Read CHAPTER III of In the Brooding Wild , free online book, by Ridgwell Cullum, on ReadCentral.com.

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.