CHAPTER III A CHILD IN THE MIDST
The river Hishu was swift. It raced and swirled between its clay banks. The water was cold—icy cold—for countless small streams from snow-capped mountains contributed to its volume. It was a fascinating monster, sinuous, terrible, beautiful. The most dangerous spot on the whole river was the Klikhausia Rapids. Here the current struck hidden rocks, which swirled, eddied and boiled down through a flinty channel, to leap at last foaming and spuming into the steady stream below. Skilled canoe men could bring their crafts safely through this turbulent piece of water, but woe speedily overtook the voyager who made the venture without a thorough knowledge of the place.
Norman Grey sat upon the bank a short distance below the rapids, with his eyes fixed upon the flowing stream. It held him spellbound by its mystic music and the clearness of its liquid depths. There beneath the surface, down among those polished stones, was peace—a peace and rest for which he ardently yearned. He might have been a stump for all the movement he made. A few birds twittered in the jack pines, and a noisy squirrel scolded from the branch of a nearby tree. But Grey heeded them not. His rifle was thrown carelessly on the ground by his side. His buckskin jacket and trousers were covered with dirt, and stained here and there with fresh blood. Grey was sore and weary. The long ride, the excitement of the day and the heavy fall from his horse were having their effect. His whole body ached, and through his left shoulder surged a numbing pain caused by the contact with the ground. The piece of bear meat was lying by his side. He had matches, and could soon build a fire and broil a slice of steak. But his energy had deserted him. He longed to lie down and rest—rest forever. His one blanket had gone with Blackbird. But what did it matter? He was accustomed to the open, and his buckskin jacket would do instead. Yes, he would sleep, and forget everything—bears and all.
Slowly he rose to his feet and began to climb the bank. Scarcely had he reached the level above ere he gave a start and looked quickly up-stream. What was that? A shout, a cry of terror, which winged its way to his ears. He straightened himself up, shaded his eyes with his hand, and scanned the river. The sun had been down for some time, but the long northern twilight was still struggling with night, and it was not hard to discern objects some distance away. As Grey's eyes rested upon the rapids he beheld a boat—a frail craft—go to pieces upon a sunken rock right in the centre of that swirling death. Then out from the midst of the roaring mass of tumultuous billows darted a dark object. Rapidly it was borne down the stream, and as it approached nearer Grey observed a man clinging frantically with one hand to a fragment of the boat, while with the other he was clutching the limp form of a little child. Grey was all alert now. His weariness and pain were gone. His tall gaunt figure was drawn to its full height, forming a dark silhouette against the evening sky. The clinging man looked toward the shore. His face was filled with agony, and twitched convulsively.
"Help! help!" he cried. "This icy water's killing me! I can't hold on any longer!—oh—God!" and with a wild piercing yell he threw up his hands and sank beneath the surface.
Quicker than words Grey tore off his buckskin jacket, and throwing discretion to the wind hurled himself into the racing stream. Though a powerful swimmer he was but a gnat in that terrible current. It seemed the maddest of folly to attempt a rescue in such a place. The waters were icy, and his soggy clothes impeded his progress. Why give up his own life for a vague uncertainty? Why risk all in a hazardous throw? But a little face—oh, so white—gleamed before him, and a curly head of gold appeared. The sight nerved him almost to superhuman effort. With lusty sinews and mighty strokes he clove the water like a Titan. He reached the child, he clutched it, held its head above the surface, and turned toward the shore. Fortunately the piece of broken boat floated near. This he grasped with one hand, and the child with the other. No longer now did he try to stem the stream, but simply allowed himself to drift. On and on they sped, Grey becoming more numbed all the time. Often he felt he could endure no longer, that he must give up and sink. But the sight of that little child, lying so still in his arm, caused him to grip the wreck more firmly. Only a short time before he had cherished the idea of rest and peace beneath those same cold waters. Now all was changed, and, instead of death, life was uppermost in his mind. Not life for himself alone, but for that helpless form pressed close to his breast. Oh, for a friendly voice from the shore, and a strong hand stretched out to lift them from the icy depths. Ere long his brain began to whirl. He seemed to be battling in the midst of thousands of hideous serpents. They were coiling about his legs, arms and body. They were leaping up, trying to tear away the child from his breast, and to loosen his hold upon the boards. How much longer would they torture him? Would they soon gain complete possession and bear him down never to rise again? No, he would fight them. He would conquer. He would beat them back. They were worse than the grizzly, but he would win. And even as he made another great determined struggle his feet struck something which sent a thrill of hope through his heart. Was it merely a delusion? Was it only a fond fancy of his reeling