CHAPTER XIV
IN SLIPPERY PLACES
A more desolate existence than the life of a fur-trading winterer in thefar north can scarcely be imagined. Penned in some miserable lodge athousand miles from human companionship, only the wild orgies of thesavages varied the monotony of dull days and long nights. The winter Ispent with the Mandanes was my first in the north. I had not yet learnedto take events as the rock takes wave-blows, and was still at thatmawkish age when a man is easily filled with profound pity for himself.A month after our arrival, Father Holland left the Mandane village. EricHamilton had not yet come; so I felt much like the man whom a gloomypoet describes as earth's last habitant. I had accompanied the priesthalf-way to the river forks. Here, he was to get passage in an Indiancanoe to the tribes of the upper Missouri. After an affectionatefarewell, I stood on a knoll of treeless land and watched thebroad-brimmed hat and black robe receding from me.
"Good-by, boy! God bless you!" he had said in broken voice. "Don't fallto brooding when you're alone, or you'll lose your wits. Now mindyourself! Don't mope!"
For my part, I could not answer a word, but keeping hold of his handwalked on with him a pace.
"Get away with you! Go home, youngster!" he ordered, roughly shaking meoff and flourishing his staff.
Then he strode swiftly forward without once looking back, while I wouldhave given all I possessed for one last wave. As he plunged into thesombre forest, where the early autumn frost of that north land hadalready tinged the maple woods with the hectic flush of coming death, sopoignant was this last wresting from human fellowship, I could scarcelyresist the impulse to desert my station and follow him. Poorer than thepoorest of the tribes to whom he ministered, alone and armed only withhis faith, this man was ready to conquer the world for his Master."Would that I had half the courage for my quest," I mused, and walkedslowly back to the solitary lodge.
Black Cat, Chief of the Mandane village, in a noisy harangue, adopted meas his son and his brother and his father and his mother and I know notwhat; but apart from trade with his people, I responded coldly to thesewarm overtures. From Father Holland's leave-taking to Hamilton's coming,was a desolately lonesome interval. Daily I went to the north hill andstrained my eyes for figures against the horizon. Sometimes horsemenwould gradually loom into view, head first, then arms and horse, likethe peak of a ship preceding appearance of full canvas and hull oversea. Thereupon I would hurriedly saddle my own horse and ride furiouslyforward, feeling confident that Hamilton had at last come, only to findthe horsemen some company of Indian riders. What could be keeping him? Iconjectured a thousand possibilities; but in truth there was no need forany conjectures. 'Twas I, who felt the days drag like years. Hamiltonwas not behind his appointed time. He came at last, walking in on me onenight when I least expected him and was sitting moodily before myuntouched supper. He had nothing to tell except that he had wasted manyweeks following false clues, till our buffalo hunters returned with newsof the Sioux attack, Diable's escape and our bootless pursuit. At oncehe had left Fort Douglas for the Missouri, pausing often to send scoutsscouring the country for news of Diable's band; but not a trace of therascals had been found; and his search seemed on the whole more barrenof results than mine. Laplante, he reported, had never been seen thenight after he left the council hall to find the young Nor'-Wester. Inmy own mind, I had no doubt the villain had been in that company wepursued through the prairie fire. Altogether, I think Hamilton's comingmade matters worse rather than better. That I had failed after so nearlyeffecting a rescue seemed to embitter him unspeakably.
Out of deference to the rival companies employing us, we occupieddifferent lodges. Indeed, I fear poor Eric did but a sorry business forthe Hudson's Bay that winter. I verily believe he would have forgottento eat, let alone barter for furs, had I not been there to lug himforcibly across to my lodge, where meals were prepared for us both.Often when I saw the Indian trappers gathering before his door withpiles of peltries, I would go across and help him to value the furs. Atfirst the Indian rogues were inclined to take advantage of hisabstraction and palm off one miserable beaver skin, where they shouldhave given five for a new hatchet; and I began to understand why theycrowded to his lodge, though he did nothing to attract them, while theyavoided mine. Then I took a hand in Hudson's Bay trade and equalizedvalues. First, I would pick over the whole pile, which the Indians hadthrown on the floor, putting spoiled skins to one side, and peltries ofthe same kind in classified heaps.
