Menotah: A Tale of the Riel Rebellion

by John Trevena

THE HEART'S PEACE

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CHAPTER I

LAMONT

A radiant flood of light poured from the white moon upon the rippling waters of the Red River. A grove of black oaks along the bank waved silently in the clear night; frogs chirped merrily from the fenced in fields, where fireflies sparkled and flashed before a long dark background of foliage. Along that portion of the shelving bank, where a young man and a dark-haired girl walked closely together, might be perceived on looking back the twinkling lights of Fort Garry, from whose stone walls the shadow of war had now lifted for ever. Nearer, outside the actual fort, a grey stunted tower shot upward from the thick of an oak bluff. Here rested in their last quiet many of the brave English and Canadian boys who had fallen in the late Rebellion.

Winter and spring had passed since the desertion of Menotah. That time had wrought change to the western and northern country, a change, sad perhaps, yet necessary from the standpoint of civilisation. The last traces of vengeful fire in the breasts of those who had joined the insurrection had been stamped out, the final agreement had been made, the white again triumphed. Louis Riel had swung upon the gallows at Regina, before the eyes of many on that dreary, treeless plain, that no traveller who has once seen can forget. There was no leader, no keen spirit left. So the survivors gladly snatched at that, only thing they could now ask for—pardon.

Yet the question of justice, from the position of the conquered, may be still worth considering. One of the half-breeds most zealous to the cause spoke thus in the echoing valley[1] before his priest,—

'Why did I fight, my Father? I, who have the blood of the white men in me. It was for that reason that I fought, and that I killed. The white man came into a country which was not his, which had belonged to others for many hundreds of years, and he saw that the country was good, and full of animals. Also he perceived that the women were beautiful. So he said, I will make this place my home, and call my friends to come here also. These men came, and brought with them guns and fire-water. Then they took the women, first one and then another, and had children by them. So was I born, and I have brothers and sisters of many different mothers. Yet the father was the same. But what could the Indians do against the white man's guns? They said, give us back our wives and our daughters, also our land and our buffalo. But the white man only laughed, and gave them fire-water, which ate away their manhood and their courage. So they said at length, we will rise up and reclaim our own. We have now nothing to lose, for the white man has taken all from us, except life. Let him take that also, or give us back that which makes it happy. That is why I fought, my Father.'

It is a strange fact in modern times, and one so far unrecognised, that the Rebellion should have been crushed by the power of the Roman Catholic Church. Standing merely upon the path of duty, Archbishop Taché, with his band of gallant priests, amongst whom Father Lecompte must stand predominant, succeeded in quenching the flame of human passion entirely by means of that extraordinary devotion entertained by these ignorant children of the Rebellion for their kindly teachers.

Actuated the Archbishop certainly was by a high sense of duty, yet it was also right that he should subsequently look for that reward which the Government had promised, as some slight return for the salvation of a country. It is notorious that such reward was never paid. It is, or should be, universally known that there was but one care which distressed 'the man of the great heart,' as his 'children' affectionately named him, upon the deathbed at peaceful St Boniface,[2] still a care heavy enough to almost break that generous heart The Government had steadily refused to redeem their promise, or to grant to Manitoban Catholics that separate school system which is their right and their due, which above all has been solemnly assured them. Still, it may not yet be too late to perform a tardy justice, which, on the side of the Government, is a duty.

Now the days of the bloody scalping knife have sunk into history. The nondescript individual, who to-day answers to the title of Red Indian, is a very different being from the noble prairie trackers of the olden days, before the introduction of whisky and vice. Up in northern districts, far from the damning pollution of traders and treasure seekers, may still be found at long intervals the haughty heathen warrior with his paint and feathers of liberty. But in all other parts the immorality of the white man has done its work too successfully. Is proof required? Then listen. It may be doubted whether there is at the present time a single full-blooded Indian alive on the Canadian prairies!

Should such types of humanity—Longfellow's 'Hiawatha' accurately depicts them—be utterly extinguished? Look at the Menotah, the Muskwah, of this work. These are true life studies, which may hardly be found to-day, never until civilisation, with all its attending evils, has been left far from sight. Is the taciturn, morose half-breed, heavy in feature, abnormally dull in intellect, an efficient substitute for such? At that particular spot on the Great Saskatchewan where the scene of this narrative is for the most part laid, any at this day might well blush at owning affinity with white men. That once noble race, the origin of which is beyond all conjecture, who possess secrets, powers and occult arts beyond all our discoveries, must be blotted out during the lives of most. Riel made an effort to save it, not an unselfish effort, still he did his best. Where he failed, none may succeed.

But to return to narrative.

One of the two figures on the Red River bank to the north of the fort was Lamont. His companion was a young girl of French extraction, named Marie Larivière. She spoke the English with a pretty accent, and hung to the arm of the handsome young man with clinging tenderness.

The gates of Garry were now thrown open wide. Any might go forth upon the surrounding prairies or enter the young city. All danger of hostility was past, and the land was at peace.

'But talking about being constant,' the girl was saying; 'it is such an easy thing when the one we love is present.'

'And rather too much the opposite when he's away, eh, my Marie?' said Lamont, with the lover's softness.

'Well,' she said, with dainty hesitation, 'one naturally looks for that which custom has made us long for.'

'But when I was away, you found others to take my place, didn't you?' he asked, gazing eagerly at her small face, with the dark crisp curls nodding over the forehead.

'It's not a fair question, Hugh. You may be jealous if you like, but still I have something against you. That long mysterious journey north; you can't give me a reason for that.'

'Business, chérie. I thought of you all that time.'

She laughed. 'You were quite satisfied with thought only. Come, tell me the truth. Was there not some hidden attraction there? I have heard that the Cree girls are beautiful—some of them. Was it one of them?'

He joined carelessly in her mirth. 'Who is jealous now? Are you afraid of an Indian rival, my Marie? But who are these?'

Two other figures came along the trail in the white light. One was tall and stooping, the other short and brisk of step. They were talking together in French. So still was the night, their voices might be heard before they were themselves visible.

The couples advanced and met. Then Lamont gave a quick exclamation—more it seemed of fear than surprise—and pulled off his hat. 'The Archbishop!'

He it was, enjoying the cool of the evening. The tall priest by his side was Father Lecompte, the man of his right hand. This latter looked careworn and very ill.

It was, in truth, a kindly face that turned towards the young couple as they passed—smooth, clean-shaven, with a pair of soft eyes, crested by wavy hair. At that time it bore a tired, anxious expression, result of recent incessant toil. The privations he had suffered for the country of his adoption had been great. Through heat and cold, by river, prairie and forest, he had travelled; on horse, on foot, by boat, for many days and weeks. Often without food, always lacking rest, until the great work was accomplished, and he had won. A truly noble-hearted man that.'

'God bless you, my children,' he said, in the quiet, thrilling voice which all knew so well, as he smiled upon them.

'I couldn't speak,' said Marie, breathlessly. 'It is strange that one should be overawed by such a good man. I couldn't thank him, or anything.'

'He was the last I expected to meet along here. I didn't know he had returned.'

'Doesn't Father Lecompte look ill? You know he accompanied the Archbishop on his travels, and it has broken his health.'

There was a silent pause, while they came slowly towards the brilliant lights of the inner fort. Then she said musingly, 'So Riel is dead.'

'What made you think of him?' he asked quickly.

She raised a hand to point towards the grey tower, into the shadow of which they now entered.

