IX
THE INDIAN MAIDEN AT THE RIVER TILT
"Well," said Ed Matheson, as the boat rounded a bend in the river, "there's the river tilt, an' she looks good."
"That she do," agreed Dick Blake. "I hopes, now, Bob's there an' has a fire on. I'm wet t' th' last rag."
"So be I. This snow an' rain comin' mixed always 'pears t' make a wetter wet 'n just rain alone," observed Ed.
"Bob's there now," broke in Bill Campbell. "I sees smoke comin' from th' tilt pipe."
The voyageurs were returning from Eskimo Bay with their second cargo of winter supplies for the trails. Five weeks had elapsed since the morning Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge had watched them disappear around the river bend, and returning to camp had found Sishetakushin and Mookoomahn awaiting them at the edge of the forest.
Since early morning there had been a steady drizzle of snow and rain, accompanied by a raw, searching, easterly wind, a condition of weather that renders wilderness travel most disheartening and disagreeable.
This was, however, the first break in a long series of delightfully cool, transparent days, characteristic of Labrador during the month of September, when Nature pauses to take breath and assemble her forces preparatory to casting upon the land the smothering snows and withering blasts of a sub-Arctic winter.
Despite the pleasant weather, the whole journey from Eskimo Bay had been one of tremendous effort. With but three, instead of five, as on the previous journey, to transport the boat and carry the loads over portages, the labour had been proportionately increased.
It was, then, with a feeling of intense satisfaction and relief that the voyageurs hailed the end of their journey, with its promised rest, when they finally ran their boat to the landing below the river tilt of the Big Hill trail.
"I'll be tellin' Bob an' Shad we're here now, an' have un help us up with th' outfit," said Ed Matheson cheerily, stepping ashore and striding up the trail leading to the clearing a few yards above, in the centre of which stood the trail.
But at the edge of the clearing he stopped in open-mouthed amazement. Before the open door of the tilt stood a tall, comely Indian maiden, perhaps seventeen years of age. She was clad in fringed buckskin garments, decorated in coloured designs. Her hair hung in two long black braids, while around her forehead she wore a band of dark-red cloth ornamented with intricate beadwork. From her shoulder hung a quiver of arrows, and resting against the tilt at her side was a long bow.
She stood motionless as a statue, striking, picturesque and graceful, and for a full minute the usually collected and loquacious Ed gazed at her in speechless surprise.
"Good evenin'," said he finally, regaining his composure and his power of speech at the same time. "I weren't expectin' t' find any one here but Ungava Bob an' Shad Toobridge. Be they in th' tilt?"
With Ed's words she took a step forward, and in evident excitement launched upon him a torrent of Indian sentences spoken so rapidly and with such vehemence that, though he boasted a smattering of the language, he was unable to comprehend in the least what she was saying. It was evident, however, she was addressing him upon some subject of import.
"There now," he interrupted finally, forgetting even his smattering of Indian and addressing her in English, "just 'bide there a bit, lass, whilst I gets Dick Blake. He knows your lingo better'n me. I'll send he up."
And, hurrying down the trail, he called:
"Dick, come up here. They's a Injun lass at th' tilt, firin' a lot o' lingo at me I can't fathom."
"A Injun lass!" exclaimed Dick. "What's she doin' there, now? An' where's Bob an' Shad?"
"Yes, a Injun lass," said Ed impatiently, "an' what she's doin' you'll have t' find out. It seems like she's achin' t' tell somethin'. I'm not seein' Bob an' Shad."
"They must be somethin' wrong, Ed. Come down an' help Bill get th' cargo ashore, an' I'll find out what 'tis;" and Dick hurried up the trail past Ed, to meet Manikawan, for she it was.
She was still standing where Ed had left her, and Dick asked kindly in Indian:
"What message does the maiden bring to her white brothers?"
"Listen!" she commanded, in a clear, musical voice. "I am Manikawan, the daughter of Sishetakushin, whose lodge is pitched on the shores of the Great Lake, to the north. Yesterday some men of the South visited the lodge of my father."
"Mingens!" exclaimed Dick.
"They told him," she continued, not heeding the interruption, "that five suns back they had found a lodge built where the big river broadens. The lodge was newly made. It was a white man's lodge, for it was built of trees. The men of the South waited in hiding at the end of the portage that was once used by my people. It is above the place where evil spirits dwell."
"How many of the men of the South were there?" asked Dick, again interrupting.