"Lynx, buffalo, musk-ox, marten, beaver, silver fox, black bear,raccoon! Want them all, Eric?" I would ask, while the Indians eyed mewith suspicious resentment.
"Certainly, certainly, take everything," Eric would answer, withoutknowing a word of what I had said, and at once throwing away hisopportunity to drive a good bargain.
Picking over the goods of Hamilton's packet, the Mandanes would choosewhat they wanted. Then began a strange, silent haggling over prices.Unlike Oriental races, the Indian maintains stolid silence, compellingthe white man to do the talking.
"Eric, Running Deer wants a gun," I would begin.
"For goodness' sake, give it to him, and don't bother me," Eric wouldurge, and the faintest gleam of amused triumph would shoot from thebeady eyes of Running Deer. Running Deer's peltries would be spread out,and after a half hour of silent consideration on his part and trader'stalk on mine, furs to the value of so many beaver skins would be passedacross for the coveted gun. I remember it was a wretched old squaw witha toothless, leathery, much-bewrinkled face and a reputation forknowledge of Indian medicines, who first opened my eyes to the sort oftrade the Indians had been driving with Hamilton. The old creature wasbent almost double over her stout oak staff and came hobbling in with abag of roots, which she flung on the floor. After thawing out her frozenmoccasins before the lodge fire and taking off bandages of skins abouther ankles, she turned to us for trade. We were ready to makeconcessions that might induce the old body to hurry away; but shedemanded red flannel, tea and tobacco enough to supply a whole family ofgrandchildren, and sat down on the bag of roots prepared to out-siegeus.
"What's this, Eric?" I asked, knowing no more of roots than the oldwoman did of values.
"Seneca for drugs. For goodness' sake, buy it quick and don't haggle."
"But she wants your whole kit, man," I objected.
"She'll have the whole kit and the shanty, too, if you don't get herout," said Hamilton, opening the lodge door; and the old squaw presentlylimped off with an armful of flannel, one tea packet and a parcel oftobacco, already torn open. Such was the character of Hamilton'sbartering up to the time I elected myself his first lieutenant; but ashis abstractions became almost trance-like, I think the superstition ofthe Indians was touched. To them, a maniac is a messenger of the GreatSpirit; and Hamilton's strange ways must have impressed them, for theyno longer put exorbitant values on their peltries.
After the day's trading Eric would come to my hut. Pacing the crampedplace for hours, wild-eyed and silent, he would abruptly dash into thedarkness of the night like one on the verge of madness. Thereupon, thetaciturn, grave-faced La Robe Noire, tapping his forehead significantly,would look with meaning towards Little Fellow; and I would slip out somedistance behind to see that Hamilton did himself no harm while theparoxysm lasted. So absorbed was he in his own gloom, for days he wouldnot utter a syllable. The storm that had gathered would then dischargeits strength in an outburst of incoherent ravings, which usually endedin Hamilton's illness and my watching over him night and day, keepingfirearms out of reach. I have never seen--and hope I never may--anyother being age so swiftly and perceptibly. I had attributed his wornappearance in Fort Douglas to the cannon accident and trusted thenatural robustness of his constitution would throw off the apparentlanguor; but as autumn wore into winter, there were more gray hairs onhis temple, deeper lines furrowed his face and the erect shoulders beganto bow.
When days slipped into weeks and weeks into months without the slightestinkling of Miriam's whereabouts
to set at rest the fear that my rashpursuit had caused her death, I myself grew utterly despondent. Like allwho embark on daring ventures, I had not counted on continuousfrustration. The idea that I might waste a lifetime in the wildernesswithout accomplishing anything had never entered my mind. Week afterweek, the scouts dispatched in every direction came back without oneword of the fugitives, and I began to imagine my association withHamilton had been unfortunate for us both. This added to despair thebitterness of regret.
