CHAPTER XXVI.
CONVICTED.
When Strange finished there was a significant silence. They were waiting for Ambrose to speak. Stiffening himself he told his story as manfully as he could. Conscious of its weakness he wore a hang-dog air which contrasted unfavorably with Strange's seeming candor.
No comment was made upon it. Ambrose could feel their unexpressed sneers like goads in the raw flesh. Only Colina gave no sign. Macfarlane turned to her for instructions.
She contrived to maintain her proud and stony air up to the moment she was obliged to speak. But her self-command went out with her shuddering voice. "I—I don't know what to say," she whispered tremblingly.
"Surely there can be no question here!" cried Strange with a voice full of reproachful indignation. "I have served Mr. Gaviller faithfully for nearly thirty years. This man's whole aim has been to ruin him!"
"This is the tone I should be taking instead of letting him run me out," Ambrose thought dispassionately, as if it were somebody else. But he remained dumb.
"What earthly reason could I have for trying to injure my benefactor?" cried Strange. His voice broke artistically on the final word. "You all know what I think of him. Your suspicions hurt me!"
Macfarlane crossed over and clapped him on the shoulder. Colina kept her eyes down. She was very pale; her lips were compressed and her hands clenched at her sides.
Ambrose bestirred himself to his own defense. "Let me ask a question," he said quietly to Strange. "You say when you opened the door you saw me with my hands on Mr. Gaviller. How could you see me?"
"With my electric flash-light," Strange instantly answered.
"That's a lie," said Ambrose. "The flash-light was mine. I can prove it by a dozen witnesses."
"Produce it," said Strange sneering.
"You knocked it out of my hand," said Ambrose. "It will be found somewhere on the floor up-stairs."
Strange drew his hand out of his pocket. "On the contrary, it is here," he said. "And it has never been out of my possession. As to your identifying it, there are dozens like it in the country. It is the style all the stores carry."
Ambrose shrugged. "I've nothing more to say," he said. "The man is a liar. The truth is bound to come out in the end."
The white men paid little attention to this, but it stung Strange to reply. "If Mr. Gaviller were able to speak he'd soon decide between us!"
At that moment, as if Strange's speech had evoked, him, they heard
Giddings in the hall.
"Has he spoken?" they asked breathlessly.
Colina kept her eyes hidden.
Giddings nodded. "He sent me down-stairs to order Macfarlane to arrest
Doane."
Colina fell back against the door-frame with a hand to her breast.
"Did he—did he see him?" she whispered.
"No," said Giddings reluctantly. "He did not see his assailant. But said to accuse Strange of the deed was the act of a desperate criminal."
"You're under arrest!" Macfarlane said bruskly to Ambrose. Turning to
Colina, he added deprecatingly: "You had better leave the room, Miss
Gaviller."
She shook her head. Clearly speech was beyond her. Not once during the scene had Ambrose been able to see her eyes, Macfarlane waited a moment for her to go, then shrugged deprecatingly.
"Will you submit to handcuffs or must I force you?" he demanded of
Ambrose.
Ambrose did not hear him. His eyes were fastened on Colina. So long as he was tortured by a doubt of her he was oblivious to everything else.
The heart knows no logic. It deals directly with the heart. Love looks for loyalty as its due. Ambrose was amazed and incredulous and sickened by his love's apparent faint-heartedness.
"Colina!" he cried indignantly, "have you nothing to say? Do you believe this lie?"
Her agonized eyes flew to his—full of passionate gratitude to hear him defend himself. His scorn both abased and overjoyed her. Her heart knew.
None of the others recognized what was passing in those glances.
Macfarlane took a step forward. "Here! Leave Miss Gaviller out of this!" he said harshly.
Ambrose did not look at him, but his hand clenched ready to strike.
His eyes were fixed on Colina, demanding an answer.
Color came back to her cheeks and firmness to her voice. "Stop!" she cried to Macfarlane in her old imperious way. "I'm the mistress here. My father is incapable of giving orders. You've no right to judge this man. None of us can choose. There is no evidence. I will not have either one handcuffed!"
Macfarlane fell back disconcerted. "I was thinking of your father's safety," he muttered.
"I will watch over him myself," she said. She went swiftly up the stairs.
Ambrose sat by himself on a chair at the junction of the side passage with the stair hall. Naturally, after what had passed, he avoided the other men—and they him.
It was growing light. He saw the panes of the side door gray and whiten. Later he could make out the damaged front of the store across the square.
Macfarlane was again upon watch by the door. Strange and Pringle were in the library. Giddings was with Colina and the sick man up-stairs.
Ambrose watched the coming of day with grim eyes. He had had plenty of time to consider his situation. True, Colina had not failed him, but he did not minimize the dangers ahead.
He knew something of the uncertainty of men's justice. Out of the tumult of rage that had at first shattered him had been born a resolve to guard himself warily.
Daylight had an odd effect of novelty. It seemed to him as if years separated him from the previous day.
Strange came out of the library to take an observation. At the sight of him Ambrose's eyes burned. If scorn could kill the half-breed would have fallen in his tracks.
"They're still quiet," remarked Macfarlane.
"Too quiet," said Strange. "If they made a noise we could guess what they were up to!"
The two men held a low-voiced colloquy by the door. Ambrose supposed that Strange was again offering to go out to reconnoiter. The policeman was expostulating with him.
He heard Strange say; "I'm afraid they may attempt to wreck the mill before they go. That would be fatal for all of us. I had no opportunity yesterday to put on new locks."
Macfarlane begged Strange not to risk himself.
"He's safe enough," thought Ambrose grimly.
Strange finally had his way.
Ambrose speculated on what his real object might be. "That bull-headed redcoat is likely to get a surprise!" he thought.
In less than ten minutes the half-breed returned. Macfarlane warmly grasped his hand.
"It's all right," said Strange. "I went straight up to them. I had no trouble. Even now the older heads are thinking of the consequences. I think they'll be gone directly."
After some further talk in low tones Strange went back into the library, and Macfarlane sat down with his gun across his knees.
Once more quiet ruled the house. Ambrose's head fell forward on his breast and he slept uneasily.
He was roused by the cry they had waited all night in dread of hearing:
"They're coming!"