He thought of the dead that lay around, and shuddered. Then there came back to him the recent execution at Regina; the dark figure, champion of a hopeless cause; the lines of mounted police; the cosmopolitan crowd; the dreary plain. He thought also on a certain figure in that crowd, one who had watched the mournful and dramatic scene with almost a wild interest. It was only a disreputable loafer, with ragged garments and dirt-begrimed features. It was, in short, a man with identity fearfully concealed.

'Come,' he said suddenly, drawing her gently on, 'let me take you home. It is late, and to-morrow will be busy.'

After seeing his fiancée to her home, Lamont set out along the irregular street, which followed the meandering of the river, towards his lodgings. The brightly illumined window of a saloon attracted his attention, and allured him to enter for a chat with the proprietor on latest matters of local interest. So he came into the smoky bar, where the usual throng of deadbeats—broken-down English gentlemen for the most part—were talking or shouting, according to the amount of liquor imbibed. Some of the figures that loomed through the thick cloud of smoke were decidedly unsteady. Very prominent among this latter class was a certain individual of cadaverous complexion and yellow moustache, at the sight of whom Lamont started with a short oath of gratification. The man was unquestionably Peter Denton.

He quickly nodded to the bar-tender, who knew him, then passed to a side room, where those who placarded themselves in the outer world as exclusive devotees to the cause of temperance were wont to be served in strict privacy. Here the wielder of the cocktail flasks soon joined him, with the usual salutation, 'How goes it?'

'Who's the chap over there, that one with the sandy hair?' asked Lamont, pointing towards the bar through the drifting smoke.

'That? Just a crazy sort of ranting fellow. Ter'ble drunken lot he is, too.'

The other laughed in his self-satisfied manner. 'See here,' he said, catching at the bar-tender's shirt sleeve, 'I've been after him since last fall. He made off with some shiners of mine. Guess they're stowed at his lodgings, if he hasn't got away with them all.'

'You don't say,' said the man, making an accurate shot through the fog at a distant spittoon. 'He looks a crooked tool, right enough. Still, I've not heard much talk against him, and long as he can pay for liquor, it's not my biz to speak. What'll I do?'

'Load him up. I'll stand the racket.'

'I tell you, he can take a fancy quantity. What's the plan?'

'When he's too raddled to know me, I'll offer to see him home.'

'Then search round the shanty for the dosh?'

'That's what.'

The bar-tender chuckled. 'That'd stand some beating. I'll go and fix him up with a drop of drugged spirit. You'll wait here, eh?'

The scheme could not fail to succeed. Denton was 'ready' for his enemy in less than quarter of an hour. Some trouble was experienced in getting him to the street, but once there he was quite prepared to accompany his newly found companion. Leaning heavily upon his arm, he staggered, with the unfailing instinct of the drunken man, towards his home, which was nothing more pretentious than a dirty little shack in a sheltered spot without the fort.

Once inside, Lamont went promptly to work without loss of time. There were but two inodorous rooms, the innermost of which contained a truckle bed. Upon this he dumped the garrulous Denton, then left him, singing cheerfully a hymn of doubtful wording for self-edification. Afterwards he lit a broken lamp and made search for his missing property.

First impressions conveyed the idea that, if the gold had been secreted in this place, it would not be difficult to come across it. For, beyond a bed and box in the one room, table, two chairs, cupboard and crazy bookcase, which hung gingerly to the loose plaster, in the outer, there was literally no addition to the original building. Carpets and curtains were luxuries unknown; coarse paper had been fastened across the lower portion of dirty window frames; a rickety stove was propped against the wall by means of a couple of bricks. Lamont searched everywhere, in each nook and dirt-encrusted cranny, by the greasy light of the lamp, which dropped faint yellow rays along each sordid article. Then he dragged the proprietor from the bed, pulled off the coverlet, searched mattress and floor beneath. He ransacked the shreds of rusty clothing, tapped the crumbling plaster, examined every part of the flooring. But there were no traces to be discovered of Menotah's first and only material gift. Denton must have parted with the whole under pinch of want.

Lamont turned up the flickering flame—the oil was failing—then kicked the drunken wretch on the floor. The ex-minister responded with an unsteady homily on the joys of humility. Then Lamont reflected.

He felt certain that this was the culprit who deserved punishment at his hands. That would be a simple matter. All he had to do was to dash the dying lamp to the floor, then depart. This crazy shanty of dry wood would be in ashes within the hour, and the drunken body of its owner cremated.

So he stood for the moment undecided, then smiled slowly and shook his head. Nerve was wanting, even for such a little thing as that. Perhaps he was getting weak. It might be that there were already sufficient unpleasant shadows haunting the past. An addition to such might well prove beyond tolerance.

Denton's tongue had ceased its unmeaning flow of words, as its owner slowly sank into the deep slumber of inebriation. Lamont went into the other room, placed the lamp on the table, then seated himself, still following up the new line of thought recently suggested. To-morrow he would be married to a girl he believed he sincerely loved. Then he would settle down to a changed life, and restart with a new set of morals. The past, as a thing gone, was to be forgotten. He would now become a respectable citizen of the new western metropolis.

Then his eyes wandered carelessly round the darkened room, as he leaned forward to turn up the flickering flame from its dull red smouldering. Light darted through the heavily smoked glass, and he found himself gazing upon Denton's large Bible, which stood on the bookcase shelf. His lips curled into a contemptuous smile. Then he went across the dry, creaking boards and pulled down the worn book. To his surprise the balance was uneven, while a hollow rattling came from within. All attempts to open it failed, as the leaves appeared to be firmly bound together. But when he came to look at it more closely in the dim light, he realised that what had once been a book was now a box. There could be no doubt on the matter, for a small keyhole was visible immediately beneath one of the boards.

He placed this imitation between his knees and burst the lids apart. A quantity of paper, with a small buckskin bag, fell out upon the floor. The next instant he held in his hands his recovered treasure, or rather the larger portion only of the original gift. Denton had evidently laid them aside as a private bank from which he could draw from time to time.

Examining the case, he saw that it had once been a Bible, but that a hole had been cut in the centre of each leaf, the remainder at infinite labour having; been fastened together securely.

There was nothing to keep him after this discovery. Leaving the book on the floor, in close proximity to its sleeping owner, he pocketed the bag, then stepped out on the beaten trail and made for his lodgings. On this occasion he reached them without incident.

[1] Qu'appelle. (Who calls?)

[2] See prefatory note.

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CHAPTER II

THE LIFE OBJECT

'Say, Dave!'

The Captain turned his head slowly, then drew the short stone pipe from his mouth.

'Hustle over here.'

Dave came leisurely across the grass space.

'When are you getting, Dave?'

'Morrow; noon,' came the brief reply.

'Call it day after, and I'll come,' said the Factor.

The Captain looked surprised. 'How'll you manage, Alf?'

'Don't tell you everything, Davey. I've got my leave all right. Justin can fix things while I'm away. Goldam! it's time I had a bit of a rip up.'

'Well, I can't do it, Alf.'

'You can, Dave. Just think a while. You're on good time this trip. A day this way or that won't go for anything. I'll fix it up for you, Dave. The skins weren't quite ready to be shipped; the darned old boat wanted some pitch on her side—scraped her over a sunk rock, you know, Dave. Lots of easy lies, if you like to make them. I can fix five first-classers while you're thinking out one hoodoo, Dave.'

