When Norman Grey flung himself upon the ground at the foot of the rapids he believed that he would be asleep in a few minutes. In this, however, he was mistaken. His body was tired enough, but his brain was too active. The events of the past night were too vivid to allow him the rest he needed. And ever before his mind rose the vision of Madeline. Where was she, and what was happening to her? Was she calling for him? he wondered, or had she given him up, banished him from her mind? While she was near him at Hishu he was content to wait, to find out the truth gradually. But now it was different. She was alone in the wilderness, needing his assistance. Thinking thus he at length passed into a restless slumber. How long it lasted he could not tell, but he awoke with a start, and looked wildly around. Buckskin Dan was sleeping calmly by his side. Grey laid a heavy hand upon his shoulder, and shook him with impatience.
"Wake up! Wake up!" he cried. "For God's sake, wake up!"
With a roar of surprise and apprehension Dan leaped to his feet, and seized the rifle lying close at hand. He looked about as if expecting to see a blood-thirsty enemy almost on top of them. Then his eyes rested upon his comrade's tossed hair and excited face.
"What's wrong, pardner?" he demanded. "What's up this time? Did ye see that sarpint crawlin' among the trees ag'in? P'int me out the spot, an' I'll riddle the place with bullets. Mebbe one will ketch 'im on the fly, an' if it does he'll git to hell quicker than he imagined."
"No, no, not that beast this time," Grey replied. "But I saw her, yes, her, my Madeline, stretching out her hands, and calling to me for help! There she is, look!" and he clutched Dan by the arm and pointed excitedly among the trees. "There she is! Let me go to her! My God! I never saw her look so beautiful, but she's in the midst of serpents, and they're dragging her down to death. Look! look!"
Dan's eyes followed the direction of the finger, and he carefully scanned the forest for some distance around. Then he turned toward his comrade, while an anxious expression crossed his bronzed face.
"What's wrong with ye, laddie?" he questioned. "Are ye goin' daft? I see nuthin' over thar."
Grey placed his hand to his forehead, while a deep sigh escaped his lips.
"Neither do I, now," he responded. "But I did a minute ago. Oh, it was so clear, and terrible. Perhaps my brain is turning. Lack of sleep, and the events of the two past weeks have been enough to unsettle anyone."
"Indeed yer right thar, pardner," responded the trapper. "Few could have stood it. They'd have buckled under long since this."
"But I can't get that dream and vision out of my mind, Dan. I fear there's something wrong with Madeline."
"Mebbe yer right, pardner, an' I guess we'd better git a move on. It's purty light now, an' the moon makes the land almost as bright as day. If ye'll jist bring some water from the river I'll start a fire. We'll have a hot drink an' a snack of food afore we hike outer this."
Seizing the small tin pail in his hand Grey moved toward the river. He had taken but a few steps when he paused in amazement, for a wild cry for help winged through the crisp morning air and fell upon his ears. His eyes sought the rapids, from which the sound came, and as he looked a never-to-be-forgotten sight met his gaze. For an instant he thought it must be another vision, and would vanish like the one he had recently seen. But how real it was—the leaping billows, the dashing spray, and that fair form with uplifted arms gliding through that channel of death. Surely it must be a spirit, or else he was losing his reason, and it was all the strange fancy of a mad man.
When, however, the shock came, and he saw the woman hurled forward he knew it was no dream, but a terrible reality. With Grey to think was to act. With a shout to Dan he dashed forward, leaped down the bank, and laid his hands upon the canoe. As he did so the trapper was at his heels. He, too, had heard that cry, and had seen the wreck in the rapids, and had bounded forward on the instant. Into the canoe they sprang, and without a word sent it reeling from its moorings. It was caught by the swirling current, and carried a few yards down river. But strong arms held the paddles, and forced its stubborn and rebellious prow against the pressing stream.
A nameless fear clutched at Grey's heart as he drove the paddle through the water with great sweeps until the slender blade bent like a reed beneath a tempest. Could it be Madeline? Who else could be in that staring wilderness with such a form as the one he had just beheld? His eyes noted everything ahead. Would she rise, or had she been carried down to the bottom by some swirling eddy, to reappear bruised and lifeless farther down-stream? Only a brief space of time had elapsed since that cry had fallen upon his ears. Yet in that infinitesimal tick of eternity he had endured the life of the damned. For one who has passed through such an experience it would be easy to realise how much is summed up in "the twinkling of an eye" of the Great Judgment Day.
The canoe was now close to the foaming breakers, where progress was almost imperceptible. Grey's eyes were searching the waters to the right, when a cry from Dan caused him to glance quickly around. As he did so he caught sight of a dark object on the left. Then a hand—oh, so white and small—rose above the surface. With a half-smothered cry Grey dropped his paddle, flung himself into that racing stream, and in an instant sank from view. With titanic strokes he threaded the icy chambers of that watery world. He caught a glimpse of a whirling form a few feet ahead. He reached out one gripping hand; it closed; it held firm, and with his precious burden he rose to the surface with the speed of a nimble bubble.
With a vigorous shake of the head Grey tossed some of the water from his eyes, and endeavoured to look around. A gladsome shout from the left told him that Dan was not far away. Ere long the canoe was a few yards off, then a few feet, and soon the swimmer was able to reach out and seize the trapper's big strong hand. And none too soon, for Grey was almost exhausted, and the helpless form he was supporting was like a great leaden weight.
"Wall done, pardner," was Dan's cheery greeting. "Ye'd better not try to git on board, fer ye'll be likely to capsize the canoe. Jist hold on here to the stern. Thar, that's good. I'll run her ashore now like greased lightnin'!"
Thus Grey clung to the craft with his right hand, while with his left arm he upheld Madeline's limp form. It took Dan several minutes to make land, and by the time the shore was reached they had drifted some distance down-stream.
Grey felt his feet touch bottom, and almost as soon as the trapper had pulled the canoe upon the beach he staggered out of the water with Madeline held tenderly in his arms. At once Dan relieved him of his burden, and carried her up the bank, and laid her upon the ground.
Weak though he was Grey knelt by her side and peered into that drawn, pallid face. No sign of life, however, showed in that drenched form. He called her by name, he pleaded with her to speak, but no response came to his passionate appeal.
"My God! is she dead?" he cried, looking with pitiful eyes into Dan's face.