brain? No, it was true. His feet had struck a sand-bar, which put out from the shore like a long finger hidden beneath the surface. Relaxing his grip of the raft, and with the child in his arms Grey feebly and with much difficulty made his way through the swirling water. So numb was his body that his legs seemed like two lifeless sticks as he staggered forward. It was all he could do to reach the shore and climb the bank. Then his strength deserted him. He trembled and sank upon the hard ground. It was only for a few seconds, however, for the child lying there needed immediate attention. Kneeling by his side he peered into the little white face, noticed the wan, pinched features, the luxuriant curly hair dripping with water, and the soaked clothes clinging like cerements to his body. "What was such a lad doing there?" he wondered. That not more than three summers had passed over his head was quite evident. He was no poor man's child, for the garments betokened a home of means and loving care above the ordinary. At his throat a small safety pin was fastened, and as Grey peered down through the faint and uncertain light he saw engraved there the one word "Donnie." An exclamation of astonishment escaped his lips. His eyes were suddenly opened, and he beheld before him Silas Farwell's little stolen child.
"Fool—more than fool," he muttered. "To think that I didn't realise it before. And here I've been cursing my fate ever since that grizzly unhorsed me, and it was all for a purpose. I begin to see now that another Hand is having much to do with this affair."
At that instant a shiver shook the child's body. He looked up, began to cry and to call for his mother.
"Hush, hush, dear," soothed Grey, bending over him. "You shall have your mother."
Then the helplessness of his position swept upon him. In a vast wilderness, leagues from any settlement, and night shutting down. Not a shred of dry clothing did he have in which to enwrap the child, and not even a fire. He was numb and chill himself. That he could stand, but not this delicate lad. "What am I to do?" he groaned. "Is this sweet child to die here slowly after all? Better to have left him to perish in the river; it would have been quicker."
Rising to his feet he peered through the gloom, but no sign of human life could he behold, nothing but the scrubby forest, silent and grim. He lifted up his voice and called, once, twice, three times, but only a far-off echo, ghost-like and hollow, sent back its mocking response. Again he knelt by the side of the child.
"Are you cold, dear?" he asked.
"Ya, cold, cold," and the lad shivered. "I wants my mother. Why doesn't she tum to her 'ittle boy-boy?"
Grey looked at his own clothes. They were very wet; not a dry stitch upon him. Then he thought of the buckskin jacket he had thrown off ere he leaped into the river. He believed there were several dry matches in one of the pockets. Suppose they had fallen out during his tussle with the bear! They were his only hope now. The liberal supply he had brought with him, rolled up in his blanket, had gone with Blackbird. Never before had he realised the value of a few tiny matches. Now they meant life or death. He must have them if they were there, and at once.
"Are you afraid to stay here alone, little one?" he asked. "It will be only for a short time, and I shall soon come back."
A startled look came into Donnie's face, as reaching out a small hand he clutched the arm of his rescuer.
"No, no, don't go!" he cried, with tears streaming down his cheeks. "Take me home. I wants my mother."
"I won't leave you, then," was the reassuring response. "You shall go along, too."
Stooping down, he lifted the child tenderly in his arms and turned his face up-stream. Could he make the journey? That was the question. Had he the strength after his two fearful ordeals to struggle through that dusky tangled underbrush, where no trail marked the way, and with his feet stumbling at almost every step? Suppose he should fall and not be able to rise again? He banished the thought. It was too horrible to be entertained even for an instant. No, he must not fail. What would the Major, who had entrusted him with such a sacred commission think? And how would the Force regard it? "Constable N. Grey, Regiment No. —— lost; supposed to have died on the trail, somewhere between Big Glen and the river Hishu, while in search of a stolen child." How would words such as these sound in the laconic Police Report when it appeared the following year? Would their bones, bleached and white, at last be found amid those tangled bushes? And the mother, what of her? Would she ever know of the struggle he had made to save her darling child? There came to him now her white, drawn face. Did not every man in the Barracks know Mrs. Farwell? She was beautiful, cultured, and a general favourite in the little social circle of Big Glen. But she was kind to all, and greeted each constable she met with a pleasant smile. She had spoken to him once, and congratulated him upon the capture of "One-eyed" Henry, the Swede. He had never forgotten that, and her sparkling eyes and sunny face had haunted him for months. For her sake now, at least, he must not fail. He would save her child. He had taken but a few steps forward when he stopped short in his tracks. A dark form had suddenly loomed up out of the night right in front of him. It was an Indian tall and silent, leaning upon his grounded rifle. For the space of ten heart throbs neither spoke. Then,
"Who are you," Grey demanded, "and what do you want?"