Strange and Pringle ran out into the hall. Low as the cry was it was heard above. Colina and Giddings came flying down-stairs. Ambrose had already joined the others.
In the face of the deadly danger that threatened the men forgot their animosity for the moment. They were all crowded together in the narrow passage, far enough back from the closed door to see through the panes without being seen.
The five whites were afraid, as they might well be—but without panic. The half-breed was suspiciously calm. They lacked an unquestioned leader.
"That is Myengeen leading them," said Strange; "a bad Indian!"
"Macfarlane—tell us what to do," said Giddings.
"They're quiet now," said Colina. "I shall speak to them!"
Macfarlane put out a restraining hand. "Leave this to me!" he said quickly.
"We're in each other's way here," cried Ambrose. "Let us spread through some of the rooms."
"Right!" said Macfarlane. "Doane, Giddings, and Miss Colina—go into the library and throw up the windows on this side. Shoot between the boards if I give the word. The guns are inside the door."
A cry from Strange brought them out into the hall again. "They've raised a white flag! They want to parley not to fight."
The others murmured their relief.
"Open the door!" cried Strange. "I will speak to them."
Ambrose fell back a little. The other men crowded around Strange, urging him to be careful of himself. Strange was doing the modest hero!
It was a pretty little play. At the sight of it a harsh jangle of laughter rang inside Ambrose. Colina took no part in the scene.
Strange stepped out on the porch. Ambrose heard him speaking the uncouth Kakisa tongue, and heard the murmur of replies. He would have given a bale of furs to understand what was being said.
The exchange was brief. Strange presently stepped inside and said:
"They say they want their leader—Ambrose Doane."
A dead silence fell on the little group. They turned and stared at Ambrose. He, for the moment, was stunned with astonishment. He was aware only of Colina's stricken, white face. She looked as if she had been shot.
"They say they are ready to go," Strange went on. "They promise to make no more trouble if we give Doane up. If we refuse, they say they will take him, anyway."
"It's an infernal lie!" cried Ambrose desperately. "I am no leader of theirs!"
She did not believe him. Her eyes lost all their luster and her lovely face looked ashen. She seemed about to fall.
Giddings went to her aid, but she pushed him away. She seemed unconscious of the presence of the ethers. Her accusing eyes were fixed on Ambrose.
"I believed in you," she murmured in a dead voice. "I believed in you! Oh, God!" Her hands were flung up in a despairing gesture. "Let him go!" she cried to Macfarlane over her shoulder, and ran down the hall and up the stairs.
CHAPTER XXVII.
A CHANGE OF JAILERS.
There was a significant silence in the passage when Colina had gone.
Finally Macfarlane said stubbornly, "He's my prisoner. It's my duty to hold him against any odds. It's the first rule of the service."
Giddings and Pringle urgently remonstrated with him. Strange held apart as if he considered it none of his business. At last, with a deprecating air, he added his voice to the other men's.
"Look here," he said smoothly; "you know best, of course; but aren't there times when a soldier must make his own rules? All of us men would stand by you gladly, but there's a sick man up-stairs that they have been taught to hate. And a woman."
Macfarlane gave in with a shrug. "I suppose you'll stand by me if I'm hauled up for it," he grumbled.
He drew his revolver and stood aside to let Ambrose pass. The others likewise drew back, as from one marked with the plague. Every face was hard with scorn.
Ambrose kept his eyes straight ahead. When he appeared on the porch, cries, apparently of welcome, were raised by the Kakisas.
Ambrose supposed that Strange had made a deal with the Kakisas to put him out of the way. He believed that he was going straight to his death.
He accepted it sooner than make an appeal to those who scorned him. He wished to speak to them before he went; but it was to warn them, not to ask for aid for himself.
He faced the little group in the doorway. "I tell you again," he said, "this is all a put-up job. You know nothing of what is going on but what this breed chooses to tell you. He's a liar and a murderer. If you put yourselves in his hands, so much the worse for you."
The white men laughed in Ambrose's face. The breed smiled deprecatingly and forgivingly.
"Hold your tongue, and be thankful you're getting off so easy,"
Macfarlane said, full of honest contempt.
Ambrose became very pale. He turned his back, on them, and, climbing over the wire barrier, marched stiffly down to the gate. The consciousness of innocence is supposed to be sufficient to armor a man against any slanders, but this is only partially true.
When one's accusers are honest, their scorn hurts, hurts more than any other wound we are capable of receiving. Ambrose was of the type that rages against a hurt. At present, for all he was outwardly so pale and still, he was deafened and blinded by rage.
It was now full daylight. An extraordinary picture faced the watchers from the doorway—the ruined store in the background, the grotesque crew hanging to the fence palings.
Their ordinary rags were covered with layers of misfit clothing out of the store, while many of them wore several hats, and others had extra pairs of shoes hanging around their necks.
There was a great display of gaudy silk handkerchiefs. Pockets bulged with small articles of loot, and nearly every man lugged some particular treasure according to his fancy, whether it was an alarm clock or a glass pitcher or a bolt of red flannel.
The younger men, still susceptible to gallantry, mostly were burdened with crushed articles of feminine finery, gaily trimmed hats, red or blue shawls, fancy satin bodices, corsets with the strings dangling.
The faces, after a night of unbridled license, showed dull and slack in the daylight.
Myengeen, whom Ambrose had marked earlier as a leader of the mob, gripped his hand at the gate and cried out with hypocritical joy. Others crowded around, those who could not obtain his hands, stroking his sleeves and fawning upon him.
There was an ironical note in the demonstration. Ambrose observed that the majority of the Indians looked on indifferently. He smelted treachery in the air.
The mob, facing about, started to move in open order toward the river. Ambrose, as they opened up, caught sight of the two dead bodies. It afflicted him with a dull at the pit of the stomach—these were the first deaths by violence he had witnessed.
They still lay where they had fallen—the Indian sprawling in the middle of a black stain on the platform; Tole huddled on the bare earth of the quadrangle. Ambrose's heart sank at the thought of returning to Simon Grampierre with the gift of a dead son.
The Indians gave no regard to the bodies—apparently they meant to leave them behind. Ambrose with no uncertain gestures commanded Myengeen to have them taken up and carried to the boat. It was done.