"Dead? No," was the reassuring reply. "It 'ud take more'n that duckin' to knock out the likes of her. Let me down thar. Mebbe I kin do more good than you."
Dan spoke more cheerfully than he felt in order to encourage his comrade's sinking spirits. His years of practical experience in the wilderness served him in good stead now. He performed the simple method of resuscitation, which he had used on several occasions in the past, and ere long had the satisfaction of seeing signs of returning life, and a faint colour tinge the patient's cheeks.
At length Madeline slowly opened her eyes, and fixed them for an instant upon the trapper's face. Closing them again with a deep sigh, she drifted off into that silent land, whether of sleep or unconsciousness the anxious watchers could not divine.
"We must git her outer this, pardner," Dan remarked. "In her wet condition, and weak as she is, she can't stand much more."
"But what are we to do?" cried Grey, as the helplessness of their position dawned upon him.
The joy of knowing that Madeline still breathed was now replaced by despair. What were they to do with this helpless woman there in the wilderness, with wet clothes clinging to her body? She must be chilled through already, and to remain there much longer would mean certain death.
"Shall I build a fire, Dan?" he asked. "We can lay her close to that, and perhaps her clothes will dry. What else can we do?"
"No, pardner," was the reply. "That won't do; it would take too long to dry clothes as wet as hers. She needs gentle care sich as we can't give her."
"But what—?"
"Jist a moment, pardner," interrupted Dan. "We ain't got no time to waste in words. We've got to act. The last time I was in this region thar was an Injun encampment over thar to the right, on that old cut-off trail, an' mebbe—But hark, what's that?"
"It sounds like the bark of a dog," Grey replied, now standing erect, and listening intently.
"Ay, ay. Didn't I tell ye right? Whar thar's a dog ye may be sure some human critter's not fer away. Come, let's take the lassie an' strike through that openin' over yon. I guess we'll find somethin'."
Stooping, the constable lifted Madeline tenderly in his arms. Dan, however, interposed.
"Ye mustn't do that, laddie. Ye're too weak after yer tryin' experience. Let me carry the lassie."
"No, no, Dan," Grey replied, as he started to leave the place. "Let me carry her for a while. You may take your turn later."
A thrill such as he had not known for years came into Norman's heart, as he bore forward his precious burden. Her face was close to his. Oh, if she would only wake, look into his eyes, and speak to him he would forget and forgive everything, no matter what she had been in the past.
The dog still continued to bark, and by the sound they were able to direct their steps. After a while Grey found it necessary to relinquish his burden to Dan, for he was weaker than he had imagined. This gave him an opportunity to speed on ahead, and in a few minutes the trees became thin, and a clearing burst into view. Looking to the left he saw several log houses, with one in the midst much larger than the others, with smoke issuing from a stovepipe stuck out through the roof. Toward this he hastened, glancing back at times to see whether Dan was following.
Having reached the building, he rapped loudly upon the door, expecting to see it opened by an uncouth native. He heard someone moving within; then a hand was laid upon the wooden latch, and great was his surprise to see standing before him a grey-bearded white man, tall and commanding in appearance. Kindly eyes looked full into his, and a voice musical and soft bade him welcome, followed by an invitation to enter.
Briefly Grey related his story, after which the tall man hurried back into the room. By this time Dan had arrived, entered the building, and laid his burden upon a low cot placed against the wall. Just then the long-bearded man reappeared through a door to the left.
"Bring her in here," he commanded. "It will be more comfortable."
Lifting Madeline in his arms, Norman did as he was bidden, and entered a little room, meant evidently for a study. The floor was bare. A rough deal table stood by the window littered with papers. A few magazine pictures adorned the walls, while in one corner were several shelves filled with books.
"Lay her there," and the owner of the house pointed to a cosy cot covered with the soft glossy skins of a bear, wolf and lynx. "I shall be back in a few minutes."
Saying this, he disappeared, and Grey found himself alone with Madeline, for the trapper had remained in the outer room, where he was filling his pipe preparatory to his usual morning smoke.
Norman looked long and lovingly upon that white face embedded among the furs. Within him raged a fierce contest. He desired to stay by her side, to know how she would fare after her terrible experience. The love in his heart told him to remain. She was all he had in the world. In her was his life and hope. But, on the other hand, he was in duty bound to go forward as quickly as possible after that stolen child. There was his duty. And yet, why should he go? Did not love, the care of this helpless woman, have the first consideration? Suddenly be remembered that this was the day of his discharge from the Force. Was he not a free man, no longer bound by exacting, and at times galling, rules? On the other hand, was he free? That could not be until he returned, and received his discharge from his Commanding Officer. But, then, what was duty, when love stood in the way? One voice whispered, "Stay with her whom you love. This is your first duty." But another voice, clear and distinct, could not be silenced. "You are in honour bound to carry out your Commander's orders. He has intrusted you with a sacred commission, and will you relinquish the quest, bring disgrace upon yourself, and dishonour upon the Force? Hitherto no man has ever turned back when given such a command as yours until his object had been attained, and will you be the first? How can you return to Big Glen, face your Superior Officer, and your comrades? You, Norman Grey, have never shirked your duty before, and will you do it now?" "But what about Madeline?" again insisted the first voice.
Grey glanced through the small window facing the south, and his eyes rested upon the tall man hurrying from one of the cabins with an Indian woman by his side. There was the answer to the question. Madeline would be carefully looked after, and what good would his presence be anyway? He would fulfil his commission, and then come back to her—perhaps she would want him then.
He heard the outer door open, and knew that his attention would not be needed. Swiftly he stooped over that quiet form, and his lips touched her lips in one fond, passionate kiss. When the man and the Indian woman entered the room they beheld the constable standing silently by the cot. They knew nothing of the battle which had taken place within his heart, nor of the victory won.
"You will do your best for her?" and Grey turned his eyes full upon the face of the bearded man as he spoke.
He longed to ask him his name, and what he was doing there alone so far in the wilderness. He regretted that he had not examined the numerous papers on the table to see what they contained. Now it was too late. But as he looked at the quiet man, and the clean, matronly Indian woman he felt that he was leaving Madeline in safe hands.
"You need not fear," came the reply to his question. "I am somewhat of a doctor, and Nancy du Nord here is most trustworthy."
