THE QUEST OF THE WHITE SQUAW
Christmas had gone by and the new
year was nearing the end of its first month.
It was many weeks since Victor Gagnon had come to the
Westley’s dugout on that stormy evening.
But his visit had not been forgotten. The story
of the White Squaw had made an impression upon Nick
such as the half-breed could never have anticipated.
Ralph had thought much of it too, but, left to himself,
he would probably have forgotten it, or, at most,
have merely remembered it as a good yarn.
But this he was not allowed to do.
Nick was enthusiastic. The romance of the mountains
was in his blood, and that blood was glowing with the
primest life of man. The fire of youth had never
been stirred within him, but it was there, as surely
as it is in every human creature. Both men were
nearing forty years of age, and, beyond the associations
of the trader’s place, they had never mixed
with their fellows.
The dream of this beautiful White
Squaw had come to Nick; and, in the solitude of the
forest, in the snow-bound wild, it remained with him,
a vision of such joy as he had never before dreamed.
The name of “woman” held for him suggestions
of unknown delights, and the weird surroundings with
which Victor had enveloped the lovely creature made
the White Squaw a vision so alluring that his uncultured
brain was incapable of shutting it out.
And thus it was, as he glided, ghost-like,
through the forests or scaled the snowy crags in the
course of his daily work, the memory of the mysterious
creature remained with him. He thought of her
as he set his traps; he thought of her, as, hard on
the trail of moose, or deer, or wolf, or bear, he
scoured the valleys and hills; in the shadow of the
trees at twilight, in fancy he saw her lurking; even
amidst the black, barren tree-trunks down by the river
banks. His eyes and ears were ever alert with
the half-dread expectation of seeing her or hearing
her voice. The scene Victor had described of
the white huntress leaning upon her rifle was the
most vivid in his imagination, and he told himself
that some day, in the chances of the chase, she might
visit his valleys, his hills.
At night he would talk of her to his
brother, and together they would chum the matter over,
and slowly, in the more phlegmatic Ralph, Nick kindled
the flame with which he himself was consumed.
And so the days wore on; a fresh zest
was added to their toil. Each morning Ralph would
set out with a vague but pleasurable anticipation of
adventure. And as his mind succumbed to the strange
influence of the White Squaw, it coloured for him
what had been the commonplace events of his daily
life. If a buck was started and rushed crashing
through the forest growths, he would pause ere he
raised his rifle to assure himself that it was not
a woman, garbed in the parti-coloured blanket of the
Moosefoot Indians, and with a face radiant as an angel’s.
His slow-moving imagination was deeply stirred.
From the Beginning Nature has spoken
in no uncertain language. “Man shall not
live alone,” she says. Victor Gagnon had
roused these two simple creatures. There was
a woman in the world, other than the mother they had
known, and they began to wonder why the mountains should
be peopled only by the forest beasts and solitary
man.
As February came the time dragged
more heavily than these men had ever known it to drag
before. They no longer sat and talked of the White
Squaw, and speculated as to her identity, and the phenomenon
of her birth, and her mission with regard to her tribe.
Somehow the outspoken enthusiasm of Nick had subsided
into silent brooding; and Ralph needed no longer the
encouragement of his younger brother to urge him to
think of the strange white creature. Each had
taken the subject to himself, and nursed and fostered
it in his own way.
The time was approaching for their
visit to Gagnon’s store. This was the reason
of the dragging days. Both men were eager for
the visit, and the cause of their eagerness was not
far to seek. They wished to see the half-breed
and feed their passion on fresh words of the lovely
creature who had so strangely possessed their imaginations.
They did not neglect the methodical
routine of their duties. When night closed in
Nick saw to the dogs. The great huskies obeyed
only one master who fed them, who cared for them,
who flogged them on the trail with club and whip;
and that was Nick. Ralph they knew not. He
cooked. He was the domestic of the abode, for
he was of a slow nature which could deal with the
small details of such work. Nick was too large
and heavy in his mode of life to season a stew.
But in the trapper’s craft it is probable that
he was the better man.