When they got down the bank out of sight of the house Myengeen and the others gave over their hollow pretense of enthusiasm at Ambrose's release.
Thereafter none paid the least attention to him.
He saw that they had not only loaded the boat they came in, but on the principle of in for a penny, in for a pound, had also taken possession of one of the company york boats, and had loaded it to the gunwale.
They immediately embarked and pushed off. Ambrose secured a place below Myengeen's steering platform. In the bottom of the boat, at his feet, lay the wizened Indian in his rags, and the straight, slim body of Tole—side by side like brothers in a bed.
Tole's face was not disfigured; serene, boyish, and comely, it gave Ambrose's heart-strings a fresh wrench. He covered them both with a piece of sail-cloth.
Across the river, as the Indians started to unload, Watusk came down to the beach, followed by several of his councilors. It was impossible to tell from his inscrutable, self-important air what he thought of all this.
His flabby, yellow face changed neither at the sight of all the wealth they brought nor at the two dead men. Ambrose demanded four men of him to carry Tole's body to his father's house.
Watusk kept him waiting while he listened to a communication from Myengeen. Ambrose guessed that it had to do with himself, for both men glanced furtively at him. Watusk finally turned away without having answered the white man.
Ambrose, growing red, imperiously repeated his demand. Watusk, still without looking at him directly, spoke a word to some Indians within call, and Ambrose was immediately seized by a dozen hands.
He was finally bound hand and foot with thongs of hide. This was no more than he expected, still he did not submit without a fierce but ineffectual struggle.
When it was done his captors looked on him with respect—they did not laugh at him nor evince any anger. It was impossible for him to read any clue in their stolid faces what was going forward.
Half a dozen of them carried him up the bank and laid him at the door of a teepee. Presently Watusk passed by. Ambrose so violently demanded an explanation that the Indian was forced to stop. He said, still without meeting Ambrose's eye:
"Myengeen say you kill Tom Moosa. You got to take our law."
"It's a lie!" cried Ambrose, suffocating with indignation.
Watusk shrugged and disappeared. It was useless for Ambrose to shout at any of the others. He fumed in silence. The Indians gave his dangerous eyes a wide berth.
Meanwhile the camp was plunged into a babel of confusion by the order to move.
Boys ran here and there catching the horses, the teepees came down on the run, and the squaws frantically to pack their household gear. Infants and dogs infected with a common excitement outvied each other in screaming and barking.
Ambrose saw only the beginning of the preparations. A horse was brought to where he lay, and the six men whom he was beginning to recognize as his particular guard unbound his ankles and lifted him into the saddle.
They never dared lay hands on him except in concert—he took what comfort he could out of that tribute to his prowess. They tied his bound wrists to the saddle-horn, and also tied his ankles under the horse's belly, leaving just play enough for him to use the stirrups.
The six then mounted their own horses, and they set off at a swift lope away from the river—one leading Ambrose's horse.
They extended themselves in single file along a well-beaten trail.
This, Ambrose knew, was the way to the Kakisa River—their own country.
A chill struck to his breast. Any intelligible danger may be faced with a good heart, but to be cast among capricious and inscrutable savages, whom he could neither command nor comprehend, was enough to undermine the stoutest courage.
Nevertheless he strove with himself as he rode. "They cannot put it over me unless I knuckle under," he thought. "They're afraid of me. No Indian that ever lived can face out a white man when the white man knows his power."
Several dogs followed them out of camp. There was one that the others all snapped at and drove from among them. Ambrose suddenly recognized Job, and his heart leaped up.
He had left him at Grampierre's the night before. The faithful little beast must have followed him down to the Kakisa camp and have been waiting for him ever since to return.
During the events of the last half-hour Job had no doubt been regarding his master from afar. The other dogs would not let him run at the horses' heels, but he followed indomitably in the rear.
Every time they went over a hill Ambrose saw him trotting patiently far behind in the trail. When they stopped to eat there was a joyful reunion.
Ambrose no longer felt friendless. He divided his rations with his humble follower. The Indians smiled. In this respect they evidently considered the formidable white man a little soft-headed.
CHAPTER XXVIII.
A GLEAM OF HOPE.
In the middle of the third day of hard riding over a flower-starred prairie, and through belts of poplar bush, they came to the Kakisa River.
By this time Ambrose had become somewhat habituated to his captivity. At any rate, he was more philosophical. He had been treated well enough.
There was a village at the end of the trail. Hearing the astonishing news of what had happened, the people stared at Ambrose with their hard, bright eyes as at a phenomenon.
Ambrose figured that they had left Fort Enterprise a hundred and fifty miles behind. He looked at the river with interest. He had heard that no white man had ever descended it.
He saw a smoothly flowing brown flood some two hundred yards wide winding away between verdant willows. A smaller stream joined it at this point, and the teepees stretched along either bank.
Across the larger stream loomed a bold hill-point with a striking clump of pines upon it, and under the trees the gables of an Indian burying-ground like a village of toy houses.
The flat where the rivers joined was hemmed all around by low hills. On the right, half-way up the rise, a log shack dominated the village—and to it Ambrose's captors led him.
This was evidently intended to be his prison. Window and door were closely boarded up. The Indians tore the boards from the doorway and, casting off Ambrose's bonds, thrust him inside. They closed the door, leaving him in utter darkness. He heard them contriving a bar to keep him in.
Ambrose, after waving his arms about to restore the circulation, set to exploring his quarters by sense of touch. First he collided with a counter running across from side to side.
Behind, in the middle of the room, he found an iron cook-stove; against the right hand wall were tiers of empty shelves; at the back a bedstead filled with moldy hay; on the left side an empty chest, a table, and a chair.
Thus it was a combination of store and dwelling; no doubt it had been built for Gordon Strange's use when he came to trade with the Kakisas.
The window was over the table. Ambrose found it nailed down, besides being boarded up outside. He had no intention of submitting to the deprivation of light and air.
He picked up the chair and swinging it delivered a series of blows that shattered the glass, cracked the frame, and finally drove out the boards. He found himself looking into the impassive faces of his jailers.
They did not even seem surprised, and made no demonstration against him. Ambrose whistled. Job came running and scrambled over the window-sill into his master's arms.