"Thank you, oh, thank you," Grey responded, and with one swift glance at Madeline, he passed into the next room where Buckskin Dan was thoughtfully smoking.
It did not take Grey long to change his wet clothes for the ones which had been brought for him by the owner of the house. This accomplished, and his cast-off garments hung by the kitchen stove to dry, he started with Dan back to the foot of the rapids, where they had left their outfit and scanty supply of provisions. Little was said until the river was reached, for each was lost in his own thoughts. It was Dan who broke the silence, as they at length stood on the bank of the stream.
"By the fur of a martin!" he ejaculated, "it's clear to me now."
"What's clear?" questioned Grey, as he stooped to roll up their one blanket.
"The place whar them varmints are hikin' to. I wasn't altogether sartin at fust, an' not quite sure that they'd headed up this way. But when that lassie come tumblin' down yon rapids it made everything plain."
"But how do you think she got into that boat alone?" questioned Grey. "That's what I've been trying to solve ever since we left the house over there."
The trapper scratched his head, dove his hand deep into his pocket, and brought forth a plug of tobacco, turned it carefully over and bit off a corner.
"It's one of three things," he began, "an' I've thought 'em all over. In some places it might be an accident, but not among the Big Lake Injuns. Sich a thing 'ud not happen among 'em. Then, the gal might have tried to escape. But as the kid wasn't with her that proposition's outer the question."
"But maybe the boy is dead," Grey suggested. "He has come through much lately, and perhaps the trip has knocked him out."
"No, pardner, I don't think it likely. The lassie 'ud look after 'im. She's the kind that 'ud care fer the little chap fust."
"Well, then, what is your idea, Dan?"
"That woman was sent inter them foamin' white caps to die. That's what it was."
"Dan, Dan!" Grey cried in amazement. "What do you mean? What reason would the Indians have for doing such a deed, and especially to her?"
"Can't tell ye that, laddie. Ye kin never trust them varmints, perticularly when there's an Injun woman along. But come, if we stop here talkin' all day they'll git too fer ahead of us. We're on the right trail, an' if we're goin' to do anythin' let's git on."
At once Grey bent, seized the blanket, threw the strap over his shoulder, and strode rapidly along by Dan's side. His weariness was now gone, and the blood surged madly through his veins. Added to his desire to recover the child was the longing to punish the ones who had sent Madeline through the rapids. Oh, for a dozen or more of his comrades at Big Glen, mounted on their hardy steeds, and he would show the Indians a thing or two! But then, that was not the way of the Force. It never trusted to numbers. As in far-off Hebrew days it believed that "One thousand shall flee at the rebuke of one," and that "One hundred shall put ten thousand to flight."
Having reached the head of the rapids they carefully examined the remains of the recent camp fire. From the few ashes lying on the ground they could tell how pitifully small it had been—typical of Indian ways. Grey looked down thoughtfully upon that thin black layer and the several charred sticks scattered around. He pictured Madeline sitting at that very spot, enfolding, perhaps, in her arms the tired, homeless child. What were her thoughts as she sat there? Did she think of him? He glanced toward the river flowing sullenly by. If it would only speak what a tale it could unfold. Dan saw the look and divined the meaning.
"Yes, laddie," he remarked, "it was hard—it was devilish. But never mind, yon trail will reveal somethin' afore night shets down or else I'm much mistaken."
For several miles above the rapids stretched as wild and rugged a portion of land as ever met the eye of man. A long range of hills sloped toward the river in a terrace-like formation, terminating in an abrupt, jagged wall of rock from ten to thirty feet in height. The narrow strip of ground between this and the river was strewn with thousands of small and large boulders, which had been hurled from the flinty summit of the range, so the Indians believed, by the Great Spirit in a terrible battle with the monsters of the mountains.
Among these boulders twisted the slender trail, winding at times close to the overshadowing wall of rock. At one of these places Grey paused, and looked about with wonder, mingled with awe. Above him towered two gigantic flinty columns of rock. The chisels of ages had cut strange figures upon their hard surfaces, and rounded into rugged symmetry their stately forms. Silent hoodoo sentinels were they frowning down upon the trail at their feet. To the Indians they were objects of fear and reverence, and their steps always quickened as with furtive eyes they glided speedily by.
"Talk about the monuments of civilisation," said Grey, placing his hand upon the nearer column. "But where will you find such shafts as these cut by the hand of man? Why, the wonderful Cleopatra's needle is a pigmy to these."
"Ay, ay, laddie, yer right thar. When I was in New York they p'inted out to me a number of stones stuck up in the city, an' they showed me the picters in their Art Galleries. But sez I to 'em, 'Come with me to the grand North land, an' I'll show ye picters jist as the Lord made 'em, with no smell of paint upon 'em either. An' as fer stones, I'll show ye monements which the Lord made, with their heads playin' with the clouds, an' their roots grippin' down inter the bowels of the arth.' That's wot I said to 'em, an' they smiled to their selves, so they did, an' nudged one another. They thought I was a bit daft. But, my! if they could see sich wonders as these, they'd then know it wasn't me who was daft."
During this speech Grey was peering around the colossal shaft, exploring the space beyond. Something was interesting him there, and he took a few paces forward.
"Come, Dan," he cried, "what a fine cave is hidden behind these columns."
They both now stood at the opening, looking into the yawning mouth of the cavern.
"It sartinly is great!" ejaculated the trapper. "Who'd a thought thar was sich a hole as this!"
"I should like to explore it," Grey replied, for his curiosity was by this time thoroughly aroused. "Who can tell what wonderful things lie concealed in there. What strange pranks nature plays in this part of the world."
"Seems to me nater had nuthin' to do with this," and Dan carefully examined the opening as he spoke. "Looks as if some two-legged critters with hands an' brains did the work. Guess them Rooshians, who once was here, dug the place. But, come, that's not our bizness now. We've lost too much precious time by foolin' around here, while them Injuns are hikin' it along the trail. No more sich stoppin', mind ye, to-day, examinin' holes an' rocks. Let's git on. I'm agoin' to set the pace, an' ye kin foller if ye like."
