In the Brooding Wild

Later he came to where three huts were hidden away amongst the vast tree-trunks. They were so placed, and so disguised, as to be almost hidden until the wanderer chanced right upon them. These habitations were a part of Victor’s secret life. There was a strange mushroom look about them; low walls of muck-daubed logs supported wide-stretching roofs of reeds, which, in their turn, supported a thick covering of soot-begrimed snow. He paused near by and uttered a low call, and presently a tall girl emerged from one of the doors. She walked slowly toward him with proud, erect carriage, while at her heels followed two fierce husky dogs, moving with all the large dignity of honoured guards. The woman was taller than the trader, and her beauty of figure was in no wise hidden by the blanket clothing she wore. They talked earnestly together for some time, and then, in answer to a further summons from Victor, they were joined by a tall, gaunt man, with the solemn cast of face of an Indian, and a pair of eyes as darkly brooding as those of a moose. Although he was very dark-skinned he was plainly of the bastard race of his companions, and a certain resemblance between himself and the woman spoke of relationship.

The three talked long and seriously, and finally Victor returned alone to the store. Again he took up his stand in the doorway and remained gazing out upon the valley of the Little Choyeuse Creek, and the more distant crags of the foothills beyond.

His face was serious; serious even for the wild, where all levity seems out of place, and laughter jars upon the solemnity of the life and death struggle for existence which is for ever being fought out there. On his brow was a pucker of deep thought, whilst his eyes shone with a look which seemed to have gathered from his surroundings much of the cunning which belongs to the creatures of the forest. His usual expression of good-fellowship had passed; and in its place appeared a hungry, avaricious look which, although always there, was generally hidden behind a superficial geniality. Victor had hitherto lived fairly honestly because there was little or no temptation to do otherwise where his trading-post was stationed. But it was not his nature to do so. And as he stood gazing out upon the rugged picture before him he knew he was quite unobserved; and so the rough soul within him was laid bare to the grey light of the world.

CHAPTER IV.
THE HOODED MAN

The mere suggestion of the possibility of a woman’s presence had rudely broken up the even calm of Ralph and Nick Westley’s lives. To turn back to the peace of their mountain home without an effort to discover so fair and strange a creature as this White Squaw would have been impossible.

These men had known no real youth. They had fought the battle of life from the earliest childhood, they had lived lives as dispassionate and cold as the glaciers of their mountain home. Recreation was almost unknown to them. Toil, unremitting, arduous, had been their lot. Thus Nature had been defied; and now she was coming back on them as inevitably as the sun rises and sets, and the seasons come and go. They failed to realize their danger; they had no understanding of the passions that moved them, and so they hurried headlong upon the trail that was to lead them they knew not whither, but which was shadowed by disaster every foot of the way. To them temptation was irresistible for they had never known the teaching of restraint; it was the passionate rending of the bonds which had all too long stifled their youth.

Even the dogs realized the change in their masters. Nick’s lash fell heavily and frequently, and the hardy brutes, who loved the toil of the trace, and the incessant song of the trailing sled, fell to wondering at the change, and the pace they were called upon to make. It was not their nature to complain; their pride was the stubborn, unbending pride of savage power, and their reply to the wealing thong was always the reply their driver sought. Faster and faster they journeyed as the uncooling ardour of their master’s spirits rose.

The snow lay thick and heavy, and every inch of the wild, unmeasured trail had to be broken. The Northland giants thronged about them, glistening in their impenetrable armour and crested by the silvery burnish of their glacial headpieces. They frowned vastly, yet with a sublime contempt, at the puny intrusion of their solitude. But the fiery spirit impelling the brothers was a power which defied the overwhelming grandeur of the mountain world, and rendered insignificant the trials they encountered. The cry was “On!” and the dogs laboured as only these burden-bearers of the North can labour.

The dark day ripened; and, as the dull sun crept out from behind the greyness, and revealed the frost in the air, the temperature dropped lower and lower. And the animal world peeped furtively out upon the strange sight of creatures like themselves toiling at the command of beings whose voices had not even the power to smite the mountainsides with boastful defiance as theirs were wont to do.