Later one of the Indians came with strips of moose hide which he pinned across outside the window. From each strip dangled a row of bells, such as are fastened to dog-harness. It was cunningly contrived—Ambrose could not touch one of the strips ever so gently without giving an alarm.
Thereafter, as long as it was light, he could see them loafing and sleeping in the grass outside with their guns beside them. After dark their pipe-bowls glowed.
Three days of inexpressible tedium followed. Had it not been for Job, Ambrose felt he would have gone out of his mind. His window overlooked the teepee village, and his sole distraction from his thoughts lay in watching the Indians at work and play.
His jailers put up a teepee outside the shack. There were never less than three in sight, generally playing poker—and with their guns beside them.
Ambrose knowing the inconsequentiality of the Indian mind guessed that they must have had strong orders to keep them on guard so faithfully. Any thought of escape was out of the question. He could not travel a hundred and fifty miles without a store of food. He sought to keep out a little from every meal that was served him, but he got barely enough for him and Job, too.
On the fourth day the arrival of the main body of Indians from Fort Enterprise created a diversion. They came straggling slowly on foot down the hill to the flat, extreme weariness marked in their heavy gait and their sagging backs.
Only Watusk rode a horse. Every other beast was requisitioned to carry the loot from the store. Some of the men—and all the women bore packs also. This was why they had been so long on the way.
True to their savage nature they had taken more than they could carry. As Ambrose learned later, there were goods scattered wantonly all along the trail.
Ambrose naturally anticipated some change in his own condition as a result of the arrival of Watusk. But nothing happened immediately. The patient squaws set to work to make camp, and by nightfall the village of teepees was increased fourfold.
In the motionless twilight each cone gave a perpendicular thread of smoke to the thin cloud that hung low over the flat.
As the darkness increased the teepees became faintly luminous from the fires within, and the streets gleamed like strings of pale Japanese lanterns. Ambrose, expecting visitors, watched at his window until late.
None came.
In the morning he made the man who brought his breakfast understand by signs that he wished to speak with Watusk. The chief did not, however, vouchsafe him a call.
To-day it transpired that the Indians were only making a temporary halt below. After a few hours' rest they got in motion again, and all afternoon were engaged in ferrying their baggage across the river in dugouts and in swimming their horses over.
On the following morning, with the exception of Watusk's lodge and half a dozen others, all the teepees were struck, and the whole body of the people crossed the river and disappeared behind the hill. All on that side was no man's land, still written down "unexplored" on the maps.
Thereafter day succeeded day without any break in the monotony of
Ambrose's imprisonment. He occasionally made out the portly figure of
Watusk in his frock coat, but received no word from him.
It was now the 20th of September, and the poplar boughs were bare. Every morning now the grass was covered with rime, and to-day a flurry of snow fell. Winter would increase the difficulties of escape tenfold.
Ambrose speculated endlessly on what might be happening at Fort Enterprise. He thought, too, of Peter Minot who was relying on him to steer the hazarded fortunes of the firm into port—and groaned at his impotence.
As with all solitary prisoners, throughout the long hours Ambrose's mind preyed upon itself. True, he had Job, who was friend and consoler in his dumb way, but Job was only a dog.
To joke or to swear at his jailers was like trying to make a noise in a vacuum. Not to be able to make himself felt became a positive torture to Ambrose.
On the night of this day, lying in bed, he found himself wide awake without being able to say what had awakened him. He lay listening, and presently heard the sound again—the fall of a little object on the floor.
The chinks of the log walls were stopped with mud which had dried and loosened; nothing strange that bits of it should fall—still his heart beat fast.
He heard a cautious scratching and another piece dropped and broke on the floor. Now he knew a living agency was at work. Job growled. Ambrose clutched his muzzle.
Suddenly a whisper stole through the dark—in his amazement Ambrose could not have told from what quarter. "Angleysman! Angleysman!"
Awe of the supernatural shook Ambrose's breast. He had come straight from deep slumber. A fine perspiration broke out upon him. It was a woman's whisper, with a tender lift and fall in the sound.
Job struggled to release his head. Ambrose sternly bade him be quiet.
The dog desisted, but crouched trembling.
The whisper was repeated; "Angleysman!"
A man must answer his summons. "What do you want?" asked Ambrose softly.
"Come here."
"Where are you?"
"Here—at the corner. Come to the foot of your bed."
Ambrose obeyed. Reaching the spot he said: "Speak again."
"Here," the voice whispered. "I mak' a hole in the mud. Put your ear down and I spik sof'."
Ambrose identified the spot whence the sound issued. He put his lips to it. "Who are you?" he whispered.
"Nesis," came the softly breathed answer. "I your friend."
Friend was always a word to warm Ambrose's breast, and surely at this moment of all his life he needed a friend. "Thank you," he said from a full heart.
"I see you at the tea-dance," the voice went on.
Ambrose had an intuition. "Were you the girl—"
"Yes," she said. "I sit be'ind you. I think you pretty man. When we run out I squeeze your hand."
Ambrose grinned into the darkness. "I thought you were pretty, too," he returned.
"Oh, I wish I in there," she whispered.
He was a little nonplused by her naïve warmth.
"The men say you strong as one bear," she went on. "They say you got gold in your teeth. Is that true?"
"Yes," said Ambrose laughing.
"I lak' to see that."
In spite of the best intent on both sides conversation languished. It is difficult to make acquaintance through a wall of logs. Finally Ambrose asked how it was she could speak English, and that unlocked her simple story.
"My fat'er teach me," she said. "He is half a white man. He come here long tam ago and marry Kakisa. He spik ver' good Angleys. When Watusk is make head man he mad at my fat'er because my fat'er spik Angleys.
"Watusk not want nobody spik Angleys but him around. Watusk fix it to mak' them kill my fat'er. It is the truth. Watusk not know I spik Angleys, too. My fat'er teach me quiet. If Watusk know that he cut out my tongue, I think. I lak spik Angleys—me. I spik by myself so not forget. I come spik Angleys with you."
"Your father is dead?" said Ambrose. "Who do you live with?"
"Watusk," came the surprising answer. "I Watusk's youngest wife. Got four wives."
"Good Lord!" murmured Ambrose.