'You can't by a jugful,'said the Captain, hotly. 'I've more practice than you, Alf. There's generally something to reckon for, end of the trip. Tell you, it strains a fellow's invention pretty hard sometimes.'

'See here, Dave. Early morning, Thursday, we start south.'

'Suppose it wouldn't make such a lot of difference, anyway.'

'Course it won't. You don't get me for a passenger every trip, Dave.'

'That's so. There'll be another beside you, though.'

'Who? There's nobody round here, far as I know.'

'Someone's going all the same. She's under my protection, too.'

'She! it's never Menotah?

Dave nodded. 'Mrs Spencer that's going to be.'

'You're fooling, Dave. She hasn't got the stuff to pay her passage.'

'We've fixed that. Tell you, I'm looking after her.'

'But she's not going to hitch on with you?'

'That's what,' said the Captain, stolidly. She's been after me for a long time. Reckon she's caught me at last.' He sighed with an air of resignation.

McAuliffe burst into a lusty laugh and slapped his knee repeatedly. Then his great face suddenly grew grave, as he thought on the darker side of the picture. What could have induced the heart-stricken girl to a promise of marriage with the ugly little Captain? Perhaps she had lost all sense and reason, poor girl. Then he said, 'Tell how you managed it, Dave.'

'This way,' said the Captain, nothing loth. 'I was fooling round by the boat, watching the boys loading her up, when Menotah comes round to me all of a sudden, and asked if I'd take her across lake. She couldn't pay for the passage, but she did her beautiest to make me say I'd agree.'

'Well! well!'

''Course I hopped at the chance. Said I, see here, Menotah, you want me to take you south. Just say you'll splice with me, and I'll put you across the lake many times as you like.'

'What did she say?'

'Fairly corked me, I tell you. Didn't think, or stop a minute, but just said yes at once. Made me promise I wasn't to come round her, till she'd done some job or other down Garry way. But say, Alf, what's come over her? Her eyes are like a couple of chunks of ice, while there's never a smile to be seen on her face. She's a darned pretty gal yet, all right. Queer things gals, ain't they, Alf? There's no understanding them. Guess she's been after me all this time. Well, well, she's caught me now, so I reckon she ought to be happy.'

The Factor was deep in thought. 'You wouldn't take her across, 'cept she promised to be your wife, eh?' he said slowly.

'You wouldn't want a fellow to lose a good chance, would you?'

'Well, Dave, if you want my opinion, I'll give it you straight. I call it a sort of mean trick to serve the gal. I know her better than you do, mind. She's got some scheme in her brain. It's a thing she's dead set on, and when it's done, she'll likely drop you. You mark me, lad.'

'She won't marry me, eh? See here, Alf, you don't know the first darned thing about it. I tell you, I'll make her.'

'And that'll be a tough sort of job. You'll find Menotah isn't the sort of gal to stand making. Bet you what you like you don't marry her, Dave.'

'You're getting cranky,' muttered the Captain. 'It's no business of yours, anyway. I'm going to marry my gal. If I reckon she's not going to stay by her word, I won't take her across. She don't play any of her women's tricks on me.'

McAuliffe laughed. 'I'll get even with you there, Dave. Derned if I won't pay her passage myself. You'll have to take her then. How's that, lad?'

At this decided cheek, the angry Captain moved off and made toward the stage, muttering diatribes against men who interested themselves overmuch in the affairs of others. Finally he found relief to his feelings by kicking an Indian, who had taken advantage of the Captain's absence to get a comfortable siesta in the shade.

From beneath heavy eyebrows McAuliffe watched the retreating figure with low chuckles. He enjoyed getting the better of Dave. Yet in the kind heart, which beat beneath a very rugged exterior, there lurked a secret and real pity for the broken girl, once the sunshine of that land, now the emblem of its misery. From long contact with the natives of his district he had learnt much of their religion. He knew with them vengeance was not merely a gratification of passion, but a duty which might not be neglected. He shrewdly guessed that Menotah possessed some secret design against the life of the man who had professed for her such love, who had yet cast her aside and gone back to the world, heedless of the misery he had created.

McAuliffe was right. Dave had also spoken truly. It was Menotah's intention to cross the lake, and that she might obtain her wish, she had consented to marry the Captain of the boat.

For the desolate girl had concluded that it was time to discharge the last duty of a short life. Then, and not till then, she had a right to release the breath, and return to the Manitou, that hazy land of the Beyond, where her father dwelt. There, if she first obeyed the will of the god, the heart might find its peace.

Those long past months of winter and early summer had been charged with the fulness of horror and loneliness. As she lived for an object, so mind and body strength never entirely forsook her. For herself she cared not, nor for happiness of others. But she only struggled on beneath the overwhelming weight of life, until the time should come when the spirit called to the sombre duty of fate.

To her, in that misery, day and night, sunshine and storm, were alike. What mattered it whether the ground was flower vested, or mantled with snow? There was no difference in the touch to her bare feet. Whether the trees were joyful in summer, or black with winter? The picture of Nature was unchanging to those eyes. Whether faces surrounding her were kind or stern? The heart had done with the idle phantasy of affection. Each day dragged its hours away, detail with that preceding, to be replaced by another equally lengthy, not less dreary. Environment partook of the nature of a constant hallucination. As there was little life within, there could be but slight animation in surroundings. When she had been happy, her light-heartedness found novelty in things that had in themselves no real change. Now that she was so deeply sunk in the slough of despair, the shifting moods of others expressed always the same, the monotonous sentiment—hatred of herself. For she had cut herself apart from the people of her name by a forbidden alliance. By her own selfish act she had drawn disgrace upon the tribe.

The birth of her child, though it brought another pang of torture, proved perhaps the means of preserving reason. Maternity was detestable, yet it carried responsibilities which might not be neglected. Bitterly she reflected that here was another creature born to despair and misery. Surely it would be better for this smiling boy to die, and know not the horror of living. But when the tiny voice was first lifted in unconscious appeal for nurture, resentment perished beneath the sudden passion of early motherhood. What if the father was villain and traitor? Here was at least a portion of her own body, flesh of her flesh. The child should learn the name of mother, but never that of father. It should love the one parent and hate the other. Often she dimly reflected as the infant lay, breathing softly in healthy sleep, upon her knees, knowing not that he was the child of misery and the son of a broken heart. And such were her thoughts: Ah! if I might only live to bring this boy up to manhood and teach him the lesson of his life. Then should one appear far greater than Riel, one who would gather together the sons of the Ancient Race from the four winds, from the ice ocean to the count of the wind, who would swoop, like the Spirit of the Storm, across the land, from lake to forest, from rock-land to prairie. Then, with his justice and his might, he would blot the white traitors from the plains which were not theirs, he would drive them from the wide fields they had wrongly stolen from others. Then the country would come back again to its own children, and there would be joy at the heart of all.

But, at length, she felt within her that hot flame which warned her of duty. Then appeared the black boat upon the river. It but remained to secure passage in her across the Great Water. Dave was repulsive and hateful, yet she gave ready consent to his demands. No obstacle could be allowed to stand in her path at that stage. 'When I have finished my work, I will again think of joining myself to a man,' she had spoken bitterly, as she turned back to the dreary hut.

