be at the Grand Portage on a missionary journey.
Though Hugh had scarcely known his father, he was much moved at the storyof his death. He felt a curious mixture of sympathy for and jealousy ofhis Indian half-brother, when he saw, in spite of the latter's controlledand quiet manner, how strongly he felt his loss. Hugh respected the depthof the boy's sorrow, yet he could not but feel as if he, the elder son,had been unrightfully defrauded. The half-breed lad had known theircommon father so much better than he, the wholly white son. For someminutes after Blaise ceased speaking, Hugh sat silent, oppressed byconflicting thoughts and feelings. Then his mind turned to the present,practical aspect of the situation.
"It will not be an easy search," he remarked. "Have you no clue to thespot where the furs are hidden?"
"None, except that it is a short way only from the place where thewrecked boat lies."
"Where the boat lay when father left it," commented Hugh thoughtfully."It may have drifted far from there by now."
"That is possible. I could not learn from him where the wreck happened,though I asked several times. The boat was driven on the rocks. That isall I know."
"And his companion? Was he drowned?"
Blaise shook his head. "I know not. Our father said nothing of BlackThunder, but I think he must be dead, or our father would not have comealone."
"How shall we set about the search?"
"We will go down along the shore," Blaise replied, taking the lead as ifby right, although he was the younger by two or three years. "We willlook first for the wrecked bateau. When we have found that, we will makesearch for the cache of furs."
Hugh's thoughts turned to another part of his half-brother's tale. "Tellme, Blaise," he said suddenly, "what was it caused my father's death,starvation, exhaustion, hardship? Or was he hurt when the boat waswrecked? You spoke of his blood-stained clothes."
"It was not starvation and not cold," the half-breed boy replied gravely."He was hurt, sore hurt." The lad cast a swift glance about him, at thestill and silent woods shadowy with approaching night. Then he leanedtowards Hugh and spoke so low the latter could scarcely catch the words."Our father was sore hurt, but not in the wreck. How he ever lived toreach us I know not. The wound was in his side."
"But how came he by a wound?" Hugh whispered, unconsciously imitating theother's cautious manner.
Blaise shook his black head solemnly. "I know not how, but not in thestorm or the wreck. The wound was a knife wound."
"What?" cried Hugh, forgetting caution in his surprise. "Had he enemieswho attacked him? Did someone murder him?"
Again Blaise shook his head. "It might have been in fair fight. Ourfather was ever quick with word and deed. The bull moose himself is notbraver. Yet I think the blow was not a fair one. I think it was struckfrom behind. The knife entered here." Blaise placed his hand on a spot alittle to the left of the back-bone.
"A blow from behind it must have been. Could it have been his companionwho struck him?"
"Black Thunder? No, for then Black Thunder would have carried away thefurs. Our father would not have told us to go get them."
"True," Hugh replied, but after a moment of thought he added, "Yet thefellow may have attacked him, and father, though mortally wounded, mayhave slain him."
A quick, fierce gleam shone in the younger boy's bright eyes. "If he whostruck was not killed by our father's hand," he said in a low, tensevoice, "you and I are left to avenge our father." It was plain thatChristian schooling in Quebec had not rooted out from Little Caribou'snature the savage's craving for revenge. To tell the truth, at thethought of that cowardly blow, Hugh's own feelings were nearly as fierceas those of his half-Indian brother.