Then the daylight waned. The sky returned to its greyness as the night shades rose, and a bitter breeze shuddered through the woods and along the valleys. The sounds of the forest rose in mournful cadence, and, as the profundity of the mountain night settled heavily upon the world, the timber-wolf, the outlaw of the region, moved abroad, lifting his voice in a cry half-mournful, half-exultant.

Camp was pitched well clear of the forest and a large fire kindled; and the savage night-prowlers drew forth from the woodland shadows. The men proceeded silently with their various tasks. Ralph prepared their own food, and soon a savoury odour tickled the nostrils of those beyond the circle of the firelight. Nick thawed out the dogs’ evening meal and distributed it impartially, standing over the hungry beasts with a club to see that each got the full benefit of his portion. It was a strange sight for the furtive eyes that looked on, and a tantalizing one, but they dared not draw near, for the fire threatened them, and, besides, they possessed a keen instinct of caution.

After supper the men rested in spells, one always sitting up by the fire whilst the other slept in the comfort of his fur-lined “Arctic bag.” And presently the blackness about lightened, and the dark shadows prowling became visible to the eyes of the sentry. The moon had risen, but was still hidden somewhere behind the great mountains. Its light had effect, that was all. And as the night wore on the shadows grew bolder and their presence kept the sentry ever on the alert. For the most part he sat still, swathed to the eyes in his furs; he huddled down over the fire smoking, every now and then pausing to thaw the nicotine in the stem of his pipe. But his eyes seemed to be watching in every direction at once. Nor was the vaguest shadow lost to their quick flashing glances.

The dogs, sleeping in their snow-burrows, rested their muscles, dreaming peacefully of happy hunting-grounds. Their safety was assured under the watchful eyes of their masters; the forest world had no terrors for them.

Towards dawn Nick was on the watch. The aspect of the night had quite changed. The moon, large, full, brilliant, was directly overhead, and the stars, like magnificent dewdrops, hung richly in the sky. Away to the north, just clear of a stretch of heaven-high peaks, the scintillating shafts of the northern lights shuddered convulsively, like skeleton arms outstretched to grasp the rich gems which hung just beyond their reach. The moving shadows had changed to material forms. Lank, gaunt, hungry-looking beasts crowded just beyond the fire-lit circle; shaggy-coated creatures, with manes a-bristle and baleful eyes which gazed angrily upon the camp.

Nick saw all these; could have counted them, so watchful was he. The wolves were of small account, but there were other creatures which needed his most vigilant attention. Twice in the night he had seen two green-glowing eyes staring down upon him from among the branches of one of the trees on the edge of the forest. He knew those eyes, as who of his calling would not; a puma was crouching along the wide-spreading bough.

He stealthily drew his gun towards him. He was in the act of raising it to his shoulder when the eyes were abruptly withdrawn. The time passed on. He knew that the puma had not departed, and he waited, ready. The eyes reappeared. Up leapt the rifle, but ere his hand had compressed the trigger a sound from behind arrested him. His head turned instantly, and, gazing through the light, drifting fire smoke, he beheld the outline of a monstrous figure bearing down upon the camp in an almost human manner. In size the newcomer dwarfed the trapper; it came slowly with a shuffling gait. Suddenly it dropped to all-fours and came on quicker. Nick hesitated only for a second. His mouth set firmly and his brows contracted. He knew that at all hazards he must settle the puma first. He glanced at the sleeping Ralph. He was about to rouse him; then he changed his mind and swung round upon the puma, leaving the fire between himself and the other. He took a long and deadly aim. The glowing eyes offered a splendid target and he knew he must not miss. A report rang out, followed almost instantaneously by a piteous, half-human shriek of pain; then came the sound of a body falling, and the eyes had vanished. After firing Nick swung round to the figure beyond the fire. It loomed vast in the yellow light and was reared to its full height not ten yards away. A low, snarling growl came from it, and the sound was dreadful in its suppressed ferocity. Ralph was now sitting up gazing at the oncoming brute,–a magnificent grizzly. Nick stooped, seized a blazing log from the fire, and dashed out to meet the intruder.

It was a strange and impressive sight, this encounter of man and beast. But Nick, with his wide experience, was master of the situation. He boldly went up to within two yards of his savage and fearless foe and dashed the burning brand into the creature’s face. Down dropped the grizzly upon all-fours again, and, with a roar of pain and terror, ambled hastily away into the forest.