"When my fat'er is kill, Watusk tak' me," she went on. "I hate him!"
"What a shame!" cried Ambrose, remembering the wistful face.
"I wish I in there!" she whispered again.
"Will you help me to get out?" Ambrose asked eagerly. "I can make it if you can slip me some food."
"I not want you go 'way," she said slowly.
"I can't live locked up like this!" he cried.
"Yes, I help you," she whispered.
"Could you get me a horse, too?" he asked.
"Yes," she said. "But many men is watch the trail for police. Tak' a canoe and go down the river."
"Where does this river go?"
"They say to the Big Buffalo lake."
"Good! I can get back to Moultrie from there. Can you bring me a strong knife?"
"I bring him to-morrow night, Angleysman."
"I will cut a hole in the floor and dig out under the wall."
Nesis was not anxious to talk over the details of his escape. "Have you got a wife?" she asked. "Why not?" There was no end to her questions.
Finally she said with a sigh: "I got go now. I put my hand inside. You can touch it."
Ambrose felt for the little fingers that crept through the slit, and gratefully pressed his lips to them.
"Ah!" she breathed wonderingly. "Was that your mouth? It mak' me jomp!
Put your hand outside, Angleysman."
He did so, and felt his fingers brushed as with rose-petals.
"Goo'-by!" she breathed.
"Nesis," he asked, "do you know why Watusk is keeping me locked up here?
What does he think he's going to do with me?"
"Sure I know," she said. "Ev'rybody know. If the police catch him he say he not mak' all this trouble. He say you mak' him do it all. Gordon Strange tell him say that."
A great light broke on Ambrose. "Of course!" he said.
"Goo'-by, Angleysman!" breathed Nesis. "I come to-morrow night."
CHAPTER XXIX.
NESIS.
After this, Ambrose's dreary imprisonment took on a new color. True, the hours next day threatened to drag more slowly than ever, but with the hope that it might be the last day he could bear it philosophically.
Hour after hour he paced his floor on springs. "Tomorrow the free sky over my head!" he told himself. "I'll be doing something again!"
He watched the teepees with an added interest, wondering if any of the women's figures he saw might be hers. The most he could distinguish at the distance was the difference between fat and slender.
In the middle of the morning he saw Watusk ride forth, accompanied by four men that he guessed were the councilors. Watusk now had a military aspect.
On his head he wore a pith helmet, and across the frock coat a broad red sash like a field marshal's. He and his henchmen climbed the trail leading back to Enterprise.
Later, Ambrose saw a party of women leave camp, carrying birch-bark receptacles that looked like school-book satchels. They commenced to pick berries on the hillside. Ambrose wondered if his little friend were among them.
They gradually circled the hill and approached his shack. As they drew near he finally recognized Nesis in one who occasionally straightened her back and glanced toward his window. She was slenderer than the others.
The shack stood on a little terrace of clean grass. Above it and below stretched the rough hillside, covered with scrubby bushes and weeds. It was in this rough ground that the women were gathering wild cranberries.
Coming to the edge of the grass, they paused with full satchels, talking idly, nibbling the fruit and casting inquisitive glances toward Ambrose's prison.
There were eight of them, and Nesis stood out from the lot like a star. The four men playing poker in the grass at one side paid no attention to them.
Nesis with a sly smile whispered in her neighbor's ear. The other girl grinned and nodded, the word was passed around, and they all came forward a little way in the grass with a timid air.
Their inquisitive eyes sought to pierce the obscurity of the shack. Ambrose, not yet knowing what was expected of him, kept in the background.
The fat girl, prompted and nudged by Nesis, suddenly squalled something in Kakisa, which convulsed them all. Ambrose had no difficulty in recognizing it as a derisive, flirtatious challenge.
Not to be outdone, he came to the window and answered in kind. They could not contain their laughter at the sound of the comical English syllables.
Badinage flew fast after that. Ambrose observed that Nesis herself never addressed him, but circulated slyly from one to another, making a cup of her hand at each ear.
Becoming emboldened, they gradually drew closer to the window. They made outrageous faces. Still the poker-players affected not to be aware of them. As men and hunters they disdained to notice such foolishness.
Suddenly Nesis, as if to prove her superior boldness, darted forward to the very window. Ambrose, startled by the unexpected move, fell back a step. Nesis put her hands on the sill and shrieked an unintelligible jibe into the room.
The other girls hugged themselves with horrified delight. This was too much for the jailers. They sprang up and with threatening voice and gestures drove the girls away. They scampered down-hill, shrieking with affected terror.
When Nesis placed her hands on the sill a thin package slipped out of her sleeve and thudded upon the floor. Ambrose's heart jumped.
As the girls ran away, under cover of leaning out and calling after them, he pushed her gift under the table with his foot. One of the jailers, coming to the window and glancing about the room, found him unconcernedly lighting his pipe.
When the poker game was resumed Ambrose retired with his prize to the farthest corner of the shack. It proved to be the knife he had asked for, a keen, strong blade.
She had wrapped it in a piece of moose hide to keep it from clattering on the floor. Ambrose's heart warmed toward her anew. "She's as plucky and clever as she is friendly," he thought. He stuffed the knife in his bed and resigned himself as best he could to wait for darkness.
Fortunately for his store of patience, the days were rapidly growing shorter. His supper was brought him at six, and when he had finished eating it was dark enough to begin work.
Outside the moon's first quarter was filling the bowl of the hills with a delicate radiance, but moonlight outside only made the interior of the shack darker to one looking in.
Ambrose squatted in the corner at the foot of his bed, and set to work as quietly as a mouse in the pantry.
He had finished his hole in the flooring and was commencing to dig in the earth, when a soft scratching on the wall gave notice of Nesis's presence outside.
"Angleysman, you there?" she whispered through the chink.
"Here!" said Ambrose.
"The boat is ready," she said. "I got grub and blanket and gun."
"Ah, fine!" whispered Ambrose.
"You almost out?" she asked.
He explained his situation.
"I dig this side, too," she said. "We dig together. Mak' no noise!"
Since the shack was innocent of foundation it was no great matter to dig under the wall. With knife and hands Ambrose worked on his side until he had got deep enough to dig under.