The brothers’ nights were passed
in long, Indian-like silence which ended in sleep.
Tobacco scented the atmosphere of the hut with a heaviness
that was depressing. Each man sat upon his blankets
alternating between his pannikin of coffee and his
pipe, with eyes lowered in deep thought, or turned
upon the glowing stove in earnest, unseeing contemplation.
The night before the appointed day
for starting came round. To-morrow they would
be swinging along over the snowy earth with their dogs
hauling their laden sled. The morrow would see
them on their way to Little Choyeuse Creek, on the
bank of which stood Victor Gagnon’s store.
There was an atmosphere of suppressed
excitement in the doings of that night. There
was much to be done, and the unusual activity almost
seemed a bustle in so quiet an abode. Outside
the door the sled stood piled with the furs which
represented their winter’s catch. The dog
harness was spread out, and all was in readiness.
Inside the hut the two men were packing away the stuff
they must leave behind. Although there was no
fear of their home being invaded it was their custom
to take certain precautions. In that hut were
all their savings, to lose which would mean to lose
the fruits of their life’s labours.
Nick had just moved a chest from the
depths of the patchwork cupboard in which they kept
their food. It was a small receptacle hewn out
of a solid pine log. The lid was attached with
heavy rawhide hinges, and was secured by an iron hasp
held by a clumsy-looking padlock. He set it down
upon his blankets.
“Wer’ll we put this?” he asked abruptly.
Ralph looked at it with his thoughtful eyes.
“It needs considerin’,”
he observed. And he leant himself against a heavy
table which stood by the wall.
“We ain’t opened it since
last fall,” said Nick presently, after a long
and steady survey of the object of their solicitude.
“No.”
“Ther’s a deal in it.”
Ralph groped at the neck of his shirt.
Nick watched his brother’s movements.
“Maybe we’ll figure it up agin.”
Ralph fell in with his brother’s
suggestion and drew out the key which was secured
round his neck. He unlocked the rusty padlock
and threw open the lid. The chest contained six
small bags filled to bursting point and securely tied
with rawhide; one bag, half-full and open; and a thick
packet of Bank of Montreal bills.
Nick knelt down and took out the bills and set them
on one side.
“Ther’s fi’
thousand dollars ther,” he said. “I
’lows they’ve been reckoned careful.”
Then he picked up one of the bags and held it up for
his brother’s inspection. “We tied
them seven bags up all weighin’ equal, but we
ain’t jest sure how much dust they hold.
Seven,” he went on reflectively, “ther’s
on’y six an’ a haf now, since them woodbugs
got at ’em, ’fore we made this chest.
I ’lows Victor’s ’cute to locate
the dust in them furs. It wa’n’t
a good layout wrappin’ the bags in black fox
pelts. Howsum, I’d like to know the value
o’ them bags. Weighs nigh on to three poun’,
I’m guessin’.”
Ralph took the bag and weighed it in his hand.
“More,” he said. “Ther’s
fi’ poun’ o’ weight ther’.”
“Guess them bags together means
fifteen to twenty thousan’ dollars, sure,”
said Nick, his eyes shining at the thought.
“I don’t rightly know,” said Ralph.
“It’s a goodish wad, I ’lows.”
Nick returned the store to the chest which Ralph relocked.
“Where?” asked Nick, glancing
round the hut in search of a secure hiding-place.
“We’ll dig a hole in the
floor under my blankets,” said Ralph after a
pause. “Maybe it’ll be tol’ble
safe there.”
And for greater security the chest
was so disposed. The work was quickly done, and
the clay floor, with the aid of water, was smeared
into its usual smooth appearance again. Then
the brothers sought their rest.
At daybreak came the start. Nick
harnessed the dogs, five great huskies who lived in
the shelter of a rough shed outside the hut when it
stormed, and curled themselves up in the snow, or prowled,
baying the moon, when the night was fine. Fierce-looking
brutes these with their long, keen muzzles, their
high shoulders and deep chests, their drooping quarters
which were massed with muscle right down to the higher
sinews of their great feet. Their ferocity was
chiefly the animal antagonism for their kind; with
Nick they were easy enough to handle, for all had
been well broken beneath the heavy lash which the man
knew better than to spare.