“B’ar?” questioned Ralph, from the shelter of his fur bag.

“Yes–an’ puma,” replied Nick unconcernedly, as he returned to his seat to await the coming of morning.

And so the long night passed, and the slow day broke over the bleak, pitiless world. The dogs awoke, and clambered from their warm, snowy couches. The routine of the “long trail” obtained, and once more the song of the sled rang out at the heels of the eager beasts.

Nor was the short day and long weary night in such a region without effect upon the men. A feeling of superstitious uneasiness seized upon Nick. He said nothing, he was possibly too ashamed of it to do so, but the dread steadily grew, and no effort of his seemed to have power to dispel it. As he moved along beside his dogs he would shoot swift, fearful glances at the heights above, or back over the trail, or on ahead to some deep, dark gorge they might be approaching. He grew irritable. The darkness of the woods would sometimes hold his attention for hours, while the expression of his eyes would tell of the strange thoughts passing behind them. And Ralph, though more unemotional than his brother, was scarcely less affected. It was startling in such men, yet was it hardly to be wondered at in so overpowering a waste.

It was still the morning of the second day. Nick’s whip had been silent for a long time. His eyes were gazing out afar. Sometimes up at the lowering sky, where the peaks were lost in a sea of dark cloud, sometimes down, with a brooding fire, into the forest depths. Ralph had observed the change in his brother and sympathy prompted him to draw up alongside him.

“What’s ailin’ ye?” he asked.

Nick shook his head; he could not say that anything ailed him.

“Thought, maybe ther’ was somethin’ amiss,” went on his brother, half-apologetically. He felt himself that he must talk.

Then Nick was seized with a desire to confide in the only lifelong friend he had ever known.

“Ther’ ain’t nothin’ amiss, zac’ly,” he said. And he got no farther.

“Hah!”

Ralph looked round sharply. It seemed as if something were stirring about him. He waited expectantly. There was nothing unusual in sight. A wild panorama of snowy grandeur; mountain and valley and wood, that was all.

They traipsed on in silence, but now they journeyed side by side. Both men were strangely moved. Both had heard of the “Dread of the Wild,” but they would have scoffed at the idea of its assailing them. But the haunting clung, and at each step they felt that the next might be the signal for a teeming spirit life to suddenly break up the dreadful calm.

They passed a hollow where the snow was unusually deep and soft. The dogs laboured wearily. They reached the rising end of it, and toiled up the sharp ascent. The top was already in sight and a fresh vista of the interminable peaks broke up their view. Without apparent reason Nick suddenly drew up and a sharp exclamation broke from him. The dogs lay down in the traces, and both men gazed back into the hollow they had left. Nick towered erect, and, with eyes staring, pointed at a low hill on the other side of it.

Ralph followed the direction of the outstretched arm. And as he looked he held his breath, for something seemed to grip his throat.

Then a moment later words, sounding hoarse and stifled, came from the depths of his storm-collar.

“Who–who is it?”

Nick did not answer. Both were staring out across the hollow at the tall motionless figure of a man, and their eyes were filled with an expression of painful awe. The figure was aggressively distinct, silhouetted as it was against a barren, snow-clad crag. They might have been gazing at a statue, so still the figure stood. It was enveloped in fur, so far as the watchers could tell, but what impressed them most was the strange hood which covered the head. The figure was too distant for them to have distinguished the features of the face had they been visible, but, as it was, they were lost within the folds of the grey hood.

There came an ominous click from behind. Ralph turned suddenly and seized his brother’s arm as he was in the act of raising his rifle to his shoulder. The gun was lowered, and the intense face of Nick scowled at the author of the interruption.

“It’s–it ain’t a human crittur,” he said hoarsely.

“It’s a man,” retorted Ralph, without releasing his hold.

And the two brothers became silent.

They stood watching for a long time. Neither spoke again, they had nothing to say. Their thoughts occupied them with strange apprehension while the dogs sprawled in the snow in the spiritless manner of their kind when the labour of the traces is not demanded of them. The figure on the hill stood quite still. The silence of the wild was profound. No wind stirred to relieve it, and even under their warm furs the two men watching shivered as with cold.