"Six," she answered promptly. "While they waited two white men passed with a painted canoe and much provisions. Then, while they still waited, the white men returned with the canoe empty.
"They fired their guns at the white men. Then the evil spirits that dwell where the river falls reached up for the canoe and dragged it down to the place of thunder.
"I have come to tell you this, and to ask if White Brother of the Snow and his friend are here. All night and all day have I travelled, for I am afraid for White Brother of the Snow. He has lived in the lodge of Sishetakushin, my father. He is one of my people, and I am afraid for him."
Her rapid speech, her dramatic pose and gestures, and her intensely earnest manner left no doubt in Dick Blake's mind that she spoke the truth. Neither had he any doubt that she referred to Ungava Bob and Shad Trowbridge as the two white men, for no other white men were in the region, or, he was sure, within several hundred miles of the place, at the time to which she referred.
"No," said he, after a moment's pause, "White Brother of the Snow and his friend are not with us."
"They are not here!" she wailed, lifting her arms in a gesture of despair. "Where is he? Tell me! It was not White Brother of the Snow sent to the torment of evil spirits?"
"I'm afraid, Manikawan, it was. There were no other white men here than White Brother of the Snow and his friend."
Manikawan's hands dropped at her side, and for an instant she stood, a picture of mingled horror and grief. But it was for only an instant. Then her face grew hard and vengeful, and in low, even tones she said:
"These men of the South killed White Brother of the Snow. They are no longer of my people. They must die."
"They must die," echoed Dick.
"Come!" she said laconically, reaching for her bow and slinging it on her back.
"No, we will rest to-night, and to-morrow at dawn we will go. Rest to-night and be strong for the chase to-morrow," Dick counselled, kindly, as she turned toward the portage trail leading around the rapids.
"I cannot rest," she answered. "I go now;" and like a shadow, and as silently, she melted into the darkening forest.
Big Dick Blake's heart was full of vengeance, as he strode down the trail to rejoin his companions.
"What speech were th' Injun maid tryin' t' get rid of, now?" asked Ed Matheson, pausing in his work of unloading the canoe as Dick appeared.
"Bob an' Shad's dead!" announced Dick bluntly.
"Dead! Dead!" echoed Ed and Bill together.
"Aye, dead. Drove over th' falls by Mingen Injuns," continued Dick. "Five or six days ago, she's sayin'. They's six o' them Injuns down north o' here, huntin' deer, an' their camp's up th' river somewheres. I'm not knowin' rightly where, but we'll find un, an' we'll shoot them Injuns just like a passel o' wolves. If we don't, they'll sure be layin' for us an' shoot us."
"Be you sure, now, th' lads is dead?" insisted Ed.
"They's no doubtin' it. She tells th' story straight an' clean as a rifle shot;" and Dick went on to repeat in detail the story he had heard from Manikawan.
"It looks bad, now, whatever," commented Ed. "But they's a chanct they gets a ashore. I were caught onct in th' rapids above Muskrat Falls, an' thinks it all up with me–right in th' middle o' th' rapids, too–an'–"
"Ed," broke in Dick, with vast impatience, "this be no time for yamin'. You knows you never could be gettin' out o' them rapids an' not goin' over th' falls. An' these rapids is a wonderful sight worse."
"Maybe they be," admitted Ed. "Th' poor lad, now, bein' killed in that way. Dick," he continued, raising his tall, awkward figure to its full height and placing his hand on Dick's shoulder, "me an' you's stood by one 'nother for a good many years, an' in all sorts o' hard places, an' if it's fight Injuns with you now, Dick, it's fight un, an' Bill's with us."
"Aye," said Bill, "that I am."
The boat was unloaded, and with heavy hearts the men prepared and ate their evening meal. Then while they smoked their pipes, light packs were put up and all was made snug for an early start the following morning.
With the first blink of dawn the three determined men, armed with their rifles, swung out into the forest, and rapidly but cautiously filed up the old portage trail in the direction Manikawan had taken.
X
THE VOICES OF THE SPIRITS
Heedless of drizzling rain and snow, of driving wind and gathering darkness, Manikawan ran forward on the trail. Hatred was in her heart. Vengeance was crying to her. Every subtle, cunning instinct of her savage race was aroused in her bosom.