While the dogs were being hitched
into their places Ralph secured the door of the dugout.
There were no half measures here. The door was
nailed up securely, and a barrier of logs set before
it. Then, when all was ready, the men took their
poles and Nick broke out the frost-bound runners of
the sled. At the magic word “Mush!”
the dogs sprang at their breast-draws, and the sled
glided away down the slope with Nick running beside
it, and Ralph following close behind.
Down they dropped into the depths
of the silent valley, Nick guiding his dogs by word
of mouth alone. The lead dog, an especially vile-tempered
husky, needed nothing but the oft-repeated “Gee”
and “Haw” where no packed path was, and
when anything approaching a trail was struck Nick
issued no commands. These creatures of the wild
knew their work, loved it, lived for it, as all who
have seen them labouring over snow and ice must understand.
By the route they must take it was
one hundred miles to Little Choyeuse Creek. One
hundred miles of mountain and forest; one hundred miles
of gloomy silence; one hundred miles of virgin snow,
soft to the feet of the labouring dogs, giving them
no foothold but the sheer anchorage of half-buried
legs. It was a temper-trying journey for man and
beast. The dogs snapped at each other’s
heels, but the men remained silent, hugging their
own thoughts and toiling amidst the pleasure of anticipation.
Skirting the forests wherever possible,
and following the break of the mammoth pine-trees
when no bald opening was to hand they sped along.
The dogs hauled at the easy running sled, while, with
long, gliding strides, the two men kept pace with
them. The hills were faced by the sturdy dogs
with the calm persistence of creatures who know their
own indomitable powers of endurance, while the descents
were made with a speed which was governed by the incessant
use of Nick’s pole.
The evening camp was pitched in the
shelter of the forest. The dogs fed voraciously
and well on their raw fish, for the journey was short
and provisions plentiful. The two men fared in
their usual plain way. They slept in their fur-lined
bags while the wolfish burden-bearers of the North
first prowled, argued out their private quarrels, sang
in chorus as the northern lights moved fantastically
in the sky, and finally curled themselves in their
several snow-burrows.
The camp was struck at daylight next
morning and the journey resumed. The dogs raced
fresh and strong after their rest, and the miles were
devoured with greedy haste. The white valleys
wound in a mazy tangle round the foot of tremendous
hills, but never a mistake in direction was made by
the driver, Nick. To him the trail was as plain
as though every foot of it were marked by well-packed
snow; every landmark was anticipated, every inch of
that chaotic land was an open book. A “Gee,”
or a sudden “Haw” and a fresh basin of
magnificent primeval forest would open before the
travellers. And so the unending ocean of mountain
rollers and forest troughs continued. No variation,
save from the dead white of the open snowfields to
the heavy shadows of the forest. Always the strange,
mystic grey twilight; the dazzling sparkle of glinting
snow; the biting air which stung the flesh like the
sear of a red-hot iron; the steady run of dogs and
men. On, on, with no thought of time to harass
the mind, only the destination to think of.
And when they came to Little Choyeuse
Creek they were welcomed in person by Victor Gagnon.
He awaited them at his threshold. The clumsy stockade
of lateral pine logs, a relic of the old Indian days
when it was necessary for every fur store to be a
fortress, was now a wreck. A few upright posts
were standing, but the rest had long since been used
to bank the stoves with.
The afternoon was spent in barter,
and the time was one of beaming good nature, for Victor
was a shrewd dealer, and the two brothers had little
real estimate of the value of money. They sold
their pelts in sets, regardless of quality. And
when the last was traded, and Victor had parted the
value in stores and cash, there came a strong feeling
of relief to the trappers. Now for their brief
holiday.
It was the custom on the occasion
of these visits to make merry in a temperate way.