"You call?" came the calm reply.
"Yes, indeed, I did call. Look you. This child is wet, cold, freezing. Got in river. See? You savvey cabin—fire, eh?"
At once the Indian took a step nearer, and peered keenly into the white man's face.
"Ah, ah," he remarked. "Me savvey. Come."
Turning abruptly he plunged into the thicket of jack pines and cotton wood trees. He had not gone far, however, ere he paused and looked back.
"Me take bah-bee," he said; "you cally gun, eh?"
But when he reached out his hands Donnie shrank back with a little sobbing cry, and threw his arms tightly around his preserver's neck.
"Don't want to leave me, little man?" Grey asked, while his heart thrilled with a new-found joy at the child's confiding action.
"Ya, me tay," whimpered the boy. "You carry baby."
"All right, dear, you shall stay with me as long as I have any strength left," and he motioned the Indian to advance.
Silently they threaded their way through the chilly night, Grey using every exertion to keep up with his dusky guide. Donnie was a considerable weight to him in his weakened condition. Once he felt he should be forced to relinquish his burden to the Indian, no matter how badly the child might feel. But the pressure of that little body and the hand laid so trustingly against his shoulder nerved him to greater action, and painfully he stumbled forward. After what seemed to Grey to be an interminable distance, although in reality it was not far, a bright light suddenly pierced the darkness. It came from a camp fire directly ahead, around which he observed someone moving. In another minute the place was reached, and gladly he laid the child down in front of the cheerful blaze.
It was only a temporary brush camp erected there in the wilderness, but to Grey no place had ever seemed half so welcome. Seated on a blanket spread over some fir boughs was an Indian woman with hair, jet black and straight, falling over not unshapely shoulders. Nearby stood a girl of fifteen years, whose eyes sparkled with curiosity as she turned them upon the stranger and the little form at his feet. One glance at the sympathetic faces before him told Grey that he was in the midst of friends. A few brief words in the rhythmical native tongue passed between the Indian man and woman, and immediately the rude camp was converted into a hive of industry. The child was stripped of his wet clothes, his cold body thoroughly rubbed and then enwrapped in a soft grey blanket which the girl had brought forth from a mysterious corner of the camp.
Donnie had no fear of the woman, but sat contentedly on her lap, alternately watching the blazing fire and the animated face of the young maiden kneeling by his side. Then, after he had taken some of the savoury ptarmigan soup which the girl had dipped from a kettle near the fire, he laid his tired little head against the Indian woman and was soon fast asleep.
All this Grey noted with much satisfaction as he lay close to the fire trying to dry his own wet garments. How his heart warmed toward these dusky waifs as he watched their care of the child. He saw the little head droop, the eyes close, and observed how gently the Indian woman laid him down upon the brush bed, and tenderly placed over him a thick warm blanket. The thoughtfulness and dignity of these people surprised him. Formerly he had very little use for the natives, and considered them with a certain degree of pity, mingled with contempt. Most of the Indians he had seen in this northern land were weak, inferior creatures, fond of hanging about towns and mining camps, and trying to imitate the ways of the whites. But these were different, and he fell asleep there on the hard ground wondering if all the Indians in the Hishu region were of this same superior class.
A cry fell upon his ears, and he awoke with a start. He sat quickly up, and looked around in a dazed manner. He glanced toward Donnie, and instantly realised the nature of the trouble. The icy water had done its work, and he saw the poor little form racked with a terrible cough. The Indian woman had the boy on her lap, and was rubbing his chest with oil which was warming near the fire. But still the child cried, stopping only as the painful, wheezing cough swept upon him.