Occasional little sounds assured him that Nesis was not idle. Suddenly the thin barrier of earth between them caved in, and they clasped hands in the hole.
Five minutes more of scooping out and the way was clear. Ambrose extended his long body on the floor and wriggled himself slowly under the log.
Outside an urgent hand on his shoulder restrained him. Throwing herself on the ground, she put her lips to his ear. "Go back!" she whispered. "The moon is moch bright. You must wait little while."
Ambrose, mad to taste the free air of heaven, resisted a little sullenly.
"Please go back!" she whispered imploringly. "I come in. I got talk with you."
He drew himself back into the shack with none too good a grace. Standing over the hole when she appeared, he put his hands under her arms and, drawing her through, stood her upon her feet.
He could have tossed the little thing in the air with scarcely an effort. She turned about and came close to him.
"I so glad to be by you!" she breathed.
She emanated a delicate natural fragrance like pine-trees or wild roses—but Ambrose could only think of freedom.
"You managed to get here without being seen," he grumbled.
"You foolish!" she whispered tenderly. "I little. I can hide behind leaves sof' as a link. Your white face him show by the moon lak a little moon. Are you sorry you got stay with me little while?"
"No!" he said. "But—I'm sick to be out of this!"
She put her hands on his shoulders and drew him down. "Sit on the floor," she whispered. "Your ear too moch high for my mouth."'
They sat, leaning against the footboard of the bed, Like a confiding child she snuggled her shoulder under his arm and drew the arm around her. What was he to do hut hold her close?
"It is true, you ver' moch strong," she murmured. "Lak a bear. But a bear is ogly."
"You didn't think I was pretty to-day, did you,", he said with a grin, "with a week's growth on my chin?"
She softly stroked his cheek. "Wah!" she said, laughing. "Lak porcupine! Red man not have strong beard lak that. They say you scrape it off with a knife every day."
"When I have the knife," said Ambrose.
"Why you do that?" she asked. "I lak see it grow down long lak my hair. That would be wonderful!"
Ambrose trembled with internal laughter.
"I lak everything of you," she murmured.
He was much troubled between his gratitude and his inability to reciprocate the naïve passion she had conceived for him. It is pleasant to be loved and flattered and exalted, but it entails obligations.
"I never can thank you properly for what you've done," he said clumsily.
"I do anything for you," she said quickly. "So soon my eyes see you to the dance I know that. Always before that I am think about white men. I not see no white men before, only the little parson, and the old men at the fort. They not lak you? My father is the same as me. He lak white men. We talk moch about white men. My fat'er say to me never forget the Angleys talk. Do I spik Angleys good, Angleysman?"
"Fine!" whispered Ambrose.
She pulled his head forward so that she could breathe her soft speech directly in his ear.
"My father and me not the same lak other people here. We got white blood. Men not talk with their girls moch. My fat'er talk man talk with me. Because he is got no boys, only me. So I know many things.
"I think, women's talk foolish. Many tam my fat'er say to me, Angleys talk mak' men strong. He say to me, some day Watusk kill me for cause I spik the Angleys.
"So in the tam of falling leaves lak this, three years ago, my fat'er he is go down the river to the big falls to meet the people from Big Buffalo Lake.
"My fat'er and ten men go. Bam-by them come back. My fat'er not in any dugout. Them say my fat'er is hunt with Ahcunza one day. My fat'er is fall in the river and go down the big falls.
"They say that. But I know the truth. Ahcunza is a friend of Watusk. Watusk give him his vest with goldwork after. My fat'er is dead. I am lak wood then. My mot'er sell me to Watusk. I not care for not'ing."
"Your mother, sell you!" murmured Ambrose.
"My mot'er not lak me ver' moch," said Nesis simply. "She mad for cause I got white blood. She mad for cause my fat'er all tam talk with me."
"Three years ago!" said Ambrose. "You must have been a little girl then!"
"I fourteen year old then. My mot'er got 'not'er osban' now. Common man. They gone with Buffalo Lake people. I not care. All tam I think of my fat'er. He is one fine man.
"Las' summer the priest come here. Mak' good talk, him. Say if we good, bam-by we see the dead again. What you think, is that true talk, Angleysman?"
Ambrose's arm tightened around the wistful child. "Honest truth!" he whispered.
She opened her simple heart fully to him. Her soft speech tumbled out as if it had been dammed all these years, and only now released by a touch of kindness.
Ambrose was touched as deeply as a young man may be by a woman he does not love, yet he could not help glancing over her head at the square of sky obliquely revealed through the window. It gradually darkened.
"The moon has gone down," he said at last.
Nesis clung to him. "Ah, you so glad to leave me!" she whimpered.
He gently released himself. "Think of me a little," he said. "I must get a long start before daylight."
She buried her face on her knees. Her shoulders shook.
"Nesis!" he whispered appealingly.
She lifted her head and flung a hand across her eyes. "No good cry," she murmured. "Come on!"
Nesis led the way out through the hole they had dug. Job followed
Ambrose. Outside, for greater safety, he took the dog in his arms.
The moon had sunk behind the hill across the river, but it was still dangerously bright. Nesis took hold of Ambrose's sleeve and pointed off to the right. She whispered in his ear:
"Ev'ry tam feel what is under your foot before step hard."
She did not make directly for the river, but led him step by step up the hill toward a growth of timber that promised safety. The first hundred yards was the most difficult.
They rose above the shack into the line of vision of the guards in front, had they elevated their eyes. Nesis, crouching, moved like a cat after a bird.
Ambrose followed, scarcely daring to breathe. Even the dog understood and lay as if dead in Ambrose's arms.
The danger decreased with every step. When they gained the trees they could fairly count themselves safe. Even if an alarm were raised now it would take time to find them in the dark.
Nesis, still leading Ambrose, pattered ahead as if every twig in the bush was familiar to her. She did not strike down to the river until they had gone a good way around the side of the hill.
This brought them to the water's edge at a point a third of a mile or more below the teepees. Ambrose distinguished a bark canoe drawn up beneath the willows. In it lay the outfit she had provided.
He put it in the water, and Job hopped into his accustomed place in the bow.
"You love that dog ver' moch," Nesis murmured jealously.