And Dan was true to his word. How he did swing forward with that long steady gait, which seemed never to weary. Grey found it difficult to follow close, but he was determined that he would not be outdone. Across a long stretch of wild meadows they sped, up a steep hill, through a densely wooded region, where the trees stood tall and sombre. Grey lost count of time and distance. He was a mere machine—he was simply a bundle of cogs, fitting into another set of cogs ahead, which some irresistible power was driving. Could he keep it up much longer?
It was late in the afternoon as they climbed a hill steeper than any they had yet encountered. Reaching the summit they involuntarily stayed their steps, and looked down upon a body of water lying like a gem in a setting of dark firs and jack pines. Not a ripple ruffled the surface of this mountain lake, while all around the edge ran a fringe of surpassing beauty, where the trees stood mirrored in its liquid depths.
"It's Lake Klawan," whispered Dan, "an' the Injuns are sure to stop here fer the night. We need to be very keerful now, fer the time has arrived when we must do somethin' that'll count."
The trapper was about to move forward, when he suddenly paused, gripped his companion by the arm, and pointed down through the tops of the trees.
"See, they're campin' thar!" he hoarsely whispered. "The varmints are down yon fer sure gettin' their supper."
As Grey looked he could see a thin line of smoke rising above the firs. He turned to the trapper.
"What next, Dan? What's your move?" he inquired.
The trapper's eyes were searching the forest to the left, while his ears were carefully attentive to a faint sound murmuring up through the trees.
"The river, pardner, is down in the valley, an' we must investigate. We'll have to depend much, I'm thinkin' upon that stream."
Saying thus he plunged at once down the hillside, Grey following close at his heels. After a hard fight through the thick underbrush they gained the river's bank and looked carefully around.
"Ah, that's good!" ejaculated Dan. "Thar's plenty of driftwood here, an' some of a fair size. We must make a small raft, laddie, fer I'm thinkin' we'll have to trust our carcasses to it afore long."
Quickly they set to work, and rolled to the edge of the water a dozen of the largest sticks. With his small axe Dan soon fashioned a number of withes from several trees standing near. With these he skilfully bound the logs together, placed several more across the top, and ere long the raft was finished.
"Fine job that," and Dan stepped back a few paces to view his work. "She'll run like a greyhound down the stream. We'll make her fast an' snug in the eddy, fer we can't tell how soon we may need her."
"What's your plan now?" questioned Grey.
"We must git that kid."
"In what way?"
"Wall, I'm jist thinkin' about it. We might creep down upon 'em, an' pick 'em off. But I don't want to do that. It 'ud stir up the hull tribe if we knocked out them two bucks. Then, we might wait till it gits dark, steal upon 'em, an' pinch the lad. But mebbe they intend to git on over the lake, an' we'd be out of it fer sure then. They ginerally keep a canoe handy. No, them plans won't work. But I've another. We must git the men away. It's fer me to do that, an' it's up to you to look after the boy. See?"
"Partly. But how?"
"You leave that to me. I'm goin' up around the lake to the right, an' you jist creep up close like, whar them varmints are squattin'. Be very cautious or ye might spile the hull thing. But when ye see the men leave the kid with the woman, then you drop in like a whirlwind an' do the rest. When ye git the kid hike back to this place, an' wait fer me. But if the bucks git here fust, cast off, an' I'll meet ye down-stream. If it comes to a fight, yer a match fer the hull consarn. I'm off now."
Left to himself Grey stood for a few minutes looking down upon the water. He was realising how dependent he was upon this rugged frontier trapper. He had imagined that his own strength of mind, nerve and body was sufficient to overcome almost any difficulty. In the vicinity of Big Glen it had sufficed. But here where the vast wilderness was the stage, with rushing rivers, foaming rapids, wind-swept lakes, sweeping plains and towering mountains, the setting, and dare-devil white men and roving Indians the chief actors, it was altogether different.
At length he turned, and walked along the bank of the river up toward the lake. There was no footpath here, and he found travelling most difficult. But he considered it safer than on the trail higher up. Slowly and warily he picked his way, taking care not to make the slightest noise to warn the natives of his approach. At times he paused and listened, but hearing nothing he advanced. Ere long, after pushing his way through a tangled thicket of underbrush, the lake burst suddenly into view. One glance was sufficient, and Grey dropped quickly to his knees, and crouched behind a low scrubby bush. There on the shore, only a few rods away, were the Indians, squatting about their camp fire. He counted them—two men, one woman, and something lying on the ground, which no doubt was the stolen child.
Grey's right hand pressed firmly his smooth rifle barrel as he peered down upon that group. How he longed to pick off those two dusky braves. Two quick reports and the deed would be done. He could deal with the woman; he had no doubt of that. But another voice soon silenced this blood-thirsty desire. "Coward," it whispered, "would you shoot them down without giving them a chance? You call yourself a man. You a member of a famous Force, and would you stain its honourable annals with such a contemptible deed?"
At that instant a sound broke upon the still evening air. It came from the right, around the curve in the lake. It was the hoarse cry of a moose calling to its mate. Again it came, clearer than before.
The effect of that call acted like magic upon the two Indian bucks. Seizing their rifles they glided to a canoe lying upon the shore, shoved it off, and leaped in. With noiseless paddle dips they sped swiftly over the still waters, keeping well within the dark fringe-like shadow, which was growing larger and larger as the evening waned.
"How strange," Grey murmured to himself, "that such a thing should happen at the right moment."
Then he thought of Dan, and as light dawned upon his mind he almost gave a shout of delight. He restrained himself, however, in time, and turned his attention to the camp fire. Only the woman to contend with now.
He was about to slip from his hiding place, rush down and seize the child, when he happened to glance out over the lake to the left. As he did so he stared with amazement, for coming swiftly onward was a flotilla of canoes, driven by strong, determined arms. Spectres they seemed, bearing down suddenly from the unknown. Grey rubbed his eyes to make sure that he beheld aright. But there was no mistake. It was a stern reality.
By this time the Indian woman had seen them, too, and had hurried to the shore, and was wildly waving her arms. It was his opportunity, and he must not delay.
But now there fell upon his ears another sound. It was the voice of a child crying out in its loneliness.
"Mamma, mamma," it called. "I wants 'ou, mamma."