She was determined that those who had sent her beloved White Brother of the Snow to destruction in the deadly place of evil spirits must die. How she should compass their death she did not yet know; this was a detail for circumstance to decide, but it must be done. White Brother of the Snow was of her tribe; the law of her savage nature told her his death must be avenged.
At the end of a mile or so she left the trail and turned sharply to the northward, winding her way deftly through moisture-laden underbrush which scarcely seemed to lessen her pace. Presently she broke out upon the shores of a lake and behind some willow bushes uncovered a small birch-bark canoe, which she had carefully concealed there on her journey to the river tilt.
Turning the canoe over her head, with the middle thwart resting upon her shoulders, she took a southwesterly direction until the old portage trail was again encountered, and resuming the trail she at length came upon the first lake of the chain through which the portage route passed.
The storm had ceased, and the stars were breaking through the clouds as Manikawan launched her canoe. It was a long, narrow lake, and paddling its length she had no difficulty in locating the place where the stream entered; and not far away a blazed tree, now plainly visible in the light of the rising moon, told her where the trail led out.
Here, as she stepped ashore, she discovered the first of the series of tilts which Bob and Shad had built, and, immediately pushing aside the flimsy bark door, entered the tilt and struck a match. Its flare disclosed a half-burned candle on a shelf near the door, and lighting it she held it aloft for a survey of the interior of the tilt.
On the bunk at the side were two or three bags evidently containing clothing and other supplies, while on the bunk in the rear were some odds and ends of clothing, a folded tent, a coil of rope, doubtless used by the young adventurers as a tracking line, to assist them in hauling their canoe up the swift stream which connected the lake with the river below, and a rifle in a sealskin case.
On beholding this last object, Manikawan gave a low exclamation of pleasure. Taking a chip from the floor she bent the candle over it, permitting some of the hot grease to flow upon it, and setting the candle firmly in the grease placed the improvised candlestick upon the tent stove.
Then, reaching for the rifle, she drew it from the case and examined it critically. The magazine proved to be fully charged. Returning the rifle to its case, she now examined the other contents of the tilt, and presently came upon a quantity of cartridges in one of the bags.
Several of these she appropriated, and dropping them into a leathern pouch at her belt, restored the remaining contents of the tilt to the position in which she had found them. Then taking the rifle in its case, she blew out the candle, and passed out of the tilt, carefully closing the door behind her.
The moon was now sufficiently risen to light the trail, and the blazes which Ungava Bob had made were so clear that Manikawan's progress was rapid.
Spectral shadows lay all about her, flitting here and there across her trail as she sped onward and onward through the dark forests that intervened between the lakes. In the distance she heard the voices of the evil spirits so dreaded by her people, speaking in dull, monotonous undertones, like ceaseless, rolling thunder far away, threatening destruction and death to all who fell within their reach. Even to her, whose home was the wilderness, the situation was weird and uncanny.
At length she passed another tilt near the end of a lake, but she did not pause to enter it. A little beyond the tilt the trail crossed a rise of ground, and upon reaching the summit she beheld in the distance a long, wide, silvery streak glistening in the moonlight. It was the river, and with a sense of relief she lowered the canoe from her shoulders and concealed it carefully amongst the underbrush.
She glanced at the stars and calculated the time until dawn. The region into which she had come was wholly unfamiliar to her, and she must have daylight to reconnoitre and locate the camp of her enemies.
There was still ample time for rest, for this was the season of lengthening nights and shortening days, and Manikawan was in much need of rest and food. For nearly thirty-six hours she had been exerting herself to the utmost of her strength. At the river tilt she had made a fire in the stove and brewed herself some tea, but she had eaten nothing. Now, with the moment's relaxation, a feeling of great fatigue came upon her, and for the first time she realised the length of her fast and the extent of her weariness.
Slowly she retraced her steps to the tilt which she had passed on the lake shore a little way back. Entering it she struck a match and lighted a candle, as she had done at the other tilt, and with its assistance found the flour, pork, and tea, together with a frying pan and kettle which Ungava Bob had left there the day that he and Shad Trowbridge were attacked by the Indians.
She went to the lake for a kettle of water, and returning gathered a handful of birch bark. Using the bark for tinder and appropriating wood which she found split and neatly piled near the stove for ready use, she lighted a fire in the stove, and set the kettle on to heat for tea. This done she cut several thick slices of fat pork, which she fried in the pan, and mixing a quantity of flour and water into dough, browned the dough in the pork grease.
