Chapter V

The country round Fort Walsh lay deep in snow. The cold was intense. Darkness was falling.

Hector, turning back to the stove from this cheerless prospect, thanked God that no law-breaker—no whiskey-runner especially—was likely to be out on such a day, and hence, that he himself was unlikely to be required to take the trail.

He looked at the thermometer hanging in the window.

"Thirty below!" he said to himself. "I pity the poor Nitchies in their teepees."

The poor Indians well merited a little pity. This was, for them, a small-pox winter, a famine winter. Throughout the district, they were dying by thousands. The Mounted Police were working hard to save them, issuing rations and ammunition to the bands that crowded to them for aid. There were men out on the job at that moment. But they could do very little among so many.

Hector, dozing by the fire, thought suddenly of Moon and Sleeping Thunder, contrasting the terrible situation of to-day with that seen in the happy camp at Milk River months before. He wondered if any harm had come to them.

The door swung open to admit MacFarlane.

"Come in, Mac," Hector welcomed him. "Guard mounted?"

"Yes," said MacFarlane.

He plumped down in his ponderous way upon his comrade's cot.

"There's an In'jun outside, Hec'—wants to see you."

"An Indian?"

"Yes. Funniest thing," he chuckled. "Won't see anyone else. 'Sergeant Adair'—those were exactly the words. The nerve of these confounded In'juns! What d'you think? There's the small-pox in camp and they want you there, to save someone or other. As if your life didn't count a damn! I'd have thrown the creature out, but she's so thin and drawn and came so far. You'll have to go and say 'No' yourself," he roared again, slapping his big thigh. "That comes o' making yourself too nice to 'em, Hec'! That comes of your trip to Milk River!"

"Eh?"

Hector had risen. His face reflected none of his comrade's mirth.

"Why, didn't I say? It's that little squaw, Hec'——"

"Where did you leave her?"

"Why, she's out in the yard, Hec'!"—MacFarlane's jaw had dropped. "You're—you're not—going?"

"You fool," Hector flashed. "Certainly I'm going!"

In the yard he found her—haggard, worn out, snow-encrusted, terrible.

"Moon!" he gasped, pity and horror in his voice.

"My father—" she answered dully. "He is dying."

Pleading desperately, trembling hands outstretched, she told him everything. The plague had suddenly appeared on the reserve some weeks before. Sleeping Thunder, to escape it, had taken to wandering with his band in the loneliness of the prairie; but without success. Two—three—had died. Then the chief himself had been stricken. Fear conquered loyalty, and the braves, closing their ears to the prayers of the old man and his daughter, left them to die.

"And Loud Gun?" asked Hector.

She smiled wanly.

"He was kicked by a horse long before. He was in the care of the white doctors—is still there. We were alone."

In this extremity, Sleeping Thunder had thought of Hector. By gigantic efforts Moon had grappled with the difficulties surrounding her and fought a way to Fort Macleod, her father helpless in the sledge behind her.

"We believed you were there," she explained simply.

Despair had almost mastered her when she learned that Hector and his division had been transferred to Fort Walsh. But she had bravely turned her face to the new trail. That morning she had reached a spot some miles distant, pitched camp, made her father as comfortable as possible and pressed on to reach Fort Walsh before dark.

"I know that you will come," she ended.

For a moment he marvelled at the girl's strength and resolution.

Then he voiced another thought.

"But why did you come to me? You might have gone to your Indian agent—to any detachment. At Fort Macleod they would have helped you. Did you try them?"

"No," she said. "We wanted you. You! You alone can save him. We know you will give us what he needs. At Fort Macleod, they would not have helped us as you will help us."

"They would certainly have done so. I can do nothing more than they."

"You can save my father!" she repeated. "Say you will come!"

Hector tried to grasp the beauty and wonder of this thing. He had heard and seen a little of Indian fidelity and trust but until now had never guessed the depths they could fathom. Moon, travelling through all the difficulties confronting her, ignoring every hand that might have helped her, had come to lay her plea before him, with absolute faith that he alone could save her father. The thought humbled him.

But had she thought of the risks he must undergo? She was asking him to face almost certain death, at a time when her own people had deserted her, on the slight justification of their friendship. It was plain that she had thought of all this and in spite of them had not hesitated.

"I will always hold you as a friend—in time of need, especially, a friend."

There, in Sleeping Thunder's words, was the whole substance of the matter.

This was a time of need.