Grey hesitated no longer. He sprang forward, bounded like a tiger down the slope, seized the lad in his arms, and speeded back to cover. Scarcely had he reached the shelter of the forest ere the wild shrieks of the Indian woman made the evening hideous. Well did Grey know its meaning, and he smiled grimly, as, pressing the child to his breast, he once again threaded the tangled maze of underbrush, and reached the place where the raft was floating. Here he placed his burden upon the ground, and listened attentively.
"My! this is getting hot!" he panted. "We'll have the whole tribe after us now. I hope to goodness Dan will show up soon."
So intent was Grey upon listening for any sound from the Indians that he did not notice Donnie rise to his feet and toddle toward him. But when a small hand touched him, he started and looked quickly down upon the forlorn little figure standing near.
"Hello, laddie," he said, placing one hand upon the boy's shoulder. "What's wrong now?"
But the child did not reply. He only stood there looking intently upward. Then Grey noticed how drawn and pinched was his face, while his large eyes gazed straight into his with the pathetic expression of a dumb animal. Stooping, he lifted the waif in his strong arms, and pressed him close to his heart.
"Poor laddie! poor laddie!" he murmured. "Your lot is certainly a hard one. But never mind, I'll defend you to the last."
"I wants my mamma. Oh, take me to my mamma," moaned the child, as he laid his head trustingly on his rescuer's arm.
"I shall take you to your mamma, little one," Grey replied. "All the Indians and white men in the North will not take you from me now."
"Dood man," whispered Donnie sleepily. "I love 'ou, dood man. I'll pray to Dod for 'ou, dood man."
In a few minutes the weary, tired eyes closed, and then Grey laid him upon the ground, and taking off his own jacket he wrapped it carefully about the child. This done he paced slowly up and down listening anxiously for any sound from the silent forest around. Once he thought he heard the Indians coming, and he was about to place Donnie upon the raft, and hurry down-stream. But hearing nothing more he decided to wait a while longer. Night had by this time deepened, and the whole forest was brooding in a sombre shade. Upon the alert ear must he now depend. What was keeping Dan? he wondered. Why this delay? Had something befallen the trapper?
While Grey thought on these things a slight noise to the right aroused him. Grasping his rifle he tried to peer into those gloomy reaches. A twig snapped, and then silence. He was sure that someone was approaching. Presently a peculiar low call of a bird sounded upon the air, and Grey's heart lightened, for he recognised the signal which Dan had taught him some time before to be used in time of need. At once Grey responded with the same call, and a moment later the trapper appeared before him.
"Gee whiz!" he panted. "I got mixed up somehow, an' lost me bearin's, an' have been flounderin' around fer some time. I nearly ran full ag'inst a bunch of Injuns on the shore up yon, an' jist had time to creep back under cover. They're gittin' ready to come down-stream after us in their canoes to head us off, so we must git outer this like lightnin'. But say whar's the kid; did ye git 'im?"
"Yes, he's right here," and Grey stooped and lifted the sleeping child in his arms. "But can we run the stream through the darkness? Would it not be better to let the Indians pass, and try to evade them on land?"
"An' starve in the meantime wanderin' about with this kid? Not on yer life. If the Injuns once git ahead of us we might as well give up fust as last. But we're not goin' to give up. We're goin' down this river, dark as it is. Then, if they do overtake us we'll give 'em the hottest reception they ever got. Is yer gun all right?"
"Yes, the magazine's full."
"How many ca'tridges?"
"Belt full, except for the ones in the rifle."
"Good. Mine's jist the same. Aha, we'll show 'em a thing or two if they're not keerful. They're not foolin' with jack rabbits this time."
In a few minutes they had loosened the raft from its moorings, and were bearing steadily down-stream. Provided with two long slender sticks Grey and Dan managed to steer their frail craft without much difficulty. The current was strong, which held the raft in deep water, and swung it safely around the numerous sand-bars which lined the river. Donnie slept soundly on his hard rough bed, covered with Grey's jacket, with his head pillowed upon Dan's buckskin coat. Little did the bereaved and heart-broken mother at Big Glen know where her darling boy was sleeping this night, nor the efforts of two brave and great-hearted men on his behalf.
No sound broke the stillness as steadily the raft surged forward at the rate of three miles an hour. Slowly the moon rose and swung clear of the horizon. The river for the most part lay wrapped in shadow from the closely crowding forest. But here and there where the trees were low and thin, bright shafts of light shot downward, which falling athwart the rippling water caused it to glitter like polished steel.
Dan, who was standing well astern, kept his eyes fixed upon those gleaming places. In fact ever since embarking his eyes and ears had been strained to their utmost in an effort to detect some sign of their pursuers. At length he started, and reached instinctively for his rifle lying close at hand.
"They're comin'!" he hoarsely whispered to his companion. "The divils are after us!"
Grey looked back, and was able to see dark specks in the distance where the moon shone bright. Fleeting spectres they were, appearing and disappearing, yet drawing steadily nearer.
"What are we to do?" he replied. "We can't fight here, and they'll be upon us in a few minutes."
"Make fer the shore, quick," Dan commanded, and suiting the action to the word he gave the raft a vigorous shove which sent her reeling toward the bank.
With some difficulty they were able to make a landing, and while Dan held the raft Grey carried Donnie quickly ashore. There was now no time to lose, for the Indians were almost abreast of the place. Then a wild blood-curdling yell of derision fell upon their ears. The pursuers had expected to overtake the raft in midstream. They feared the deadly rifles of the pale faces, and followed silently and cautiously. But when they saw them make for land, and disappear among the trees they gave full vent to their savage delight. What could two men and a little child do against such overwhelming odds?
And as Grey and Dan sped forward, carrying Donnie by turns, they felt how almost hopeless was their position. But they determined to fight to the last, and looked anxiously as they ran for some place where they could make a firm stand. Ere long several large boulders were seen, and the sight brought a new hope into Dan's heart.
"We're somewhar near that cave," he panted, "an' if we once git in thar I'll riddle some of them d—d redskins like a sieve."
Presently they reached the open trail, and to the left appeared the dim forms of the two giant shafts of stone.
"Run fer it!" breathed the trapper to Grey, who was now carrying the child. "I'll foller a little behind to cut off them varmints if they come too near. Give me yer gun."