It was with a keen appetite that she sat down to her long-deferred banquet; and with vast relief she drank the tea and ate the pork and dough cake. Then, wearied to the last degree, she fell back upon one of the bunks, the rifle by her side; and with the distant rumble of the falls in her ears, fell immediately asleep.
It was broad day when Manikawan opened her eyes. She seized the kettle, and hastening to the lake laved her face and head in the cooling water. Then, from a buckskin pouch at her belt, she drew a neat birch-bark case, decorated with porcupine quills, and from the case a rudely fashioned comb, from which dangled by a buckskin thong a tuft of porcupine tail. The lake was her mirror, as she smoothed and rebraided her hair. This done, she ran the comb several times through the tuft of porcupine tail before returning it to its case.
Her simple toilet completed, Manikawan mounted a high pinnacle of rock and for several minutes stood silently contemplating the rising sun. The eastern sky was ablaze with red and purple and orange, and she beheld the glory of the scene with deep reverence.
Upon her pinnacle of rock she felt herself in the presence of the Mysterious Power which governed her destiny and the world in which she lived, and after the manner of her fathers she besought that Mysterious Presence in unspoken words, to make her pure and noble and generous; to make her worthy to stand in its Presence–worthy to live in the beautiful world which surrounded her.
But Manikawan was not a Christian. She knew nothing of the white man's God or of Christ's lessons of forgiveness, and she descended from the rock morally strengthened, perhaps, in her savage way, but no less determined to wreak vengeance upon those whom she deemed her enemies.
While she slept she had heard constantly the voice of the evil spirits of the falls, and the spirits themselves had come to her in a dream, and whispering in her ear had urged her on to vengeance, and promised her immunity from their wrath. Manikawan, like all her people, was superstitious in the extreme. She believed absolutely in the supernatural, and her faith in dreams was unwavering.
The sun was hour high when she set forth again upon her mission. Mounting the semi-barren ridge where she had hidden her canoe, she crouched low behind the bushes, and catlike and noiselessly descended to the forest on the other side. Here under cover of the trees she proceeded more rapidly to the end of the portage trail.
Peering out from her cover, she first studied every foot of the river and surrounding country that lay within the range of her vision; then moving silently forward she removed the rifle, which she still carried, from its sealskin case and laid the case on the ground behind a boulder and the weapon upon it, where it would be completely hidden from view, but still available for instant use.
This arranged to her satisfaction, she crossed the trail, and gliding as noiselessly as a shadow through the trees, ascended the river bank to reconnoitre for the Mingen camp. The Indians that visited her father's lodge had said that they were encamped near the river, and not far above the portage trail.
XI
MANIKAWAN'S VENGEANCE
Therefore, Manikawan in her quest advanced cautiously, at the same time making, as she advanced, a thorough study of the ground.
She had travelled perhaps two miles, when she discovered a thin curl of smoke rising over the trees a short distance in advance, and dropping upon her hands and knees she crawled stealthily forward until from behind a clump of willow bushes she was afforded a clear view of the fire and its surroundings.
A deerskin wigwam stood in a clearing, and near the smouldered embers of a fire two Indians were engaged in making snowshoe frames; but, so far as she could see, they were the only inhabitants of the camp. It was evident that the remainder of the party were absent, probably hunting caribou in the North.
As noiselessly as she had approached, Manikawan now retreated to a safe distance. With a full understanding of the conditions, she had quickly and cunningly formulated her plans, and when well out of view she arose to her feet and boldly approached the camp.
The Indians, with no sign of alarm or surprise, and not deigning either recognition or greeting, continued at their task, quite ignoring her presence as she approached. For a moment Manikawan stood before them in silence; then she spoke:
"I am Manikawan, the daughter of Sishetakushin, whose lodge the men of the South have visited. Manikawan has come to do honour to the men of the South. While they talked with Sishetakushin, her father, she heard how bravely they have guarded the hunting grounds of her people and theirs. They are brave men and she has come to do them honour.
"She heard how they drove the two white invaders of our country into the arms of the evil spirits, whose thunderous voices she hears even now. It was well. White men have come into our land and have made the spirits angry. When the spirits are made angry they drive away the caribou. Then the people of the South and Sishetakushin's people are hungry. The white men have built lodges of trees near the potagan (portage) of our fathers. They stored these lodges with much tea and tobacco, flour and pork. Without these things the white man cannot live, for he is not like our people.