Hector did not waste an instant in considering the risks. He accepted them, in the spirit in which soldiers accept the perils of battle, as inevitable.

"These people—God knows why—" he thought, "rely on me more than on anyone else in the world."

"I will come—at once," he said.

Moon dropped on her knees at his feet and burst into tears.

On a fine spring evening, Sleeping Thunder sat with Hector outside the teepee.

The chief, by this time, was fully restored to health.

"In a few days," he said wistfully, "I return to the reserve. The agent has sent for me."

"You should never have left it," Hector reproved him. "You know the law."

"Did the law save me and mine?" the old chief countered. "It could not have done for me what you have done."

Hector smiled quietly. He had given up trying to disillusion the Indian.

"And that," Sleeping Thunder resumed, "brings me to what I wish to say. Have patience. I am old and it is not easy for me to put my thoughts into words."

He gazed steadily out towards the West. The sun was sinking in as perfect a spring sky as Hector had ever seen. The wind rustled the long grass. A bird piped drowsily. A tethered horse stamped. All else was silence.

The figure of Moon, busy round the cooking fire, stood black against the sunset.

"My son, you may remember, long ago, when we were at the Sun Dance camp, I told you that the white man's ways are not our ways and one should not adopt the habits of the other."

"I remember," Hector answered.

"I have changed my mind. That is, I think sometimes the law may be set aside. I wish to set it aside now—today—or soon."

"Go on," said Hector.

"You saved my life. I owe it to you; I know it. No man can owe to another man anything more precious. Then how can he repay such a debt? In this manner only, my son—by offering him the thing he values most in all the world—values as highly as—perhaps more highly than—his life, by tendering it as a gift. So shall he repay the debt he owes."

Hector waited, wondering. The old man sat for a long while silent, his face very tender.

"You see my daughter there—Moon-on-the-Water? Is she not beautiful? She has the eyes of a young deer, her hair is like the sky at midnight, her form like a willow drooping by the river and, when she laughs, we hear the voices of the prairie winds. She is the daughter of a line of mighty warriors and the blood of many chiefs is in her veins. She loves me with all her heart—has she not proved it?—and I know that she would gladly die for me. She is a light among all women. Where will you find her like?"

Hector, remembering her mellow voice, the mystery of her smile, the graceful swaying of her dress, answered,

"Yes, she is beautiful. She loves you."

"She loves me—yes. And I?" The old chief's voice trembled. Far off, through the stillness, faint and doleful, they heard the sound of a trumpet at Fort Walsh. "And I?—I hold her dearer than anything I possess. Many have wooed her, my son, and I have been offered much for her. Ten ponies, fifty rifles, have been offered me by more than one lover. She is worth twenty ponies—compared with other women! And so—you see how dear she is to me and how high the value young men have set upon her."

"Yes," said Hector.

"Then, to repay the debt I owe you with that which is most precious to my heart, I offer you my daughter Moon, to be your wife."

"Your daughter Moon?"

"Yes."

Sleeping Thunder glanced keenly at Hector. The white man was silent; and he could not understand it.

"I know that I am pledging much. It is a great honour I do you, my son." Smiling, the chief stretched out a kindly hand and patted Hector's shoulder. "But of all the world there is no man to whom I would more gladly give my daughter. You are a good man—strong, just, brave, true-hearted. And the debt I owe is great. Be not afraid."

The sunset glow was melting rapidly into the mauves and blues of night. Moon had stopped her work and Hector saw her gazing enraptured towards the West. The light was on her face and, in that moment, she was very beautiful.

But an agony of pity and despair possessed him.

"Sleeping Thunder," he said at last, scarcely knowing what he said, "I know how you have honoured me. Beautiful though your daughter is, faithful and precious to you, you are wrong, my friend—yes, I say it—you do not owe your life to me. The Great Spirit is my witness I speak truth. No, do not disagree with me. My comrade, Murray, he who nursed you through the winter—saved you, not I. This gratitude is lavished over nothing. I value it more than I can say, but still I know it is so."

Struggling with his thoughts, he steeled himself to go on.

"I cannot take this gift, Sleeping Thunder. I have not earned the right. I honour Moon, but—but—there is no love between us—not the love there should be between man and wife."

The old chief flinched and his grey head sank on his breast.

"Then how could good come of such a union? We do not love; and even if we did, your words were truth, Sleeping Thunder. The red man's ways are not our ways. How could she be happy in our life, among our people?"