Before that long journey to the south, one detail of the plan required attention. So, on that evening when Dave and the Factor had a difference of opinion regarding herself, she turned her heavy footsteps toward that place where she knew the old Antoine might be found. Very feeble was her mentor now. Outside the door of his hut he crouched in the last sunshine, the nodding head leaning against his staff, quivering hands tapping feebly on skeleton knees, bleared eyes deeply sunken, ears uncertain of sound. To any passing along that silent pathway he might have appeared as a very personification of grim sorrow. To the grief-stricken woman he was fit emblem of the vengeance she sought, worthy representative of the evil one himself.

With the child resting upon her back within the blanket, she came and laid a hand upon the Ancient's shoulder. He peered up with dreary eyes and would have forced a smile into the long wrinkles of his shrunken countenance.

'So, child; you have come.' Such was his greeting.

'For the last time, old Father. To seek one more service, then to trouble you no more.'

'It is no pain to succour those we love. The life fades from my body, yet the warm love remains still within. Sit at my feet, child, as you were wont to do. Tell me what it is you desire.'

She did so, yet in the motion a soft fluffy head brushed the old man's knee. A shudder convulsed him, as he endeavoured to drag the stiff limbs from the hateful contact. Feebly and vengefully he cried, 'Take that away, child! Why have you brought him here to torment my eyes?'

Not a muscle of the girl's face moved. 'I forgot,' she said coldly.

Then she arranged the blanket at the foot of a tall pine, wrapped up the child in it, and returned.

The Ancient spoke. 'Daughter, I know the matter on which you would speak. Make speed with the work, for my body strength has gone. I would wish to see the end, so may I tell all to your father in the joy land. Memory is now a faint shadow of the past. Yet will I speak on those things I may see dimly with the mind. A white man has destroyed your heart, my daughter; he has betrayed you; he has left you to the death misery. You would have punishment brought upon that man. Is it not so, my daughter?'

'It is so, old Father,' came the stern reply.

'Methinks there is still a faint shadow of memory remaining. It tells me that on a certain night I prayed you to listen to wise words. But you cast aside the love advice. So the anger grew upon me, and I said that surely a day would come when you would creep to me with a heart of sorrow, when you would pray me for help in the work of vengeance. Methinks that memory is not all shadow.'

'It is truth. I ask not for pity. I have prepared this suffering for myself. Let the dead past lie dead.'

'I would not call up the black tale of grief to wound you, child. Youth follows the unreasoning heart always. Now it but remains to find the remedy, to strike, to kill.'

All the malevolence in his nature poured forth in the whispered sounds. His wrinkled face grew hideous as he looked at her, the grey-white hair hanging in sparse lines along the neck.

'For that I have come,' she said defiantly.

''Tis well. Am I not living but to aid you? Ah, child, might I only listen to your soul laughter again. Might I hear your song of happiness, I would go then with contentment to the fire, and breathe away my life with joy. Can you not find one smile, child? Is there not hidden in the cold heart a last laugh, my daughter?'

He would have said more, but she frowned and interrupted him. 'That which is left of the heart is not for joy or sorrow. To feeling it is dead. Were I now to laugh, the sound would strike terror to your soul. Can the ice thaw on the winter's day?'

'The heat follows,' he muttered. 'The flame of the sun will lick up the ice.'

'The heat will come; you speak truth, old Father. It is the fire which must consume my body.'

'Talk not of it, child. Even now the vision closes round me. Each day I look for the end. For you, life lies in the Beyond.'

Her passion was at length awakened. 'Life!' she almost shrieked in his withered face. 'Dare you speak of that which has passed? Already I have lived, and now stand ready for death. For, when misery comes, what is life but a memory, and what is memory but agony, and what is agony but death? May not I speak on such things? Happiness is life. When it is gone, that which is left is death. Perchance the body may still move and ask for food; may hate—it cannot love; may grieve—it cannot rejoice. Within all is dead. Only a hot clinging to action for the sake of vengeance holds the body from corruption.'

A small portion of the old colour returned to her thin cheeks. Her breath came and went quickly. The old man weakly upraised his shaking hands. 'Cease, child. The senses fail me,' he gasped. 'Speak into my ear. Tell me what it is you wish.'

She raised her face, until the young lips touched the scanty locks. With set face and hard voice she spoke a few words into his ear. He listened with slow nods of his feeble head. 'I have it, daughter. The materials lie within the hut.'

'It would be successful?' she asked indifferently.

'Unless the Spirit robbed it of power. The plan is well thought of, my daughter.'

'In the early morning I will come. Will it be prepared?'

'A shorter time will be sufficient. No, it cannot fail. Often have I made trial of it. Not in vain have I passed long nights beneath the moon. Not in vain have I plucked the strange herbs, and fed the plants with black blood of the dead. Much knowledge was given me by those who went before. Yet there will be more for those who follow me. Daughter, find me here when the moon touches yon distant ridges. Then can I say farewell, and lay my old body to the sleep.'

She gazed at the trembling figure and the palsied limbs. 'Perchance the sleep will be deep.'

'No, my daughter; there is time yet. Hot life burns within me, fierce life. The fire yet lives after the dying down of the bright flames. You shall find me here when you return. You shall pour into my ear the glad song of your vengeance. The young are swept aside suddenly, but the old survive and see the world decay.'

'Is this the teaching of your new religion?' she asked scornfully.

'I but spoke the mind thought. Of the new religion all things baffle belief. When your work is done, I may gladly return to the gods I have loved.'

'What is there in the new faith which passes understanding?'

'I can see nothing clearly. The doctor, who threw water on my forehead, and drew thereon a charm, told me we should love those who have made life bitter to us. It were great evil to punish them, for in the hands of the God alone lay the might of vengeance.'

'Should we then treat friend and foe as alike?'

'The doctrine is false,' he cried shrilly, as the evening shadows rose from the river. 'What is the gift of the hand when the thought at the heart is hatred? The doctor further told me that the God once lived as a man and walked the earth. More, He was even killed by the men He had called into being.'

'Why pray to One Who is dead?'

'He lives again. Now He has come through the unknown of death, no power may touch Him. Therefore is He God.'

'I believe it not,' cried Menotah, clasping again the child in her arms. 'Behold! it is now my turn to give you advice. Return to your own gods, who bid you take vengeance and crush the foe. Not willingly would you harm those you love. Why then should you have pity for those you hate? I trust not to such teaching.'

She turned to depart, yet the old man sent after her quavering words, 'Let not anger prevail over the mind, my daughter; for when the blood runs hot, and the heart rages with passion fire, the hand may tremble and the eyes may fail. See there is no need for the second blow.'

She cast the words back at him as he sat huddled before the door. 'You may throw aside your fear. Have I kept this strength to fail at the last hour, when retribution lies like a gift in my hand? I, child as you call me, am older even than you. The day of sorrow is longer than the year of joy.'

'You will return?' he muttered, dimly perceiving that she moved away.

'When the moons dips upon the ridge summits,' she said. Then, with the child clasped to her bosom, she disappeared with slow step amid the fast gathering darkness.

---

CHAPTER III

RESURRECTION

A big bluff man, with wide, glowing face and stentorian voice, entered the precincts of Garry about the end of July. He came invigorated by the prospect of a fortnight's leave, with the outspoken intention of enjoying himself. At every saloon—for he visited each impartially—there was a resonant welcome from many boon companions. McAuliffe was popular in his way among those of his own set.

So, three days after arrival, he might have been seen proceeding along the principal street, accompanied by half a dozen elderly men, lined and bearded, yet all disporting themselves like boys released from school. They were all 'Company lads,' down on leave from northern posts, actuated by a single idea of padding their few days of emancipation by as large an amount of dissipation as possible.