"Other white men are coming to our country. If these stores are left in the lodges near the potagan of our fathers, the white men will stay. If they do not have these things, they will go away, for without them they will be hungry.
"The men of Sishetakushin's people and the men of the South cannot remove them, for the evil spirits dwell there, and would do them harm.
"But Manikawan is a maiden. The evil spirits will not harm her. She is too humble for their notice. Manikawan has gone to the lodges of the white men and has removed the things from the lodges, so that the white men will not find them when they come.
"The men of the South are brave. They have sent two of the white men into the arms of the evil spirits. They must be rewarded.
"Manikawan has carried much tobacco and tea and other stores to the place where the potagan reaches up from the river. These things are for the men of the South. Let them bring their canoe. Manikawan will show them the things and they will take them."
The Indians did not deign to reply at once, but presently one of them said:
"Let Manikawan bring the things to the lodge of the men of the South. She is a maiden, and it is a maiden's work. It is not the work of a hunter."
"Manikawan is not of the lodge of the men of the South, and she will not do this. She will wait at the place where the potagan rises from the river until the sun is there;" and Manikawan pointed to the zenith. "If the men of the South do not come, she will go, for she will believe the men of the South do not need tea and tobacco."
"Let the maiden return to the place where the potagan rises from the river. Let her wait there. The men of the South will come," said the spokesman.
Manikawan turned away, down the river bank, by the route she had ascended. Her progress was dignified and unhurried so long as she might still be seen by the Indians, but was quickly changed to a run the moment she was beyond their view.
Glibly she had lied to them and her conscience was not troubled. She was not a Christian. The savage teaching upheld subterfuge in dealing with the enemy, and she deemed these Indians her enemies, for had they not destroyed White Brother of the Snow? And was he not of her people by adoption.
Immediately Manikawan arrived at the portage trail she looked sharply about to make certain she was not observed. Then she examined the rifle behind the bowlder, and, quite satisfied with her inspection, returned it to its resting place and waited.
She knew that the two Indians, with due attention to their dignity, would make no haste in their coming, and would doubtless keep her waiting until the noonday hour which she had designated, but nevertheless her lookout up the river was never for a moment relinquished. She watched as a cat watches a hole–from which it expects the mouse to emerge–ready to pounce upon the unwary prey.
At last she was rewarded. A birch-bark canoe containing the two Indians came leisurely gliding down the river some hundred yards from shore. Manikawan, like a beautiful statue, stood tall and straight at the end of the portage trail. Two paces from her the rifle lay behind the bowlder.
The Indians, unsuspecting, turned the prow of the canoe toward the shore where she stood. Still she did not move. The cat waits for its victim until the victim beyond peradventure is within reach of its spring. Nearer and nearer drew the canoe. Still Manikawan stood, a graven image. She was looking out and beyond her intended victims. The roar of the distant rapids, and the monotonous, thunderous undertone of the falls were in her ears, and they came to her as beautiful music. The canoe was now but a hundred feet from shore.
Suddenly, Manikawan sprang, and the astonished Indians beheld the statue with a menacing rifle at its shoulder. Then came a flash and a report. The Indians ducked, and the blade of the steersman's paddle, poised in mid-air, was shattered by a bullet.
Manikawan spoke, her voice ringing out in clear, even tones:
"The men of the South sent White Brother of the Snow and his friend into the arms of the evil spirits. White Brother of the Snow was of Manikawan's people. The men of the South are the enemies of Manikawan's people. They are cowards and they must die."
The Indian at the bow paddled desperately away from shore and the menacing rifle. The Indian at the stern made equally desperate but ineffectual attempts with his broken paddle.
Another shot rang out, and the bowman ducked, and ceased paddling as a bullet sang past his head. Immediately the canoe began drifting, and a moment later the strengthening current caught it.
Then the Indians, alive to this new danger, disregarding bullets, rose to their feet and paddled desperately, the one in the stern seeming not to know that the broken stick he held was useless. They knew that the evil spirits had reached up for their canoe and were drawing them down–down–to something worse than death. Their faces became drawn and terror-stricken.
Faintly, and as a voice far away and unreal, they heard Manikawan's taunts as she ran down the high banks of the river, keeping pace with the doomed canoe and its occupants going headlong to destruction:
"The men of the South are cowards. They are afraid to die. The evil spirits are hungry, and soon they will be fed. Their voices are loud. They are crying with hunger. The men of the South will feed them."