Victor was never averse to such doings for there was
French blood in his veins. He could sing a song,
and most of his ditties were either of the old days
of the Red River Valley, or dealt with the early settlers
round the Citadel of Quebec. Amongst the accomplishments
which he possessed was that of scraping out woful strains
upon an ancient fiddle. In this land, where life
was always serious, he was a right jovial companion
for such men as Nick and Ralph, and the merry evenings
in his company at the store were well thought of.
When night closed down, and supper
was finished, and the untidy living-room which backed
the store was cleared by the half-breed, the business
of the evening’s entertainment began. The
first thing in Victor’s idea of hospitality
was a “brew” of hot drink. He would
have called it “punch,” but the name was
impossible. It was a decoction of vanilla essence,
spiced up, and flavoured in a manner which, he claimed,
only he understood. The result was stimulating,
slightly nauseating, but sufficiently unusual to be
enticing to those who lived the sober life of the
mountain wild. He would have bestowed good rum
or whiskey upon these comrades of his, only his store
of those seductive beverages had long since given
out, and was not likely to be replenished until the
breaking of spring. The variety of strong drink
which falls to the lot of such men as he is extensive.
His days of “painkiller,” which he stocked
for trade, had not yet come round. The essences
were not yet finished. Painkiller would come
next; after that, if need be, would come libations
of red ink. He had even, in his time, been reduced
to boiling down plug tobacco and distilling the liquor.
But these last two were only used in extremis.
The three men sat round and sipped
the steaming liquor, the two brothers vying with each
other in their praises of Victor’s skill in the
“brew.”
The first glass was drunk with much
appreciation. Over the second came a dallying.
Nick, experiencing the influence of the spirit, asked
for a tune on the fiddle. Victor responded with
alacrity and wailed out an old half-breed melody,
a series of repetitions of a morbid refrain. It
produced, nevertheless, an enlivening effect upon Ralph,
who asked for another. Then Victor sang, in a
thin tenor voice, the twenty and odd verses of a song
called “The Red River Valley;” the last
lines of the refrain were always the same and wailed
out mournfully upon the dense atmosphere of the room.
“So remember the Red
River Valley
And the half-breed that loved
you so true.”
But, even so, there was something
perfectly in keeping between the recreation of these
men and the wild, uncouth life they led. The long,
grey winter and the brief, fleeting summer, the desolate
wastes and dreary isolation.
After awhile the sum of Victor’s
entertainment was worked out and they fell back on
mere talk. But as the potent spirit worked, the
conversation became louder than usual, and Victor did
not monopolize it. The two brothers did their
share, and each, unknown to the other, was seeking
an opportunity of turning Victor’s thoughts into
the channel where dwelt his recollections of the wonderful
White Squaw.
Nick was the one who broke the ice.
The more slow-going Ralph had not taken so much spirit
as his brother. Nick’s eyes were bright,
almost burning, as he turned his flushed, rugged face
upon the half-breed. He leant forward in his
eagerness and his words came rapidly, almost fiercely.
“Say, Victor,” he jerked
out, as though he had screwed himself up for the necessary
courage to speak on the subject. “I was
thinkin’ o’ that white crittur you got
yarnin’ about when you come around our shanty.
Jest whar’s that Moosefoot Reserve, an’ an’
the bit o’ forest whar her lodge is located?
Maybe I’d fancy to know. I ‘lows I
was kind o’ struck on that yarn.”
The trader saw the eager face, and
the excitement in the eyes which looked into his,
and, in a moment, his merry mood died out. His
dark face became serious, and his keen black eyes
looked sharply back into Nick’s expressive countenance.
He answered at once in characteristic fashion.
“The Reserve’s nigh on
to a hund’ed an’ fifty miles from here,
I guess. Lies away ther’ to the nor’east,
down in the Foothills. The bluff lies beyond.”
Then he paused and a flash of thought shot through
his active brain. There was a strange something
looking out of Nick’s eyes which he interpreted
aright. Inspiration leapt, and he gripped it,
and held it.
“Say,” he went on, “you
ain’t thinkin’ o’ makin’ the
Reserve, Nick?” Then he turned swiftly and looked
at Ralph. The quieter man was gazing heavily
at his brother. And as Victor turned back again
to Nick his heart beat faster.