The winter was unusually mild, and less game came to the Missouri fromthe mountains and bad lands than in severe seasons. By February, we wereon short rations. Two meals a day, with cat-fish for meat and driedskins in soup by way of variety, made up our regular fare formid-winter. The frequent absence of my two Indians, scouring the regionfor the Sioux, left me to do my own fishing; and fishing with bare handsin frosty weather is not pleasant employment for a youth of softup-bringing. Protracted bachelordom was also losing its charms; butthat may have resulted from a new influence, which came into my life andseemed ever present.
At Christmas, Hamilton was threatened with violent insanity. As theMandanes' provisions dwindled, the Indians grew surlier toward us; and Iwas as deep in despondency as a man could sink. Frequently, I wonderedwhether Father Holland would find us alive in the spring, and Isometimes feared ours would be the fate of Athabasca traders whosebodies satisfied the hunger of famishing Crees.
How often in those darkest hours did a presence, which defied time andspace, come silently to me, breathing inspiration that may not bespoken, healing the madness of despair and leaving to me in the midst ofanxiety a peace which was wholly unaccountable! In the lambent flame ofthe rough stone fireplace, in the darkness between Hamilton's hut andmine, through which I often stole, dreading what I mightfind--everywhere, I felt and saw, or seemed to see, those gray eyes withthe look of a startled soul opening its virgin beauty and revealing itsinmost secrets.
A bleak, howling wind, with great piles of storm-scud overhead, ravedall the day before Christmas. It was one of those afternoons when thesombre atmosphere seems weighted with gloom and weariness. On Christmaseve Hamilton's brooding brought on acute delirium. He had been moredepressed than usual, and at night when we sat down to a cheerlesssupper of hare-skin soup and pemmican, he began to talk very fast andquite irrationally.
"See here, old boy," said I, "you'd better bunk here to-night. You'renot well."
"Bunk!" said he icily, in the grand manner he sometimes assumed at theQuebec Club for the benefit of a too familiar member. "And pray, Sir,what might 'bunk' mean?"
"Go to bed, Eric," I coaxed, getting tight hold of his hands. "You'renot well, old man; come to bed!"
"Bed!" he exclaimed with indignation. "Bed! You're a madman, Sir! I'm tomeet Miriam on the St. Foye road." (It was here that Miriam lived inQuebec, before they were married.) "On the St. Foye road! See the lightsglitter, dearest, in Lower Town," and he laughed aloud. Then followedsuch an outpouring of wild ravings I wept from very pity andhelplessness.
"Rufus! Rufus, lad!" he cried, staring at me and clutching at hisforehead as lucid intervals broke the current of his madness."Gillespie, man, what's wrong? I don't seem able to think.Who--are--you? Who--in the world--are you? Gillespie! O Gillespie! I'mgoing mad! Am I going mad? Help me, Rufus! Why can't you help me? It'scoming after me! See it! The hideous thing!" Tears started from hisburning eyes and his brow was knotted hard as whipcord.
"Look! It's there!" he screamed, pointing to the fire, and he darted tothe door, where I caught him. He fought off my grasp with maniacalstrength, and succeeded in flinging open the door. Then I forgot thisman was more than brother to me, and threw myself upon him as against anenemy, determined to have the mastery. The bleak wind roared through theopen blackness of the doorway, and on the ground outside were shadows oftwo struggling, furious men. I saw the terrified faces of Little Fellowand La Robe Noire peering through the dark, and felt wet beads startfrom every pore in my body. Both of us were panting like fagged racers.One of us was fighting blindly, raining down aimless blows, I know notwhich, but I think it must have been Hamilton, for he presently sank inmy arms, limp and helpless as a sick child.
Somehow I got him between the robes of my floor mattress. Drawing a boxto the bedside I again took his hands between mine and prepared for anight's watch.