With Donnie enfolded in his arms, and head bent, Grey ran as he had never run before. So much depended upon that last lap—the honour of the Force, the safety of a little child, the happiness of a home far away, and their own lives. And he could run as well as fight, this hound of the North. He was not running because he was afraid, but that he might fight the better later on. How interminably far away seemed those huge columns. Would he ever reach them? He felt his strength growing weaker, for his burden was heavy. Suddenly a report split the air, and a bullet whistled past his head. The effect was magical. Forgotten was his weariness. It nerved him to greater effort, and his feet fairly spurned the ground. How he maintained his footing on that rough and crooked trail he could not tell. But not once did he fall, and at last to his relief he beheld the cave but a few rods away. He glanced back, and saw Dan nimbly speeding after. He was near to shelter now, and as he hurried by the nearer column a bullet spat against the hard stone, telling plainly that the Indians were not far behind, although somewhat astray in their aim.
Having deposited Donnie within the mouth of the cave, he leaped back, seized his rifle from the trapper, and took up his position on the opposite side of the column. Peering cautiously forth he was able to discern several forms lurking in the distance, which he knew to be the baffled Indians.
"What do you say if we pick a few of them off, Dan?" he remarked. "It might teach the others a lesson, and send them back wiser than they came."
"Don't do it, pardner," was the reply. "Ye don't know them Big Lakes. We mustn't shoot unless they come at us fust."
"But, man, we can't stay here very long. We haven't a scrap of grub left, and what about that poor child? Listen to him now crying there in the cave as if his heart would break. What are we to do?"
"I don't really know, pardner," and Dan ran the fingers of his right hand through his long hair. "Seems to me we're in a trap."
"Can't we make peace with the Indians?" Grey questioned. "What have they against us? We never harmed them."
"We pinched the kid, though. Give 'im up, an' mebbe, then, they'd leave us alone."
"Not otherwise?"
"Ye bet yer life, no."
"But they won't have him," cried Grey fiercely. "At least not as long as there's any life in my body."
Dan looked grimly around, and his eyes rapidly scanned the beetling wall of rock towering high above them.
"In a place like this," he slowly drawled, "with grub, water an' ammunition, two of us could stand off a bunch of redskins without any trouble. They can't come down atop of us, an' if they begin pokin' their noses around the front door we'll hand 'em somethin' purty hot. But seems to me they won't come very close. They don't like this place, as I told ye afore, so I guess they'll keep at a distance an' try to starve us out."
"I'd rather face the whole bunch of them, and die fighting like a man, than starve to death here."
Gloomily Grey uttered these words. He was weary after his long tramp and want of sleep. Little food had he eaten since the night before, and there was now no prospect of any for the coming day. He thought of Donnie, who would certainly cry for something to eat. He and Dan could stand starvation and hardships, but to listen to an innocent child pleading for a mere morsel of bread which could not be supplied, would be maddening.
The trapper surmised the thoughts which were throbbing through his companion's mind. He glanced at the tall, erect figure standing before him, and noted the expression of determination upon his strong, tense face. He realised how hard it was to keep such a spirit as his within bounds. He had often secretly marvelled why this sturdy limb of the law should follow him, an old trapper, so implicitly, and yield so readily to his will. But Dan did not know that Grey had been trained to obey as well as to command, and that the former is at times the wiser course to pursue.
The sobbing of the child at the mouth of the cave still continued. It was a pleading, pathetic cry, and sounded strangely unnatural from those dark depths.
"Ye'd better go to the laddie, pardner," Dan remarked. "Ye might be able to comfort the poor chap a little. I'll keep watch, an' call ye if necessary."
Grey found Donnie standing just within the deep shadow of the high wall of rock. The blackness of the cave had frightened him, and he had moved toward the light outside. His little form was quivering with deep sobs, and he gave a cry of joy as Grey drew near, and dropped upon the ground by his side. Placing his arms tenderly about the boy, he drew him to his heart, and tried to soothe his fears.
"I wants my mamma," Donnie moaned. "Take me to my mamma."
"Yes, dear, just as soon as I can," comforted Grey. "You will trust me, will you not?"
"Ya. But I wants my mamma. Why doesn't she tum to her 'ittle boy-boy?"
"She can't come just now, but she will after a while."
"Then I wants Malin. Oh, where is Malin?" and he started suddenly up. "Me saw her go away, and she would not tum back to Donnie."
"You love her, do you not?" Grey queried.
"Ya, me love Malin. Do 'ou?"
"Yes, yes, little one, I love her, too."
"Den me love 'ou," and Donnie threw his arms about Grey's neck. "But I wants Malin, too. Oh, please take me to Malin."
"She is not far away, dearie, and is waiting for you."
Grey spoke bravely for the child's sake. There was no need to alarm the lad now. But his heart was heavy. He thought of the Indians prowling around outside. Then his mind turned to Madeline. What was her condition? he wondered, after her terrible experience in the river. Suppose she— He crushed back the thought. No, it could not be possible. He could not imagine Madeline, his Madeline, lying in that house cold in death. All his old doubts and fears were swept away like chaff before the wind. His love for her filled, his heart with an overwhelming intensity. Let her be what she might, he loved her still, and would love her to the end. She had been sinned against, cruelly and wilfully, he felt sure of that. He saw her as in days gone by; the trim lines of her form, her dark-brown hair, and large affectionate eyes, looking up so trustingly into his. His hands clinched, and his teeth ground hard together.
"Some villain has done this," he muttered. "There has been dark work in connection with this matter. Surely there is a God in Israel who will avenge that innocent woman and this poor child."
Listening attentively he found that Donnie was fast asleep, with his curly head leaning against his breast. Grey's arms closed slightly in a loving embrace. The feeling of affection which had stolen into his heart when he had rescued him from the icy waters below Klikhausia Rapids burned now like a flame. He realised that this child was unconsciously playing an important part in his life. The boy had suffered much, and been cruelly wronged, but for all that he had been the guiding star which had led him to his long-lost loved one.
And while Grey crouched upon the ground with the child in his arms, the trapper stood outside with rifle in hand, and eyes keenly alert. The sun rose slowly above the tree tops, and at its appearing the slinking Indians crouched back among the trees, like tigers lying in wait for their prey.