"He's all I've got," said Ambrose.
Her hand swiftly sought his.
"Tell me how I should go," said Ambrose hastily, fearing a demonstration.
Nesis drew a long sigh. "I tell you," she said sadly. "They say it is four sleeps to the big falls. Two sleeps by quiet water. Many bad rapids after that. You mus' land by every rapid to look. They say the falls mak' no noise before they catch you. Ah! tak' care!"
"I know rivers," said Ambrose.
"They say under the water is a cave with white bones pile up!" she faltered. "They say my fat'er is there. I 'fraid for you to go!"
"I'll be careful," he said lightly. "Don't you worry!"
"At the falls," she went on sadly, "you mus' land on the side away from the sun, and carry your canoe on your back. There is pretty good trail. Three miles. After that one more sleep to the big lake. A Company fort is there."
Like an honest man he dreaded the mere formulas of thanks at such a moment, but neither could an honest man forego them. "How can I ever repay you!" he mumbled.
She clapped a warm hand over his mouth.
As he was about to step in the canoe Ambrose saw a bundle lying on the ground to one side that he had not remarked before. "What is that?" he asked.
"Nothing for you," she said quickly.
The evasive note made him insist upon knowing.
For a long time she would not tell, thus increasing his determination to find out. Finally she said very low: "I jus' foolish. I think maybe—maybe you want tak' me too!"
Ambrose's heart was wrung. His arm went around her with a right good will. "You poor baby!" he murmured. "I can't!"
She struggled to release herself. "All right," she said stiffly. "I not think you tak' me. Only maybe."
"By God!" swore Ambrose. "If I live through my troubles I'll find a way of getting you out of yours!"
"Ah, come back!" she murmured, clinging to his arm.
"Good-by," he said.
"Wait!" she said, clinging to him. She lifted her face. "Kiss me once, lak' white people kiss!"
He kissed her fairly.
"Goo'-by," she whispered. "I always be think of you. Goo'-by,
Angleysman!"
CHAPTER XXX.
FREE!
Ambrose put off with a heart big with compassion for the piteous little figure he was leaving behind him. His impotence to aid her poisoned the joy of his escape.
The worst of it was that it was impossible for him to return the feeling she had for him—even though Colina were lost to him forever. Her unlucky passion almost forbade him to be the one to aid her.
Yet he had profited by that passion to make his escape. He must find some way.
As he drove his paddle into the breast of the dark river, and put one point of willows after another between him and danger, it must be confessed that his spirits rose steadily.
Never had his nostrils tasted anything sweeter than the smell of warm river water on the chill air, nor his eyes beheld a friendlier sight than the cheery stars. The one who fares forth does not repine.
After all he had only known Nesis for two days; she was fine and plucky—but he could not love her, and that was all there was to it. He had matters nearer his heart than the sad fate of an Indian maiden.
Master of his actions once more it was time for him to consider what to do to get out of the coil he was in. Nesis passed into the back of his mind.
No desire for sleep hampered him. He had had enough of sleeping the past two weeks. His arms had ached for this exercise. There was a fair current, and the willows moved by at a respectable rate.
He estimated that he could put forty miles between him and the Kakisa village by morning. The pleasant taste of freedom was heightened by the spice of heading into the unknown, and by night.
Night returns a rare sympathy to those who cultivate her. Ambrose, so far as he knew, was the first white man ever to travel this way. This river had no voice. The night was so still one could almost fancy one heard the stars.
Sometimes the looming shapes of islands confused him as to his course, but if he held his paddle the canoe would of itself choose the main current.
He had no apprehension as to what each bend in the stream would reveal, for with the experienced riverman's intuition he looked for a change in the character of the shores to warn him of any interruption of the current's smooth flow.
"Like old times, old fel'!" he said to his dumb partner.
Job's tail thumped on the gunwale. Ambrose contended that at night Job purposely turned stern formost to the most convenient hard object that his signals might be audible.
"To-night is ours anyway, old fel'," said Ambrose. "Let's enjoy it while we can. The worst is yet to come!"
It was many a day since Job had heard this jocular note in his master's voice. He wriggled a little and whined in his eagerness to reach him. Job knew better than to attempt to move much in the bark canoe.
In due course the miracle of dawn was enacted on the river. The world stole out of the dark like a woman wan with watching. First the line of tree-tops on either bank became blackly silhouetted against the graying sky, then little by little the masses of trees and bushes resolved into individuals.
Perspective came into being, afterward atmosphere, and finally color. The scene was as cool and delicate as that presented to a diver on the floor of the sea. As the light increased it was as if he mounted into shallower water toward the sun.
The first distinctive note of color was the astonishing green of the goosegrass springing in the mud left by the falling water; then the current itself became a rich, brown with creamy flakes of foam sailing down like little vessels. While Ambrose looked, the world blossomed from a pale nun into a ruddy matron.
With the rising of the sun the need of sleep began to afflict him. He had thought he never would need sleep again. His paddle became leaden in his hands, and Olympian yawns prostrated him.
He did not wish to take the time to sleep as yet, but he resolved to stimulate his flagging energies with bread and hot tea.
Landing on a point of stones, he built a fire, and hung his little copper pot over it. The sight of everything he had been provided with brought the thought of Nesis sharply home again, and sobered him.
Here was everything a traveler might require, even including two extra pairs of moccasins, worked, he was sure, by herself. "How can I ever repay her?" he thought uncomfortably.
Job was gyrating madly up and down the beach to express his joy at their deliverance. Ambrose was aroused from a drowsy contemplation of the fire by an urgent bark from the dog.
Looking up, he was frozen with astonishment to behold another bark canoe sweeping around the bend above. When motion returned to him, his hand instinctively shot out toward the gun. But there was only one figure. It was a woman—it was Nesis!
Ambrose dropped the gun and, jumping up, swore helplessly under his breath. He stared at the oncoming boat, fascinated with perplexity.
During the few seconds between his first sight of it and its grounding at his feet, the complications bound to follow on her coming presented themselves with a horrible clearness. His face turned grim.
Nesis, landing, could not face his look. She flung up an arm over her eyes. "Ah, don't look so mad to me!" she faltered.
"God help us!" muttered Ambrose. "What will we do now?"