He raved in a low, indistinct tone, muttering Miriam's name again andagain, and tossing his head restlessly from side to side. Then he fellinto a troubled sleep. The supper lay untouched. Torches had burnedblack out. One tallow candle, that I had extravagantly put among someevergreens--our poor decorations for Christmas Eve--sputtered low andthrew ghostly, branching shadows across the lodge. I slipped from thesick man's side, heaped more logs on the fire and stretched out betweenrobes before the hearth. In the play of the flame Hamilton's face seemedsuddenly and strangely calm. Was it the dim light, I wonder. Thefurrowed lines of sorrow seemed to fade, leaving the peaceful,transparent purity of the dead. I could not but associate the branchedshadows on the wall with legends of death keeping guard over the dying.The shadow by his pillow gradually assumed vague, awesome shape. I satup and rubbed my eyes. Was this an illusion, or was I, too, going mad?The filmy thing distinctly wavered and receded a little into the dark.
An unspeakable fear chilled my veins. Then I could have laughed defianceand challenged death. Death! Curse death! What had we to fear fromdying? Had we not more to fear from living? At that came thought of mylove and the tumult against life was quieted. I, too, like othermortals, had reason, the best of reason, to fear death. What matter if alonely one like myself went out alone to the great dark? But whenthought of my love came, a desolating sense of separation--separationnot to be bridged by love or reason--overwhelmed me, and I, too, shrankback.
Again I peered forward. The shadow fluttered, moved, and came out of thegloom, a tender presence with massy, golden hair, white-veined brow, andgray eyes, speaking unutterable things.
"My beloved!" I cried. "Oh, my beloved!" and I sprang towards her; butshe had glided back among the spectral branches.
The candle tumbled to the floor, extinguishing all light, and I wasalone with the sick man breathing heavily in the darkness. A log brokeover the fire. The flames burst up again; but I was still alone. Had I,too, lost grip of reality; or was she in distress calling for me?Neither suggestion satisfied; for the mean lodge was suddenly filledwith a great calm, and my whole being was flooded and thrilled with thetrancing ecstasy of an ethereal presence.
If I remember rightly--and to be perfectly frank, I do--though I was inas desperate straits as a man could be, I lay before the hearth thatChristmas Eve filled with gratitude to heaven--God knows such a giftmust have come from heaven!--for the love with which I had been dowered.
How it might have been with other men I know not. For myself, I couldnot have come through that dreary winter unscathed without the influenceof her, who would have been the first to disclaim such power. Among thevelvet cushions of the east one may criticise the lapse of white man tobarbarity; but in the wilderness human voice is as grateful to the earas rain patter in a drouth. There, men deal with facts, not arguments.Natives break the loneliness of an isolated life by not unwelcomedvisits. Comes a time when they tarry over long in the white man's lodge.Other men, who have scouted the possibility of sinking to savagery, haveforsaken the ways of their youth. Who can say that I might not havedeparted from the path called rectitude?
Religion may keep a holy man upright in slippery places; but for commonmortals, devotion to a being, whom, in one period of their worship menrank with angels, does much to steady wavering feet. Hers was theinfluence that aroused loathing for the drunken debauches, the cheating,the depraved living of the Indian lodges: hers, the influence that keptthe loathing from slipping into indifference, the indifference frombecoming participation. Indeed, I could wish a young man no bettertalisman against the world, the flesh and the devil, than love for apure woman.
How we dragged through th
e hours of that night, of Christmas and thedays that followed, I do not attempt to set down here. Hamilton'sillness lasted a month. What with trading and keeping our scouts on thesearch for Miriam and waiting on the sick man, I had enough to busy mewithout brooding over my own woes. Hard as my life was, it was fortunateI had no time for thoughts of self and so escaped the melancholy apathythat so often benumbs the lonely man's activities. And when Eric becameconvalescent, I had enough to do finding diversion for his mind. Keepingrecord of our doings on birch-bark sheets, playing quoits with theMandanes and polo with a few fearless riders, helped to pass the longweary days.
So the dismal winter wore away and spring was drizzling into summer.Within a few weeks we should be turning our faces northward for theforks of the Red and Assiniboine. The prospect of movement after longstagnation cheered Hamilton and fanned what neither of us wouldacknowledge--a faint hope that Miriam might yet be alive in the north. Iverily believe Eric would have started northward with restored couragehad not our plans been thwarted by the sinister handiwork of Le GrandDiable.