Nick lowered his eyes when he found
himself the object of the double scrutiny. He
felt as though he would like to have withdrawn his
questions, and he shifted uneasily. But Victor
waited for his answer and he was forced to go on.
“Oh,” he said, with a
shamefaced laugh, “I was on’y jest thinkin’.
I ’lows that yarn was a real good one.”
There was a brief silence while swift
thought was passing behind Victor’s dark face.
Then slowly, and even solemnly, came words which gripped
the hearts of his two guests.
“It wa’n’t no yarn.
I see that White Squaw wi’ my own two eyes.”
Nick started to his feet. The
“punch” had fired him almost beyond control.
His face worked with nervous twitchings. He raised
one hand up and swung it forcefully down as though
delivering a blow.
“By Gar!” he cried, “then
I go an’ find her; I go an’ see for myself.”
And as he spoke a strange expression
looked out of Victor’s eyes.
Ralph removed his pipe from his lips.
“Good, Nick,” he said
emphatically. “The dogs are fresh.
Guess a long trail’ll do ’em a deal o’
good. When’ll we start?”
Nick looked across at his brother.
He was doubtful if he had heard aright. He had
expected strong opposition from the quiet, steady-going
Ralph. But, instead, the elder man gave unhesitating
approval. Just for one instant there came a strange
feeling in his heart; a slight doubt, a sensation
of disappointment, something foreign to his nature
and unaccountable, something which took all pleasure
from the thought of his brother’s company.
It was quite a fleeting sensation, however, for the
next moment it was gone; his honest nature rose superior
to any such jealousy and he strode across the room
and gripped Ralph’s hand.
“Say, we’ll start at daylight,
brother. Jest you an’ me,” he blurted
out, in the fulness of his large heart. “We’ll
hunt that white crittur out, we’ll smell her
out like Injun med’cine-men, an’ we’ll
bring her back wi’ us. Say, Ralph, we’ll
treat her like an angel, this dandy, queer thing.
By Gar! We’ll find her, sure. Shake
again, brother.” They wrung each other
forcefully by the hand. “Shake, Victor.”
And Nick turned and caught the trader’s slim
hand in his overwhelming grasp.
His enthusiasm was at boiling point.
The brew of essences had done its work. Victor’s
swift-moving eyes saw what was passing in the thoughts
of both his guests. And, like the others, his
enthusiasm rose. But there was none of the simple
honesty of these men in Victor. The half-breed
cunning was working within him; and the half-breed
cunning is rarely clean.
And so the night ended to everybody’s
satisfaction. Ralph was even more quiet than
usual. Victor Gagnon felt that the stars were
working in his best interests; and he blessed the
lucky and innocent thought that had suggested to him
the yarn of the White Squaw. As for Nick, his
delight was boisterous and unrestrained. He revelled
openly in the prospect of the morrow’s journey.
Nor had broad daylight power to shake
the purpose of the night. Too long had the trappers
brooded upon the story of the White Squaw. Victor
knew his men so well too; while they breakfasted he
used every effort to encourage them. He literally
herded them on by dint of added detail and well-timed
praise of the woman’s beauty.
And after the meal the sled was prepared.
Victor was chief adviser. He made them take a
supply of essences and “trade.” He
told them of the disposition of Man-of-the-Snow-Hill,
the Moosefoot chief, assuring them he would sell his
soul for strong drink. No encouragement was left
ungiven, and, well before noon, the dogs stood ready
in the traces.
A hearty farewell; then out upon the
white trail Nick strung the willing beasts, and the
flurry of loose surface-snow that flew in their wake
hid the sled as the train glided away to the far northeast.
Victor stood watching the receding
figures till the hiss of the runners died down in
the distance, and the driving voice of Nick became
lost in the grey solitude. The northern trail
held them and he felt safe. He moved out upon
the trampled snow, and, passing round to the back of
the store, disappeared within the pine wood which
backed away up the slope of the valley.
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.