At last the movement they had awaited came. The Hooded Man turned towards them. One long arm was raised and he pointed away at a tall hill. Then his arm moved, and he seemed to be pointing out certain landmarks for his own benefit. Again, on a sudden, as he fronted the direction where the brothers stood, he dropped his arm, and, a moment later, disappeared on the other side of the hill. The two men remained gazing out across the hollow for some while longer, but as the Hooded Man did not return they turned back to their dogs and continued their journey.

Nick shook his head in a dissatisfied manner. Ralph said nothing for awhile. He was beginning to doubt his own assertion.

The dogs leapt at their breast-draws and the sled moved forward. The two men ran side by side. When Nick at length spoke it was to reiterate his fears.

“Ther’ wa’n’t no face showed,” he said abruptly.

“No,” replied Ralph. Then he added thoughtfully: “He hadn’t no dogs, neither.”

“He was alone, seemly. Ther’ wa’n’t no camp outfit.”

Ralph shook his head and brushed away the ice about his mouth with the back of his beaver mitt.

There was a painful atmosphere of disquiet about the two men. Their backward glances spoke far louder than words. Had their mission been in the nature of their ordinary calling they would possibly have felt nothing but curiosity, and their curiosity would have led them to investigate further, but as it was, all their inclinations tended in the opposite direction. “The Dread of the Wild” had come to them.

When they camped at midday things were no better. They had seen nothing more to disturb them, but the thoughts of both had turned upon the night, so long and drear, which was to come; and the “dread” grew stronger.

After the noon meal Nick harnessed the dogs while Ralph stowed the chattels. They were on a hillside overlooking a wide valley of unbroken forest. All was ready for a start and Nick gave a wide, comprehensive glance around. The magic word “Mush,” which would send the dogs headlong at their breast harness, hovered on his lips, but ere he gave it utterance it changed into an ejaculation of horror.

“By Gar!” Then after a thrilling pause, “The Hood!”

Ralph, standing ready to break the sled out, turned.

“Hey!” he ejaculated; and horror was in his tone, too.

There, in the hazy distance, more than three miles away, was the dim figure of the Hooded Man racing over the snow. His course lay on the far side of the valley and he was to the rear of them.

Nick turned back to the dogs, the command “Mush!” rang out with biting emphasis, and the dogs and men, as though both were animated by the same overwhelming fear, raced down the virgin trail. Their pace was a headlong flight.

Night came, and they camped in the open. The night was blacker, and longer, more weary and shadowy than the first, by reason of the “dread” which had now become the “Dread of the Hooded Man.” Even thoughts of the White Squaw took a secondary place in the minds of the brothers, for, at every turn, they felt that their steps were dogged by that other strange creature of the wild. When morning came they knew, without looking, that somewhere, coldly surveying their camp, the grey-hooded figure would be watching and waiting for them to move on. And sure enough, as the eager eyes looked out over the snow and forest, the grim, silent figure was there, watching, watching; but no nearer to them.

That night they came to the Moosefoot Reserve, and both men experienced such nervous relief as they had never before known. They camped within sight of the Indian teepees and log huts, but they waited for morning before they approached the chief.

Over their fire they discussed their plans with seriousness. Neither of them could speak the Moosefoot language, but they could talk both Sioux and Cree, and they did not doubt but there would be interpreters about the chief.

“We’ll see him first thing, I guess,” said the eager Nick. “Guess them two black foxes’ll fix him good. He’ll git a goodish bit o’ trade for ’em.”

“An’ we’ll promise him powder, an’ slugs, an’ essences,” said the cautious Ralph. “We’ll get his yarn first an’ pay after,” he added, as he sipped his coffee.

Nick nodded.

“We’ll fin’ that crittur, sure,” he said.

And he sat gazing upon the pictures his mind conjured up as he watched the flaming logs. In every tongue of flame he beheld the glowing face Victor had told them of, and, as the smoke rolled up into the black vault of night, he seemed to see the elusive form of the White Squaw floating in its midst. Ralph’s slower imagination was less fantastically, but no less deeply, stirred.

At daybreak they sought Man-of-the-Snow-Hill’s lodge. They found him a grizzled wreck of extreme age. He was surrounded by his medicine-men, his young chiefs and his squaws. And by the gathering in the smoke-begrimed hut they knew that their approach had been made known.