Presently this gang rolled round an abrupt corner, to collide heavily with a thickset man, buttoned up to the chin in a thick blue coat, and smoking a cigar of abnormal dimensions. With difficulty he retained his balance, though he completely failed to preserve contact with the undue length of tobacco, which was dashed from his jaws by the force of impact, and lay in the white dust. Before the owner could reclaim it, McAuliffe had seized him in a bear-like grip.

'It's Captain!' he bellowed. 'Darned if 'tisn't old Captain Robinson.'

'Why! why! Alf McAuliffe, if I'm not a liar,' gasped the other. 'Well! well! Hold on there, Alf. There's an hour's smoke lying on the trail. Wait till I get my fist round it.'

'Boys!' said McAuliffe, turning to his companions, 'I'm going off for a while. Want to have a talk with Captain here. Pass over the basket, Pete.'

'You'll turn up later?' cried the satellites in unison, one of them handing over a small brown hamper, which he seemed to relinquish not unwillingly.

''Course. I'll meet you round the tent. Think I'm going to miss the fun?'

Every beard wagged, each eye twinkled, at the prospect of approaching diversion.

'Come on. Captain,' shouted the Factor, 'So long, boys. You're spoiling for a good scrap, the whole derned crowd of you.'

'S'long, Alf.' Then the chorus, influenced by entire mutual understanding, wheeled into an adjacent saloon, whither McAuliffe followed them wistfully with his eyes.

He was, indeed, consuming with badly suppressed excitement. 'What do you think is the last racket. Captain?'

The other blew a mighty cloud of germ-destroying smoke, and shook his head.

'Never could guess a thing, Alf. Let's hear it.'

'Peter's preaching!' burst forth McAuliffe, in a voice that might have been heard the other side of Garry.

'What, never old Peter? No: Peter Denton, that used to serve drinks at the Tecumseh? I mind him well. Terrible on praying he was. Used to say a grace before and after every glass of liquor. Not him, Alf?'

'That's who,' continued the Factor, heartily, 'That same living lump of hypocrisy. He's got a big tent fixed up 'way north side of the fort, and he holds what he calls revival meetings there every evening this month. There's a sermon, then he takes up a collection—for rescuing unsaved brethren. Least that's how he puts it, but I've got a fairish notion that the only unsaved brother who has a look into that money is Mister Peter himself. Don't tell a lie about it anyway, do he, Captain?'

The other chuckled behind his unwieldy cigar. 'What's your racket now, Alf?'

'Going round there later, along with the other boys. We're going to put ourselves in front seats and take in the whole darned show. We'll have some fun, sure. Peter don't know I'm around here. He'll feel wonderful surprised when he sees my old face peeking up under his nose. Wouldn't wonder if it didn't come near spoiling his sermon.'

'Well! well! You're a teaser, Alf. But say, what's that you've got in the basket there? Seems to me sort of uncomfortable to the nose.' He blew a cloud of smoke, then sniffed suspiciously.

McAuliffe was almost ashamed of himself. 'Well, now, I'm a derned sort of old-fashioned baby, ain't I? It's disgraceful at my time of life. See, I don't often get a holiday, Captain. When the chance comes, I'm bound to kick around a bit and knock up the dust. This is just a sort of modest surprise party I've fixed up for Peter—to mind him of old times, and show there's no ill feeling, you know. Captain.' Then he produced from behind his back the brown hamper. The same appeared particularly attractive to the flies, for a multitude of every species and size hovered and buzzed over the straw cover. 'Don't touch. Captain. I tell you they're as hearty as skunks.'

The Captain coughed suddenly, as an unsavoury odour assailed his nostrils.

'What is it, Alf? Been buying up old fish?'

'Just eggs,' came the modest answer. 'But they weren't laid yesterday. Tell you, Captain, if you look close, you can pretty near see the feathers shooting out of the shell.'

'You're sort of hard on old Peter, strikes me,' began the other, but McAuliffe choked him off at once,—

'Nothing's bad enough for the cowardly rascal. Shouldn't be surprised if we cut the tent ropes before we're through with him.' He laid the redolent hamper on the ground, that he might rub his hands in delight at the thought.

This public demonstration called forth the astonishment of a passing Chinaman, who stood and gazed blankly at the big man's evolutions.

'Here's more of your pards coming around,' said Captain Robinson. 'They'll be running you into a cool place presently, Alf, if they see you cutting these sort of didoes.'

'Dern his gall!' exclaimed McAuliffe, catching up the hamper and thrusting it against the Celestial's face. 'You git home, Johnny, and wash your clothes.'

With unusual alacrity this command was obeyed.

'Now, Captain, come on back to the hotel and have a feed with me.'

'Can't do it, Alf. Got a whole crowd of things to fix up. Come round later, if you like.'

'Well, be up half past nine. Sharp on time, you know; I'll be there. Room No. 14. You'll find your way there by the smell of whisky. Least that's what Dave said. Wonderful nose Davey has for that sort nothing, anyway.'

'Right. If you don't turn up, I'll reckon the police have got hold of you for making a disturbance, eh?'

McAuliffe picked up his basket with a chuckle. 'I'm young enough to play the fool, but I'm too old to get caught,' he said. Then he made speedily towards the saloon, where he knew his elderly companions might still be found. A few minutes later he was vigorously quarrelling with the bar-tender, who wanted to eject him and his unhealthy burden.

It was a strange spectacle, one which probably might not be seen in any other country, thus to find several men, all of them distinctly past the prime of life, indulging in capricious acts of rowdyism which could only befit the average schoolboy. The officials of the H.B.C. chained down as they are for the greater part of life to the monotonous loneliness of some northern station, form a class apart from all others. As such a class they are especially distinguished by a strong craving after liquor—a natural product of a continued solitary existence—and a juvenile impetuosity of manner, which can only exhibit itself during their few days of leave, when they can return to civilisation to feel themselves again surrounded by fellow creatures. The reaction is a natural one. The anchorite who returns to the world generally plunges deeply into the whirling vortex of pleasure, to make up as far as possible for all he has lost. A conclusion points at once to the axiom, that folly is no respecter either of age or person.

It was half an hour after the time appointed, when McAuliffe, arm-in-arm with Dave Spencer, tumbled noisily into the hall of the hotel, where Captain Robinson was waiting behind another cigar of great proportion.

'Fact is,' burst forth the Factor, as he entered in cyclonic fashion, with a cut across the forehead and his big face adorned with several bruises, 'we had a bit of a row with some of the fellows. Come on upstairs. Captain; there we'll have a smooth time for next few hours. Yes, 'twas a regular set-to tussle,' he continued, as they arranged themselves upstairs. 'It wasn't so very far from a free fight. But we got the best of it. Yes, we diddled them—though we weren't much of a crowd, far as numbers went. Davey here came along just the right time, and mixed himself up fine. I tell you, Captain, you'd have curled up if you'd have seen Peter's face, when he spotted me sitting right down front of him, with a grin on my face you might have measured by yards. What with me encouraging him in a sort of whisper all the time, he couldn't talk worth shucks. I just wish I could have got his face photographed later on, when old Billy MacIntosh caught him per-lump on the end of the nose with a fairly meaty egg. Tell you, it would have drawn a grin out of a fence post. Dave was squirming around like a pesky worm.' He dropped heavily into a chair, and shook again with laughter.