She sank down in a heap at his feet. "Don't, don't hate me or I die!"' she wailed.
It was impossible for him to remain angry with the forlorn little creature. He laid a hand on her shoulder.
"Get up," he said with a sigh. "I'm not blaming you. The question is—what are we going to do?"
She lifted her head. "I go with you," she whispered breathlessly. "I help you in the rapids. I bake bread for you. I watch at night."
He shook his head. "You've got to go back," he said sternly.
"No! No!" she cried, wringing her hands. "I can' go back no more! Las' night when you go I fall down. I think I goin' die. I sorry I not die. I want jump in river; but the priest say that is a bad thing.
"I can' go back to Watusk's teepee no more. If he touch me I got kill him! That is bad, too! I don't know what to do! I want be good so I see my fat'er bam-by!"
Ambrose groaned.
She thought he was relenting, and came and wound her arms about him.
"Tak' me wit' you," she pleaded like a little child. "I be good,
Angleysman!"
Ambrose firmly detached the imploring arms. "You mustn't do that," he said as to a child. "We've got to think hard what to do."
"Ah, you hate me!" she wailed.
"That's nonsense!" he said sharply. "I am your friend. I will never forget what you did for me!"
He took an abrupt turn up and down the stones, trying to think what to do. "Look here," he said finally. "I've got to hurt you. I should have told you before, but I couldn't bring myself to hurt you. I can't love you the way you want. I'm in love with another woman."
She flung away from him, shoulder up as if he had raised a whip. Her face turned ugly.
"You love white woman!" she hissed with extraordinary passion. "Colina Gaviller! I know! I hate her! She proud and wicked woman. She hate my people!" Nesis's eyes flamed up with a kind of bitter triumph. Her voice rose shrilly.
"She hate you, too! Always she is bad to you. I know that, too. What you want wit' Colina Gaviller? Are you a dog to lie down when she beat you?"
Ambrose's eyes gleamed ominously. "Stop it!" he cried. "You don't know what you're talking about." His look intimidated her. The fury of jealousy subsided to a sullen muttering. "I hate her! She bad to the people. She want starve the people. She think her yellow horse better than an Indian!"
Ambrose, seeing her lip begin to tremble and her eyes fill, relented.
"Stop it," he said mildly. "No use for us to quarrel."
She suddenly broke into a storm of weeping and cast herself down, hiding her face in her arms. Ambrose could think of nothing better to do than let her weep herself out. He sat down on a boulder.
She came creeping to him at last, utterly humbled. "Angleysman, tak' me wit' you," she murmured, clasping her hands before him. Her breath was still caught with sobs. "I not expec' you marry me. I not bot'er you wit' much talk lak' a wife. I jus' be your little servant. You not want me, you say: Go 'way. I jus' wait till you want me again."
Ambrose turned his head away. He had never imagined a man having to go through with anything like this.
"Always, always I work for you," she whispered. "Let Colina Gaviller marry you. She not mind me. I guess she not mind that little dog you love. I jus' poor, common red girl. She think not'ing of me!"
Ambrose laughed a bitter note at the picture she called up. "That would hardly work," he said.
"But tak' me wit' you," she implored. She finally ventured to lay her cheek on his knee.
He laid a hand on her hair. "Listen, you baby," he said, "and try to understand me. You know that they are going to try to put off all this trouble on me. They will say I made the Indians do bad. They will say I tried to kill John Gaviller. The police will arrest me, and there will be a trial. You know what that is."
"Everybody see you not a bad man," she said.
"It's not as simple as that," he said with a wry smile. "I have nobody to speak for me but myself. Now, if you go away with me everybody will say: 'Ambrose Doane stole Watusk's wife away from him. Ambrose Doane is a bad man.' And then they will not believe me when I say I did not lead the Indians into wrong; I did not try to kill John Gaviller."
"I speak for you," cried Nesis. "I tell Gordon Strange and Watusk fix all trouble together."
"If you go with me, they will not believe you either," said Ambrose patiently. "They will say: 'Nesis is crazy about Ambrose Doane. He makes her say whatever he wants.'"
"It is the truth I am crazy 'bout you," said Nesis.
Ambrose sighed. "Listen to me. I tell you straight, if you go with me it will ruin me. I am as good as a jailbird already."
She gave her head an impatient shake. "I not understand," she said sadly. "You say it. I guess it is truth."
There was a silence. Nesis's childlike brows were bent into a frown. She glanced into his face to see if there was any reprieve from the hard sentence. Finally she said very low:
"Angleysman, you got go to jail if you tak' me?"
"Sure as fate!" he said sadly.
She got up very slowly. "I guess I ver' foolish," she murmured. She waited, obviously to give him a chance to speak. He was mum.
"I go back now," she whispered heart-brokenly, and turned toward her canoe.
With her hand on the prow she waited again, not looking at him, hoping against hope. There was something crushed and palpitating in her aspect like a wounded bird. Ambrose felt like a monster of cruelty.
Suddenly a fresh fear attacked him. "Nesis," he asked, "how will you explain being away overnight? They will connect it with my escape. What will they do to you?"
She turned her head, showing him a painful little smile. "You not think of that before," she murmured. "I not care what they do by me. You not love me."
He strode to her and clapped a rough hand on her shoulder. "Here, I couldn't have them hurt you!" he cried harshly. "You baby! You come with me. I'm in as bad as I can be already. A little more or less won't make any difference. I'll chance it, anyway. You come with me!"
"Oh, my Angleysman!" she breathed, and sank a little limp heap at his feet.
Ambrose blew up the forgotten fire and made tea. Nesis quickly revived. Having made up his mind to take her, he put the best possible face on it.
There were to be no more reproaches. Her pitiful anxiety not to anger him again made him wince. Her eyes never left his face. If he so much as frowned at an uncomfortable thought they became tragic.
"Look here, I'm not a brute!" he cried, exasperated.
Nesis looked foolish, and quickly turned her head away.
Over their tea and bannock they became almost cheerful. Motion had made them both hungry.
Ambrose glanced at their slender store. "We'll never hang out to the lake at this rate," he said laughing.
"I set rabbit snare when we sleep," Nesis said quickly. "I catch fish.
I shoot wild duck."