Perfect silence reigned as the white men entered. An Indian silence; such silence as it would be hard to find anywhere but in the primitive dwelling. The atmosphere of the place was heavy with the pungent odours of Killi-ka-nik. Both men and women were smoking it in pipes of red clay with reed stems, and they passed this sign of friendship from one to another in solemn fashion. All were clad in the parti-coloured blanket, and sat hunched upon their quarters more like beasts than human creatures, yet with that perfect air of dignity which the Indian seldom loses.

Man-of-the-Snow-Hill alone differed in his dress and attitude. He was wrapped in a large buffalo robe, and was stretched out upon a pile of skins to ease his rheumatics, while, spread out before him, were a number of charms and much “med’cine,” which had been so set by his wise men to alleviate his ailments. In the centre of the throng a fire smouldered, and the smoke therefrom rose sullenly upon the dense air and drifted out through a hole in the flat roof. Man-of-the-Snow-Hill blinked his watery eyes as the strangers entered, and passed his pipe to his favourite squaw, a buxom, sleepy-eyed beauty who sat upon his right. Then he grunted intelligently as he saw the visitors deposit their pile of presents upon the floor, and, in the manner of the neche, seat themselves beside it.

Ralph spoke his greeting in Indian fashion.

“How,” he said.

“How!” replied Man-of-the-Snow-Hill, in a thin, reedy voice. And his followers echoed the sentiment in chorus.

Then the aged chief held out his hand in further greeting. And each neche in turn shook the white men by the hand.

The visitors filled and lighted their pipes, and passed their plugs of tobacco to the others. Then Ralph began to speak in Cree.

“We come far to speak with Man-of-the-Snow-Hill,” he began.

The watery-eyed chief shook his head, grunting. The squaws laughed, and the med’cine-men closed their eyes in sign of not understanding the tongue in which he spoke. Then a young chief harangued his comrades. He could understand the tongue and would interpret. The old chief nodded approval and continued to gaze greedily at the presents.

Now the conversation proceeded quite smoothly.

“We wish to speak with the great Man-of-the-Snow-Hill in private,” Ralph said. “We have much to say, and many presents.”

The chief blinked with satisfaction, and grunted appreciation. His lined face lit up. He waved one shaking arm and his followers reluctantly departed. All except the interpreter and the chief squaw.

Then Ralph went on. Nick had care of the presents, and on him the cunning old chief kept his eyes. He opened a large bag of beads and emptied some on a spread of cheap print. The squaw’s eyes smiled greedily.

“We wish the great chief well,” said Ralph, using all the flowery embellishments of the Cree tongue, “and we would live in peace. We have tobacco, beads, skins, prints, and blankets. And we would lay them all at the feet of the great man, the mighty hunter, if he would help us to find that which we seek.”

Ralph signed to his brother and Nick laid out an array of presents and passed them with due solemnity to the old man.

“Ow-ow!” grunted Man-of-the-Snow-Hill, as he waved the things away to his squaw. He was not satisfied, and his eyes watered as though he were weeping.

Then Ralph went on.

“We have come on the ‘long trail’ through the mountains. And we seek the White Squaw of the Moosefoot Indians.”

The chief remained quite calm, but his bleared old eyes shot a sidelong gleam at the speaker in which there was little friendliness. No other movement was allowed to give evidence of disquiet. It is part of the upbringing of the neche to eschew all outward signs of emotion. The Sun Dance, when the braves are made, is the necessary education in this direction. Ralph saw the look but failed to take its meaning. The squaw watched the white men with keen interest. Nick was groping about in the depths of a gunny-sack.

Ralph plunged into the fantastic story which he and Nick had prepared. The language of the Cree helped him, for the natural colouring of the Indian tongues is as flowery as that of any Eastern race.

“We come from beyond the mountains, from the hunting-grounds of forest and river where the great fathers of the Moosefoot Indians dwelt. We come to tell the White Squaw that the land cries out for her, and the return of the children of the Moose. We come to speak with her of these things, for the time has come when she must leave her forest home and return to her own land. Man-of-the-Snow-Hill must show us the way. We have many presents which we will give him.”

“It is well,” said the great man, closing his eyes while the water oozed from between the compressed lids. “The white men are the friends of the Moosefoot people, and they have many presents. Have they fire-water?”

Nick produced some bottles and the great man reached for them greedily. But the other withheld them.