Slowly Madeline opened her eyes, and looked wearily around. The swirl of raging water still sounded in her ears. Dimly she saw two forms standing by the bed, and then oblivion. When she again awoke the morning was well advanced. Her sleep had been deep, and she felt much refreshed. But how pleasant it was to be there in that quiet room! Her mind went back with a rush to the terrible experience in the rapids. She remembered standing for an instant in the reeling canoe, calling for help, ere she had taken that mad plunge into the icy water. How had she been rescued? Who had dared to snatch her from that horrible place, and what was she doing here in this room? Where was Donnie? She recalled his pathetic figure standing upon the shore, holding out to her his little pleading hands. What had become of the boy? And the Indian woman, Nadu, where was she? A sense of fear smote her heart as she saw again that sinister dusky face, and those cruel, glaring eyes. She was her bitter enemy, she realised that now. In what way had she offended the Indian woman? Why had she tried to destroy her? And she had been saved from the rapids! Who had done it? She must know. She must find out. Perhaps the Indians did it. But why was she lying in this quiet room? Her bed was a small cot placed against the wall. The coverings were only dark blankets, but they seemed perfectly clean.
The room was simply furnished; a large bear skin on the rough floor, a rude table close to the window, littered with papers, and a small bench near by. Her eyes rested upon a few books on a shelf upon the wall. The owner of the place, she thought, must do some reading. Several pictures tacked to the roughly hewn logs attracted her attention. Some were evidently taken from magazines, while others were crayon drawings, and a few were done in water colours by no mean hand. One of the latter aroused her interest. It was that of a young Indian woman, with bright eyes, with a gentle smile upon her lips, and her black hair, parted in the middle, was combed smoothly back. The expression upon her face exhibited confidence and sweet peace. As Madeline studied this picture something told her that she had seen that face before, and she started as Nadu flashed into her mind. Why had she thought of her? she wondered. What connection had such a creature with that fair vision before her? In those clear, trusting eyes there was no resemblance to the fiery orbs of jealousy upon which she had recently gazed, and those slightly parted lips had no suggestion of the cruel smile of hatred. No, it could not be. The two faces were so different. It must be her own fancy which was deceiving her. And yet, why did she think of Nadu when looking at the picture?
Her musing was interrupted by a light step on the right. Turning her head she saw a middle-aged Indian entering, and in her hands a small wooden tray upon which were several dishes. This she placed upon the table, and then came to the bedside. Her lips parted in a pleased smile as she gazed down upon the white face enwreathed with loose tresses of dark-brown hair. To Madeline it was pleasant to look into those kindly eyes, and to feel that she was among friends. With this clean and neatly dressed native near she knew that she had no cause to fear.
"I am so glad to see you," she faintly murmured. "Will you tell me how I came here?"
But the Indian woman only smiled, and crossing the room brought over the tray and placed it upon the edge of the bed.
"Soup," she said. "Eat. Good."
Rising on her elbow Madeline dipped the spoon into the dish and tasted the broth. It was certainly pleasant after the horrible stuff which had been tossed before her on that dreadful journey. Seeing that her patient was doing justice to the food she had brought, the Indian woman again smiled and left the room.
A few minutes later the long-bearded, white-haired man entered. His tall commanding figure was drawn to its full height, and to Madeline he seemed like a veritable giant. Sad grey eyes, somewhat faded, gazed into hers from beneath beetling brows. Little did Madeline know that those same eyes had for forty years faced death unflinchingly many a time in the far Northland. Swiftly the visitor crossed the room and stood by her side.
"I am so glad you are better."
It was a soft, low voice which spoke, accompanied by a slight accent of embarrassment. The speaker did not appear to be perfectly at ease, and this Madeline noted.
"I am feeling stronger now," she replied, holding out to him a firm white hand. "This soup has done me much good. Won't you sit by my side, for I wish to ask you some questions? There, that's better," she continued, as he quietly obeyed.
"Do you feel strong enough to talk?" questioned the man. "You are very weak."
"But I must talk," Madeline pleaded. "Oh, please tell me how I came here, and what has happened to Donnie. Is he safe?"
"I can tell you but little. You were brought here early this morning by two men, but I saw nothing of any boy."
"Oh, where is he—the poor darling!" cried Madeline as she half started from the bed. "I last saw him standing on the shore, stretching out his little hands to me as the canoe swept me down toward that horrible place."
"Do not excite yourself," remonstrated the man. "You must reserve your strength."
"I know it. I know it. But I have been through so much to-day."
Then she briefly told the story of the capture, the journey overland, and the base act of the Indian woman. "When I shot from the canoe," she concluded, "I gave up all hope. I cannot understand how I was saved."
"Those men must have been near."
"Do you know who they were?"
"No. I asked no questions. They left so quickly that I really had no opportunity."
"But you saw them, though. What did they look like?"
"One was an old man of powerful build, with a long beard and white hair. He wore, I think, a buckskin jacket."
"And the other?" Madeline's heart beat fast, for an idea had suddenly seized her mind.
"He was a young man, tall, and straight as an arrow."
"And did he have dark-brown eyes?" she questioned.
"I believe he did. As a rule I am not good at remembering such things. I noticed his, however, for they were so full of trouble, and looked as if they had not closed in sleep for several nights."
"And his hair, was it dark and wavy?"
"It was dark, but soaked with water, as were his clothes."
"And you did not ask him his name," she mused. "That was strange. Were you not curious to know?"
"As I said before, there was little time for that. Besides," and here he hesitated, "we learn in the North not to ask too many questions."
Madeline noted his hesitation, and glanced quickly up. What did he mean? she mentally asked herself. What did his words signify? There was something about this tall, reserved man which filled her with confidence. He was so different from many she had met. He seemed to belong to another world from the one which had been hers for years. It brought back memories of other days. A mistiness filled her eyes, and despite her efforts tears flowed down her cheeks. She tried to repress her emotion, but in vain. Burying her face in her hands, she sobbed like a child, while the man looked at her in wonderment. At length she brushed away the tears, and tried to smile.
"Forgive me," she simply remarked. "But you know not what I have suffered. You believe me to be one of those creatures you sometimes see in the North. But I am not! Before God, I say I am not! Listen! I had a home, surrounded by loved ones. I left on a visit to America. The ship was wrecked. I was rescued by a woman, who has held me in bondage for years. I have tried time and again to escape, but without avail. We came North, and at last to Hishu. I had given up all hope when suddenly one day, over a week ago, a man came to the place, bringing in a child he had rescued from death. He was a Mounted Policeman, and I knew him to be Norman Grey, a friend of mine in the dear old happy days. He saw me, and believed me to be a fallen woman. I believe it was he who saved me from death this morning."