"There are squaw men among you."

Hector had foreseen the interruption.

"Yes, but do they treat their wives as they should? You know they do not. They make slaves of them and when they are tired or they fall in love with a white woman, they cast them off. I could not do that and would not. But, aside from this, the girl would not be happy. My people—they would look on her with contempt. And as the years went by and cities came where the prairies are desolate today, life would become intolerable for her. You know that is true."

The chief's head had fallen lower still.

"It is true," he whispered.

"I would give my right hand rather than that this should have happened. It cannot be—you know it, Sleeping Thunder."

The old man raised his head suddenly and looked up at the towering young form. He smiled sadly.

"It is true," he answered. "I will say no more."

The night swallowed them.

III

Returning to Fort Walsh, Hector had time to grasp the full significance of the chief's proposal. He had not even faintly foreseen that the old man's gratitude would express itself in the form it had actually taken. Marriage was far from his thoughts. Moon? He was fond of Moon and admired her in many ways—but not in that way. He admired and loved Sleeping Thunder. Hitherto relations between them had been ideal. But this sudden rock had split them and emphasized the unalterable differences in race and life. He wished with all his soul that things could have remained as they were.

Well, the thing was done and over! Only one course of action now remained for either party—to forget it all as soon as possible.

But here he found himself mistaken.

He had just come off duty on the afternoon when Sleeping Thunder was to start for the reserve when he was informed that an Indian was asking for him at the entrance to the fort.

The Indian was Loud Gun, recently back from hospital.

"How!" said Loud Gun, raising a hand in salute and looking down on Hector with his keen, proud eyes.

"How!" returned Hector. "What do you want?"

In a few words, the Indian explained. Moon-on-the-Water Water had sent him. Would Hector go with him and ask no questions?

A few minutes later Hector was in the saddle.

In a little coulee some distance short of Sleeping Thunder's camp, they came suddenly upon Moon.

She was alone. In her richest dress, she made a striking picture—the picture of an ideal Indian princess—calm, strong, beautiful. They greeted her solemnly. As Hector dismounted, she turned to Loud Gun.

"Go over the ridge there," she said, "and wait till I come."

The tone was pitilessly cold. Loud Gun bowed his head submissively and departed without a word.

They were alone, the Indian woman and the white man, face to face.

Moon began.

"You wonder why I sent for you? Perhaps you think I step beyond the rights of squaws?"

Something of her dignity was gone. She smiled wistfully.

"I do wonder why you sent for me, Moon," responded Hector. "But that is all."

There was an awkward pause.

"What is it?" Hector prompted. "Come, what is it, Moon?"

She seemed dumb for a moment. Her head was turned away and her face hidden.

"Is it about your father?"

"Yes," she answered swiftly, with a sudden straightening of her head. "It is about my father—my father—and—"

"Nothing has happened?"

"No. But this matter—I was saying—it is about my father—and—and you—and me!"

He waited. She made a strange, gasping sound in her throat. He began to see a light.

"Moon!" he exclaimed, alarmed.

Her voice came thickly to him.

"My father said he did it as an act of gratitude. You said—you said there was no love between us. He did not do it as an act of gratitude. He did it—" She dropped her bands suddenly and all her strength came to sustain her in that crisis. Her eyes were fearless. "He did it—because I wanted him to do it. You say there is no love between us." Her voice was half a laugh, half a moan. "No love with you, perhaps—but love—great love for you—there is with we!"

"No, Moon, no!"

"Yes!"—a whisper now—a sob that choked her—"I love you, pony-soldier! Pity me! Pity me!"

Amazement, deep concern, an overwhelming grief, swept over Hector. Why had she sent for him for this?

His talk with Sleeping Thunder had been nothing beside the possibilities before him now.

"Moon—"—he fought for words—was the soul of gentleness—"You are not yourself. This cannot be."

She wheeled suddenly, half turning her back. He saw her struggling fiercely with an emotion far more powerful than he had thought could move an Indian woman, least of all Moon.

"I know! I know!" she began. Bitterness, an agony of injured pride, a would-be scornful disregard of the humiliation she was facing, blended in the words that tumbled from her lips. "I know! I know that I—a chief's daughter—am not good enough for you. I know my love would bring you to contempt, would be a drag upon the wheels that take you on to greatness! I know that I would be a jest—a thing to scorn—a—a—"

"Moon," said Hector hotly, "that is not true! Why do you speak so of me?"