'It's too bad, boys,' said Captain Robinson. 'Here were you having a smooth time, while I was putting in hard work.'

'Never mind. Captain,' said Dave, 'we're right in it now. Where's the liquor, Alf?'

The Factor, with true hospitality, was helping himself first. Then the bottle went round, the air became charged with smoke, conversation grew discursive.

'Quite a long time since I saw you last, Alf. Dave I'm meeting down in Selkirk pretty often. I reckon it's three years since we ran up.'

'It's all that since I was down. Garry's changed more than a little in the time. You're the same, Captain. I reckon you've chewed your weight in baccy since then.'

'I guess. How about yourself? How's the shooting, eh? Crack shot yet, Alf?'

The Factor growled out a low laugh, and beat his great fist upon the insecure table. 'Not a darned bit of it, Captain; it's no go. Tell you, I'll never be able to shoot. Getting worse all the time. Listen here to what happened a few days before I came away this trip. I was out early to chop logs, and first thing I saw was a fat old tree-partridge, settled on that big pine 'way outside the door. So I said to Justin, "Fetch over your gun, boy, while I show you the way to knock down partridges." I thought to myself, this is a slick shot right enough. I'll have this old chap for breakfast. Well, I guess that bird knew something about me, or maybe its pards had put it up to a thing or two, for he kind of jerked his head a one side and looked at me, much as to say, "What derned trick are you up to, anyway? Think you're going to fix me, eh?" So Justin chucked me over the gun all ready, while the old fowl sat tight as a rock. Then I took a good, steady aim and fired. Suppose I must have brought down about a bushel of cones and truck. But when the smoke cleared off, there was that partridge sidling along the bough towards me, pleased as anything with himself, looking at me straight, with as near a grin across his beak as any bird's ever managed yet. "I'll shoot you by proxy, anyway," I shouted, and gave the gun over to Justin. But before he could get a fair hold of it, that partridge was off. You needn't tell me birds can't think out things for themselves. Tree-partridges can, if other birds can't. That old fool knew well enough I couldn't hit him, but he was pretty darned sure Justin could. He reckoned it would be too risky to wait and see if he was right second time.'

Dave reached across and turned up the lamp flame with deep-throated chuckles. The Captain knocked an inch of ash from his cigar without perceptibly shortening it. McAuliffe suddenly blew the stub of his out upon the floor, in a shout of laughter.

'Goldam! can't get rid of old Peter's face time it stopped that egg. Here! pass over that box of sharpshooters, Dave.'

It was now dark and silent outside. About the only sound round the window was the dull, vibrating hum of mosquitoes. Presently the Factor began to narrate his experiences during the previous year.

But when he came to relate a certain incident, which had occurred on that autumn night of the boat's departure, the jocular lines were stamped from the two faces, as their owners listened intently to the narrative. Then the Captain spoke. 'You were full, Alf.'

'I was sober. Goldam! I was ridiculously sober.'

'Mind, there was Kitty as well,' put in Dave.

'That fixes it, if my words don't. I saw him plainly, just as I can see you boys now. You can't guess how terrible scared I was the next few days. I couldn't dare leave the fort after dark I made Justin hide away the whisky keg. You can call me a razzle-witted old fool, but I hadn't even the courage to walk over young Winton's grave in broad sunlight.'

There was a short interval of silence, then the Captain expanded his nostrils. 'Reckon there's something burning in here.'

McAuliffe sniffed capaciously. 'You're right, Captain. Darn it, there's my cigar stub working out a nice hole in that matting. I'm the sort of fellow to be in a civilised place, ain't I?'

He went on his knees to examine the amount of injury done. 'Pass down some water, Dave; there's a hole right here I could shove my head through, and it's burning all the time.' When he had deluged the flooring to his satisfaction, he continued, 'Now we'll just shift the table, so that one of the legs will nicely go over the bald spot. Then it won't get stuck down to my account. I reckon hotel servants never move anything.'

Hardly had he spoken, when a deep, wailing sound throbbed forth and echoed weirdly round the room.

The three started, then Dave shambled across and leaned as far from the window as the insect frame would permit. Presently it came again—a resonant iron cry, which solemnly thrilled the heart in the quiet night.

McAuliffe was still squatting on his haunches near the burnt matting. 'I know what it is!' he said suddenly; 'Father Lecompte's dead.'

For it was the single bell of the dim church opposite.

'Sure of that, Alf?' said the Captain, in awe-struck tones.

'Dead certain. He's been terrible sick. Old Taché never left him all last night. They said this morning he couldn't pull through to-day. 'Well, it's nice to be a good man, though they've got to go, same as us bad 'uns.'

The muffled cry rang again. Then McAuliffe dragged himself back to the chair. 'We've got to die, sure enough. They needn't get to work and remind us of it, though, just as we're feeling good. Fill up, Captain.'

'Shut down the window,' cried Dave. 'Enough to give a fellow the megrims, listening to that racket.'

'Too hot, Dave,' said the Factor. 'Here, we'll have a round of poker. Wait till I get out the cards.'

Plang!

'Goldam! queer that a dirty bit of metal should put three men in the suds. Cheer up, Captain; you're a chicken yet.'

He threw the cards across the table, then brandished a bottle round his head.

'When round the bar,
A short life and a merry 'un
Is better far,
Than a long life and a dreary 'un.'

The other two took up the last line and howled it forth with the lusty strength of unimpaired lungs.

'That's your style, Alf!' shouted Dave. 'Fill up the glasses, pard, and to hell with the blue devils.'

Plang!

Three glasses were raised, emptied in a quick gulp, then replenished. There were hurrying footsteps through the night beneath, while a stranger, more solemn sound uprose from the church, where the windows were filled with yellow light. A solemn mass was being sung for the repose of the soul of the dead priest.

'Hold it down, Dave!' cried the Captain. 'Five cent ante, boys.'

The amber-coloured liquor gurgled pleasantly from the bottle neck and splashed into the Factor's glass. His eyes shone as he gathered up the five cards. 'We'll have our little jamboree well as them over the way, I reckon.'

'Quit it, Alf,' said the Captain; 'I'm religious, mind. No blasphemy here.'

McAuliffe laughed thickly into his glass. 'You're all right, Captain. Mind how you won twenty dollars off me one Sunday, just before starting for church? Reckon your religion wouldn't drag you from this bottle over to yon service, eh?'

Plang!

'I'll raise you, Dave. That's nothing to do with it, Alf; I'm religious when—when—'

'You're sick, eh?'

'There's a time for everything,' said the Captain, with the solemnity that was liquor induced. 'I'm religious at the proper time, mind you, just at the proper time. Other times I'm gay.'

'This is the gay time. Captain. You're a great lad! It's your pot. Ante up, Dave.'

'Reckon it's time the bottle passed this side,' said the latter.

'Got to go by me first, Davey. Never mind, lad; I'll leave you the cork to chew. That's right, Captain; hold your hand round it.'

Plang-ang!

'Bellringer's tight. Now then, Dave. Half for you, half for me. I'll have the big half, and you take the little 'un. What's that, Captain? I reckon I just will raise you.'

'Pass,' said Dave, clutching the bottle frantically.

'See you,' said the Captain, jerking his head forward over the table.

'Full house,' cried the Factor.

'Like us,' added the Captain. 'Good, Alf. Three kings.'

Plang-ang.

'What's that?' cried Dave, quickly.