"And who was the other?" came the question.
"It must be Buckskin Dan, a fine old trapper living at Hishu."
"You are a long way from Hishu," the man quietly remarked. "Were the Indians Hishus who stole you away?"
"The woman belongs there," Madeline replied. "She is the wife of Siwash Bill, and her name is Nadu. I cannot imagine what she has against me. I saw her only occasionally at Hishu."
It was now the man's turn to start, while a pained expression crossed his face. He was about to reply, but instead he moved a little and looked long and silently at the picture of the young Indian maiden hanging on the wall near the table.
"And you say it was Nadu?" he at length asked, while a deep sigh escaped his lips. "Are you sure?"
"Certain. I have good reason to know, have I not?"
"Yes, yes. Indeed, you have. But, oh, this is a blow to me. Could you believe that was once Nadu?" and he pointed toward the picture.
"I did think of her," Madeline replied, "when I saw it first, but thought I must be mistaken."
"No, you were not. Would to God that you were. That was Nadu when she was a sweet, innocent child, the flower of the Northland. Her father, a chief, was killed in a fierce battle. We loved her—my dear wife and I—and it almost broke our hearts when we gave her to that white man. They were joined in holy wedlock, but we feared, yes, we feared, for her. And oh, how changed must she be! My poor Nadu! My darling child!"
"Is that your wife who brought me this delicious broth?" Then seeing the astonished look upon the old man's face she hastily added, "Forgive me. I fear I have made a mistake. But as trappers are sometimes married to Indian women in the North, I took it for granted it was so in your case."
"But with me it was not so," and the old man placed his hand to his forehead in an abstracted manner as he replied. "I had a wife, good and true. We came to the North together forty years ago. It's five years now since she left me, and she lies over yonder in the Indian Cemetery. It was she who made those drawings, and painted that picture. She was ever skilful with the pencil and brush. She loved Nadu dearly, and never could become reconciled to the girl marrying that fur-trader. I believe it had much to do with her death."
"Have you really lived as a trapper and hunter for forty years in the North!" exclaimed Madeline in astonishment. "And to think of your wife being here for most of that time! How lonely she must have been when you were away from home."
A slight expression of amusement shone in the old man's eyes as he listened.
"I have been a hunter for forty years," he replied, "but I have trapped very little. I have followed the chase, but have had meagre success."
"Is game scarce? I should think it would be plentiful here."
"Miss—" Here the old man paused. It was the first time that he had even hinted as to her name.
"Normsell—Madeline Normsell," she added.
"Well, Miss Normsell, there is an abundance of game, but the hunters are few, and scattered. I think it was expressed much better many years ago by One when He said, 'The field is already white unto the harvest, but the labourers are few.'"
Madeline had been looking straight before her during the greater part of this conversation. But now she glanced quickly up, while a new light of understanding overspread her face. These last words set her thinking.
"Have I made a stupid blunder?" she asked. "I mistook you for a trapper."
"It was quite natural, Miss Normsell."
"And you are really a missionary."
"Yes. That is why I am here."
"Oh, now I see. Now I comprehend."
"Are you a bishop? You look like one."
"No; merely Charles Nordis—who is trying to do some work for the Master among these Northern natives."
"And you have been here for forty years?"
"Not on this side of the mountain. Thirty years were passed on the great Mackenzie River—and only the last ten here."
"And all that time among the Indians! How they must love you."
"If they do they seldom show it. This want of response has so often discouraged the missionaries. They look for some gratitude for what they have done. I have learned not to expect it, and so am never disappointed. I think the Indians beyond the mountains loved me in their own way, and were sorry when I left. But the natives here are hard and cruel. I cannot seem to make any impression upon them at all. They are held in thrall by the crafty Medicine Men, and are fond of tribal wars."
"But you have one faithful Indian in that woman who brought me the soup," Madeline remarked.
"Ah, Nancy du Nord, you mean. Yes, she is a good soul. But she is from the Mackenzie River. She and her husband followed me across the mountains, and have been here ever since. My dear wife did much for her."
"Are the Indians away now?" Madeline asked.
"Yes, although they may return at any moment. There are nasty reports abroad, and I fear there will be trouble with the Hishus. They have been trespassing, so it seems, upon the Big Lakes' ancestral hunting-grounds. From time immemorial this has been the cause of strife. The Hishus are ugly people when once aroused. Oh, for a missionary to work among them!"
"There is one of the Hishus," Madeline replied, "who appears to be rather a superior Indian. That is, Hishu Sam. He has been very good to me."
"Hishu Sam, did you say?" and the missionary leaned forward. "I remember the name. When did I meet him? Ah, yes, now I recollect. It was several years ago. I was up the river in the direction of Hishu. I camped near him one night. He had a very sick child, a little girl, and I was able to give her some medicine so that she recovered. You see here in the North one has to be a doctor as well as a missionary. I had forgotten the incident until you mentioned the name."
"Was that all you did?" Madeline queried.
"Yes; I can't think of anything else."
"Did you talk any with the Indian? Did you teach him anything?"
"Why, yes, to be sure. I stayed with him and his wife for several days, and during that time I told them the old, old story, to which they listened most attentively. But I fear it was of little use."
"Indeed it was, Mr. Nordis," Madeline replied. "I have often wondered about that Indian; he is so different from the other Hishus. Several times when he came to our house he asked me questions in broken English about Christ, and was so anxious to learn. Now I understand. It was the little seed you sowed in his heart which did so much for him."
The missionary did not reply to these words, but sat very still with head bent forward, as if in deep thought. Madeline lay there, and watched him with much interest. She felt tired after this conversation, and wished to think over what she had heard. Her mind turned to Norman, for she firmly believed it was he who had rescued her. Had he gone after Donnie, she wondered, and would he come back to her?
Presently she was aroused from her reverie by the sudden entrance of Nancy du Nord. Upon her face was a look of fear, and her agitated manner plainly showed that something was wrong. She spoke rapidly in the Indian tongue, and all that Madeline could understand was the one word "Hishu."
The effect upon the missionary was magical. Deep concern gave place to the meditative expression as he started to his feet and hurried from the room.