She calmed herself with an effort.

"It is not of you I speak," she smiled, with a glance towards him. "You are too kind, too generous for that. You would not scorn me, think that I dishonoured you, consider me a hindrance—no!" Her burning passion mastered her again. "But all your world—the white man's world—would do so. I am the daughter of a chief—I have said it—I am as good, in the eyes of the Great Spirit, as they are. I would be faithful to you and steadfast! I would work for you while life remained in me. But they would spit and laugh at me and call you 'fool' because you married me! Your white world—your white men—ah, and your white! women, your white women!—they would do that. And why? Why?" She rocked in anguish. "Just because I am an Indian—an Indian!"

He could not answer her.

She turned again towards him, terribly overwrought, clutching her breast.

"That is true! You know it!"

"Moon—please do not say these things."

"It is true—will you not admit it? Ah, you will not speak—that means you agree. Because you do not wish to hurt me, you will not speak—but you answer with your silence."

A long pause came. Hector wheeled and looked, unseeing, towards Fort Walsh. Waiting, he heard her fighting back to calmness. She brought herself at last to look at him. His cap was off, his profile cleanly cut against the strong sunlight, his hair ruffled by the soft wind and his scarlet tunic was like a flame to her senses. Her love for him welled up like a strong, deep tide in her desolate heart, mastering her.

"Yet I must face the degradation," she said suddenly, vast tenderness giving a pleading beauty to her voice, "because I love you—I cannot help myself. If I might be your wife—Oh, then I would laugh at all the cruel contempt that poor Indians like me have ever known! But if that cannot be—then let me be your servant and slave. Only to see you, to give my life to your service!"

"Moon," he declared, "I will hear no more. I will not have you speak like this to me!"

"Oh, do not think to save me from shame." She laughed bitterly. "Already I—the daughter of a chief—have broken the laws of my people in telling you my love. I will be an outcast. The sin is on my head. Then let me speak and beg that I may be your slave. I could keep silent no longer. Long have I loved you. You would not hear my father. But I cannot bear to give you up. So I sent for you. And all I ask from you is pity—pity! As for the scorn of my people and yours—I do not care!"

Her passion died away, exhausted, in a little while. And he took her hand and answered her.

"Listen, Moon," he said. "No-one will ever know that this has passed between us. There is no shame in this for you. I hold you too highly ever to grant this prayer of yours. It is not right. Your father said that white men and red cannot live together as man and wife in happiness. There are many Indian warriors, good men, brave and true, who love you. There is Loud Gun—"

"I do not love him!" she flashed.

"There is Loud Gun," he repeated remorselessly. "He loves you. Marry him—and forget me. I will always be your friend, Moon—"

"I cannot forget you. I love you," she persisted.

He shook his head.

"You must. Be sure, you will be happy with him. We must not meet again."

"Pity me!" she whispered.

He turned blindly and heedlessly to his horse.

"Pity me!" she almost shrieked.

But he was mounted now. And, as she flung out a desperate hand, he touched his horse with the spur.

He heard her wailing, Indian fashion, behind him—forced his mount to a fast gallop—faster, faster, to drown that dreadful sound in the rush of wind.

Weak tears blinded him.

So he left her.

Before another day had passed over Fort Walsh, Hector had pondered the situation regarding Moon and come to certain conclusions. First of all, he must obviously see no more of the girl. Secondly, he must do something to repair the damage he had innocently caused. Here he ran into a stone wall. How was he to influence Moon without seeing her himself? In whom could he confide his difficulties, knowing that they would meet with sympathy? Was there anyone he knew with the necessary authority among the Indians, whose words carried weight and whom they loved and trusted?

A battering-ram appeared suddenly from nowhere and smashed the barrier down.

His man was Father Duval.

Father Duval and his work were equally well known to every man in the Police or out. None could say how long he had been in the North-West but only that he seemed as much a part of the country, as strong and staunch and vital and even as eternal as the Rockies. He had made one at the first Christmas celebration of the Force at Fort Macleod six years before and at that time was alleged to have already passed the greater part of his life as a missionary among the tribes in the district. His influence with the Indians, converts and otherwise, was illimitable. They regarded him as their spiritual and temporal parent and went to him for counsel in every predicament. His face was as familiar to them as those of their greatest chiefs, his black-robed figure as common to their camps as a travois or a teepee. The Police recognized him as a useful medium for dealing with the Indians in matters requiring great diplomacy. He was the cheerful, tireless go-between for white man and red, the friend of every Indian, settler and Mounted Policeman.