'Why, the pesky bell, you old rocket. You're everlastingly raddled, Dave.'

'I'm not. There's somebody monkeying around outside.'

'Boil your head,' muttered the Captain. 'It don't matter, anyway; all bad folks are asleep by this time.'

'I'm darned sure there was someone. Heard footsteps, then a sound like striking a match to look for a number. Some of your pards after you, I reckon. Alf.'

'Let 'em come. Lots of liquor for 'em. Fetch up that full bottle from the corner,' shouted the Factor.

'Ante up first, Dave. You're the worst I ever saw for trying to sneak in your nickles.'

Strong knuckles fell determinedly upon the door panel to prove the truth of Dave's words.

'It's your pals, Alf,' said the Captain, with a chuckle. 'Bring 'em in, and we'll make an everlasting night of it.'

'Bet you; it'll be the boys. They're after giving me a surprise party. Lucky I'm not in bed, or they'd have dragged me out first thing.'

The heavy knocking came again, this time lasting longer.

'Come on, you old razzle-pates!' shouted McAuliffe. 'What are you standing outside making that darned row for.'

'Come in and have a drink!' yelled the Captain, equally excited. Dave's harsh voice also extended the invitation.

'Gimme that bottle, Dave. You're too derned full to get the cork out.'

Then the door opened slowly, but no more than two figures entered, and one of these was a woman.

The three turned upon them with hearty cries of salutation; but the next instant they were all upon the dirty matting, tied up in a knot of legs and arms, clawing at one another, rolling over and over, with strange, animal-like cries of fear.

Plang-ang!

'Old Billy!'

'Billy Sinclair!'

'Lord! Lord! I've got 'em this time!'

---

CHAPTER IV

CHARACTER

The old hunter stood by the table, with a slow smile breaking upon his thin face as he looked upon the grovelling, snake-like figures at his feet. Then he sniffed at the atmosphere, and began to comprehend.

'Sit here,' he said to the girl, whose head was covered in a flowing blanket, pushing a chair into the corner. 'I'll have to sort some order out of this crowd.'

Then he pulled at a leg which wriggled from beneath the table. It belonged to McAuliffe, and its owner bellowed fearfully at the clutch.

'It's got me, Captain. Hold on to my arm, Davey. It's going to drag me off.'

'Come out, Alf. Don't you know an old pard?'

It was ineffectual. The Factor only raved and struggled the more. So Sinclair turned his attention to the others, who proved more amenable.

'It is you, Billy?' said the awe-stricken Captain. 'There's no foolery? You're not a pesky spirit come to scare us for our sins?'

'Get up and put your arms round me,' said the hunter, a trifle testily. 'I never had much flesh to carry; what I've got now is solid, though, I reckon.'

Then Dave peered up, a queer object with stains of liquor and sodden tobacco down his cheeks. 'We reckoned you were fixed, Billy. 'Way up the Saskatchewan by the nitchies.'

'Well, I wasn't. Pull Alf up, and I'll give you the yarn.'

Captain Robinson shook the prostrate figure. 'Git up, Alf. It's the square thing. Old Billy's here, skin and all.'

'I didn't drink much. Captain—only a few glasses. There was a lot of water in that last lot. You saw me mix it. Captain.'

'Didn't take you for a coward, Alf,' said Sinclair. 'I'm here, good as ever, with Menotah as well.'

'Where?' blurted forth Dave. 'My gal! Darned if there isn't my gal!'

He would have shambled off towards her, but the hunter stopped him. 'Let her alone, poor girl. She's had more than enough trouble.'

'She's next thing to being my wife, though. Guess she's wanting me.'

'You bet,' said Sinclair, smiling ironically.

'It's hard on a fellow not being able to speak to his gal.'

'Well, have a drink; that's pretty near as good,' said the Captain. 'Come on, Billy. Lord! it makes me feel queer down to the knee bones, to see you standing upright there.'

The hunter laughed. This well-remembered sound almost entirely removed McAuliffe's fear. Slowly and cautiously he dragged his head from the matting, then gazed fearfully upward. 'That was Billy's laugh,' he muttered. 'I don't reckon any ghost could raise such a racket.'

'Yes, Alf; you're scared of me, eh?'

'No, I'll be darned.' He clambered ungracefully to a sitting posture. 'I never was afraid of old Billy not when he was alive; so it sha'n't be said I'm scared of his ghost.'

'Well, shake, then,' said the hunter.

McAuliffe was still distrustful. 'Let's see you put down a dram first,' he said. 'If you can still drink whisky, you're Billy. If you can't, you're his ghost.'

'I was just waiting to be asked,' said the hunter, filling himself a glass. 'Here's to you, Alf.'

The latter was up in a second, grabbing at his hand. 'Sit light there, Billy,' he cried, forcing him into a chair. 'Tell us the yarn from start to finish. Darn it, I'm glad it wasn't the whisky. This is the second time you've scared me, Billy. I tell you, boys, straight, I thought I'd got 'em a terror. As there's no danger of the jumps, I reckon we'd better drink Billy's health, eh?'

A fresh bottle of spirit was cracked, and the glasses charged. 'I'm real glad to drink to you again, Billy,' continued the Factor, sniffing appreciatively the ascending aroma. 'Though, I tell you, you've shortened our lives by suddenly returning to yours. You haven't dealt square, Billy. Why didn't you turn up before? See here, now; there's got to be no more larking off to the grave, and rising again to drive your pards to total abstinence. Yes, Billy, if you'd been a ghost to-night, I should have turned temperance orator. I tell you straight I should.'

'But the yarn, Billy,' cried Dave. 'Didn't the nitchies try to fix you?'

'No,' replied the hunter. 'Somebody did their best to shoot me, but it wasn't a nitchi.'

'Who?' they all asked with a single voice.

'Lamont.'

A faint sound—it might have been a groan—came from the dark corner. The Factor tilted his glass in his amazement, until the liquor splashed upon the scattered cards. The Captain was shouting, 'Who's he?'

The hunter's spare face appeared almost frightened. 'The White Chief,' he said slowly.

McAuliffe growled like a bear, and dropped the glass outright; the Captain sat upright, with the ash end of the cigar in his mouth; Dave gave a deep cry.

'I mind it now,' the latter shouted. 'Was dead sure I'd seen his face, but couldn't fix it nohow. Now I mind it. 'Twas one night I came upon him sudden at the Lower Fort, without his paint.'

McAuliffe collapsed into a chair. 'Goldam!' he exclaimed weakly, 'to think I should have lived with him. You're wrong though, Billy. He fought for us that night. If it hadn't been for him, we'd all have been fixed—'

'Lamont goes on the strong side. He knew it was all over with the Riel racket. If he'd been taken up there, it was all up with him. He knew that.'

To remove the veil of mystery which so far has environed the 'White Chief':—

Riel was not, never had been, the prime factor of the revolution. Himself a dull man of irregular habits, yet one whose mind might easily be moulded; in unscrupulous hands, he was powerless to act as sole leader; he could not forecast future chances without assistance. Left to himself, he would never have struck the blow for right and liberty. But, when sitting outside his shanty one summer evening, a young man came to him. His sudden arrival was in itself mysterious, and from the first he cast a powerful glamour over the great half-breed. The darkness came up, night gathered round, and still Riel talked with the young Canadian, who was, on his own confession, the finest rifle shot in the Dominion, perhaps in the world at that time. Proofs of this were not wanting. The heavy-featured man became delighted with the skill and flattery of the fascinating white, who soon began to pour into his ears a vividly painted word picture where his own name recurred frequently, in conjunction with such expressions as power and wealth unbounded. He was aware of Riel's intentions—his desire to reclaim the land from the oppressor. To be brief, he had come to aid him.