“What will Man-of-the-Snow-Hill do for the fire-water?” Ralph asked.

The interpreter passed the word.

“He will send his favourite squaw to guide the white men,” he answered at once. “He can do no more.”

A dozen bottles of vanilla essence passed over to the chief. A number of other presents were handed to him. Then without a word the squaw arose and accompanied the white men out.

And without further delay the brothers continued their journey. Fleet of foot, untiring, silent as only an Indian woman can be, the squaw led the way. North, north; always north they travelled, over hill, through forest and deep white valley, without let-up to their eager speed. The superstitious dread which had hitherto so afflicted the white men now fell away from them. Night came on swift and silent, and camp was pitched on the edge of a dense forest.

Ere the daylight had quite died out the squaw took the two men to the crest of a hill. She looked out across the virgin carpet of towering pines below them and pointed with one blanket-covered arm outstretched. She was silent while she indicated several points in the vast panorama before her. Then she tried to tell them something.

But her language was the language of her tribe, and neither of the men could understand her. Then she spoke in the language of signs, which all Indians speak so well.

She raised her hand, pointing eastward, till it reached a point directly overhead. Then she pointed to her feet, and her hand moved slowly in a northern direction, after which she made a running movement with her feet. Then she bent her body and appeared to be gazing about her, searching. Finally she pointed to two very large trees which stood out apart from their fellows. Then again came the motion of running, which finished quickly, and she pointed first to Nick’s face and then to herself. After that she stood motionless, with arms folded over her bosom. And the two men read her meaning.

At daylight they were to start out northward and travel until midday. Then they were to halt and search the outskirts of the forest until they found two mammoth trees standing apart. The space between them was the mouth of a pathway into the heart of the forest. They were to traverse this path a short distance, and they would discover the White Squaw.

Ralph nodded his head slowly in token of comprehension. He waited to see if she had aught further to say. But the woman remained standing where she was, slightly aloof and with her arms folded. Her sleepy eyes were watching the last dying gleam of daylight away in the west. Suddenly, out upon the still air, came a doleful cry. It was long-drawn-out and mournful, but it travelled as mountain cries will travel. It came waving upon the air with a certain rise and fall in it like the rippling of water. It rose up, up, and then lingeringly died out. The men listened, and looked in the direction whence it came, and, as they looked, a feeling of awe swept over them. In a rush the old “dread” awoke, and their gaze was filled with the expression of it.

Out to the west the forest lay gloomy, brooding; and within a few hundred yards of them stood the mighty sentry trees which the squaw had pointed out. But now between them, breaking up the dead white carpet which covered the earth, the tall form of the Hooded Man stood silhouetted. Grim and ghostly he looked, as, motionless, he gazed upon the watchers.

With the instinct of self-defence which the wild teaches so insistently, Nick unslung his rifle. Ere Ralph could stay him the shot rang out, echoing away over the tree-tops. The figure had disappeared, and the unblemished carpet of snow was as it had been before. Nick stood aghast, for he was a dead shot. Ralph gazed helplessly at the spot where the man had stood.

Suddenly Nick gasped.

“It–it ain’t human.”

And Ralph had no answer to make.

Then presently they turned to where the Moosefoot squaw had stood. She, too, had gone; vanished as completely as had the Hooded Man. There was the trail of her snow-shoes ruffling the snow, and the men ran following it as far as the forest edge; but here they stood. They could follow no further. Night was upon them. Slowly they returned to camp.

The next day they continued their journey with almost fanatical persistence. They found no sentry-trees such as the squaw had described. Forest, yes, but where in that region could they fail to find forest? The abode of the White Squaw was nowhere to be found.

That night they decided upon their next move in the quiet, terse manner of men who cannot bring themselves to speak of the strange feelings which possess them; who are ashamed of their own weakness, and yet must acknowledge it to themselves.

“An’ to-morrow–” said Nick, glancing apprehensively around beyond the fire, over which they were sitting, fighting the deadly cold of the night.

“To-morrow?” echoed Ralph.

“Where?” asked Nick, looking away towards the south.

Ralph followed the direction of his brother’s gaze.

“Um.” And he nodded.

“What–south?”

“South.”

“An’ the Wh–”

Ralph shook his head, and smoked on solemnly.