Father Duval was obviously the man.

As soon as Hector could get away he sought the priest out, riding over to the mission.

"Yes, he will see you," said the lay-brother, lifting a cloud from Hector's heart.

At a knock, the door of the severe little room which was the priest's sanctum was opened and the renowned Father Duval himself stood on the threshold, the kindliest and most lovable of men, his hand outstretched, a twinkling smile upon his rugged face.

"Ah! Entrez, mon petit!" he exclaimed. "Parlez-vous francais?"

Hector shook his head and faltered out a negative. Father Duval's smile deepened and he shrugged his shoulders whimsically.

"Too bad, too bad! Teach yourself, mon petit. It ees ver' important to comprehen' many lan-gwidges, oui. Eh bien! We try to—'ow ees it?—get along without it. Entrez, cher ami, entrez!"

By this time they had shaken hands. Hector jingled into the room, his uniform sounding a note of war in that haunt of peace. The contrast between them was very marked. The older man was like an old tower, strong in age, solid, the younger like a steel blade, keen, vivid, highly tempered. They sat down.

Hector slowly, hesitatingly, began his story. Father Duval listened, one hand on his chin, the other in his sash, his eyes, possessed by just a shadow of encouragement, incessantly fixed on Hector.

When at last Hector ceased, the priest put out a hand and laid it over his, smiling so sympathetically that Hector knew him a friend and helper from that moment.

"You—are you of our faith?" he asked.

Hector shook his head.

"Mon enfant,"—his face seemed to light up with a holy radiance—"it does not matter. I bless you all de same. You 'ave don' right to come to me, Sergeant. All you 'ave don' in dis affaire 'as been right. You 'ave acted as a man ov honour, oui, an' wit' such a beeg, beeg 'art. Ah, mon petit, le Bon Dieu, 'e smile, vraiment, when 'e look down on men lak' you. Mes pauvres petits, de Indian, dey do not get ver' much de consideration you 'ave give to dat ol' chief an' 'is leetle girl. Maintenant, regardez! 'Elp you—but of course—naturelment! Attendee une minute! I 'elp you, oui. For I am well acquaint' wit' dat leetle Moon an' mon brave Sleeping Thunder. Only, 'ow? 'Ow? What to do? Attendez! Attendez!"

Hector waited.

"You say de name ov dat yo'ng fellow, it is—?" the priest queried suddenly.

"Loud Gun," said Hector.

"Loud Gun? Oui. Bon! I 'ave it now. I feex it all. Regardez, mon petit. Don't you worry no more. I will see dat poor leetle girl made 'appy, oui. She marry some good Indian fellow—Loud Gun perhaps, perhaps some oder—but she will forget you an' she will be 'appy, oui, vraiment, I will send you a leetle letter later on an' tell you all about it. An' now, don' you be sad, leetle boy." He patted Hector on the shoulder and beamed up into his eyes with beautiful benevolence. "So de poor Moon, she fall in lov' wit' you, eh?" he added softly. "Vraiment, Sergeant, I am not sooprise'! A fine beeg fellow—an' ver' 'an'some, oui. Now, go—allez, won petit! Forget all dis—an' I write to you. It all come out right soon—you see!"

"God bless you, father!" Hector exclaimed.

His spirits had leaped as high as heaven.

"Here's a letter, Hec'," said MacFarlane, three months later. "An In'jun brought it. You're a devil for the In'juns, Hec', old boy!"

Hector took the letter curiously. No Indians were in his mind.

The letter was from Father Duval. Some English lay-brother had written it but the priest's unmistakable signature brought it to a close.

'Dear Sergeant Adair:

Don't fear. She is happy. I have married her myself, today, at my mission here, to Loud Gun. I promise you, her heart is mended! She is happy.

I am always your friend,

FRANCOIS M. DUVAL, O.M.I.'

Slowly Hector read the letter, as slowly tore it into little pieces—as one who tears something that is past and done with—and, going to the open window, let the pieces fly from his fingers in the prairie breeze....

"You're a devil for th' In'juns, Hec'," MacFarlane repeated.

The sweet face of Moon drifted momentarily before Hector's eyes, in the wake of the scraps of paper—fading, at last, like them—a something done with—

"You've got a soft spot for 'em, haven't you, eh?" MacFarlane persisted.

"Yes," said Hector.