The next scene represents the revolt from authority itself. Riel was nominal leader, but in all things he was guided by the cunning brain and persuasive voice of his white subordinate. This latter kept disguised as a blood Indian, with the paint, feathers, buckskin and bead work of the native warrior. For long none suspected the true identity, except, of course, the Indians themselves, to whom he was known generally as the 'White Chief,' or the 'Father's Friend.'

While this disguise remained, Riel triumphed. In every struggle Lamont's unerring rifle accomplished its pitiless work, until police and soldiers grew to dread the report of the Indian marksman's weapon. He kept himself always in a place of safety, well out of the direct flight of hostile bullets.

But an Indian traitor—there were many of them—who entertained a grudge against him, narrated the tale to hunter Sinclair of St Andrews one day while tracing up a moose. Lamont had formerly been an acquaintance. After learning this story he found a means of coming upon him suddenly, to prove the truth of the Indian's word. The name, of course, had been changed, but Sinclair penetrated to the identity by the report of his wonderful shooting powers. In his surprise visit, attended though it was by considerable risk, he was successful. The meeting was a dramatic one. After an appeal had been wasted, the hunter threatened to capture and hand him over to the Government. Lamont replied by snatching a revolver and firing at him. The hunter had moved quickly aside when he saw the intention, so escaped the bullet. In the dark night he escaped without further risk. Later the story became known widely, while a reward was offered for the apprehension of the White Chief. Yet Sinclair alone held the knowledge of his actual personality. To all others he was merely a name and a marvellous shot. Lamont suspected that Sinclair would not open his mouth, in the hope of himself obtaining the reward, coupled with the kudos of having, unaided, captured the Indian auxiliary. His only chance now was to follow up his former friend and kill him—especially as he now began to understand that Riel was doomed, that the Rebellion must fail inevitably.

His motive in thus allying himself to Riel must be sufficiently obvious. He had previously gone over all ground, had reckoned every chance, as he thought, to finally arrive at the conclusion that an insurrection of Indians and half-breeds must be successful. He was but an ordinary adventurer, yet of more than average intellect. He would sway the mind of Riel, the invaders would be conquered and driven out, the half-breed leader would be chief of the entire country—nominally only. The reins of power would actually rest in his own hands. To depose the dull-witted half-breed and obtain entire leadership would then be a comparatively simple matter.

But most men omit in their reasonings the single detail of importance. In this case he had reckoned entirely without the influence of the Church, and the extraordinary power which it held and could exert over its ignorant and superstitious children. When the Archbishop with his assistants first commenced their efforts, he had smiled disdainfully at the wild fancy of men being such fanatics as to be priest led. But this gratification endured no longer than a fortnight, by which time he found many on whom he had confidently relied laying down their weapons, returning to their homes with the declaration that they would abide by the command of their religion. The Intrepid Archbishop had conquered.

So he abandoned Riel to his fate and fled, with the price of blood upon his head, to remorselessly and energetically follow up Sinclair's trail. He might easily have escaped from the country, but the lust of vengeance was hot within him. Besides, he fancied himself in love with Marie Larivière. After the silencing of the hunter, he might be able to fan the flame of passion into a fiercer and hotter rebellion. So he followed the trail, even to the forests of the Great Saskatchewan.

'Well, well, Billy,' said the Factor, half an hour later, 'it's a wonderful experience you've had. I tell you, if you could have seen young Winton that night, and old Blackey rocketing around, you'd have reckoned yourself you were dead.'

'What's the matter with drinking Billy's health?' said Dave, thirstily.

'You're a cute lad,' said the Captain; 'fill up and pass the bottle. It's all right; Alf pays the racket.'

'I mind now,' broke in Dave. 'It was when I was raddled in the fort I recognised Lamont. Called him White Chief, I did, and he turned a sort of green colour. I mind it all now.'

'You were full, Dave,' chuckled the Factor; 'what I've said right along. That's the only time you're sensible, lad. Come on, Billy, drink your own health.'

The hunter had told his story amid constant interruptions of the above character. After leaving Winton, he had set forth through the gathering darkness to bring up the horses. He found them tethered as left, but when about to depart fancied he could detect—with the sharp hearing instinct of his profession—sounds of a stirring body in the bush adjacent. There were no repetitions of these motions, so he got the animals clear and began to move on the return journey. Then the conduct of the grey mare aroused fresh suspicion. She refused to approach a thicket of red willow lying slightly to the right of their path. He hesitated for a time, then, thinking her fear was probably due to some passing Indian, placed himself between her and the bush. Still he advanced with what speed he could muster. The loose rocks were slippery with dew, and the undergrowth tangling to the feet. He had passed, and breathed a sigh of relief At the same instant that brushing aside of bushes sounded again. Then a stone flew from the centre of the bush and struck the mare full on the side. She broke from him, plunging like a wild creature, and finally rushed away into the forest.

That same instant a low, vengeful voice broke forth in the gloomy silence. 'Sinclair,' it said, with a stifled laugh, 'I've fixed you now.'

That dreaded rifle cracked. There came the shock of the bullet, and he had fallen unconscious to the ground.

Here McAuliffe had interrupted eagerly, 'Tell now, Billy, was the pain bad?'

'Didn't feel a thing, except an awful sudden shock, same as you might receive from an extra strong electric battery,' replied the hunter. 'A fellow couldn't wish for a nicer way out of life. It's a case of alive one quarter second, dead the next. There's no suffering nor worry. You just hop out of life and step into eternity. That's what death by shooting is. 'Course only when it comes sudden and unexpected.'

'Diddled you fine, Captain,' said the Factor, rubbing his hands. 'See here, Billy, Captain and I had a big argument on that one time. He said a man couldn't be killed right off by a bullet. Suffered bad he did, before dying. I told him he didn't know the first thing about it. The fellow would turn up right away. I'm right again. Yes, Captain, got you fine. Here's old Billy jumped out of his grave, purpose to let you know.'

Captain Robinson blew forth a mighty fog of smoke, and remarked that McAuliffe was talking through his hat.

So, for once in his life, Lamont had made a mis-shot. At the time he must have been over-excited. Then his enemy was very close, and he was too confident. Still he had been quite satisfied that his skill could not fail, for he had gone off at once, without waiting to examine the body.

Menotah, passing happily from the river pool to the forest encampment, had come upon him immediately after. Half an hour later, and the triumph of the White Chief would have been complete, for his victim was rapidly bleeding to death; but the girl's skill, aided by the advice and health-giving restoratives of the old Antoine—who of course knew nothing of the rescue—had brought him back to life and strength. Her pity had gone out to this wounded man, who was far from home and friends. She was anxious to save him from suffering, so had cared for him as he lay for some days and nights beneath the red willow thicket, and when strength served, had led him to the hut by the swamp. For he had explained his wish for privacy.

'Say, Billy, where's that hut, anyway?' asked the Factor.

''Way down the swamp. Only she and the old medicine man know of it.'

'Thought I knew all the district. Wonder I never struck it.'

'It's well hidden. Petroleum swamp, too. There's a shining fortune lying around there.'

'No way of shipping it, and no market. But think of you hiding down there, and then larking out of the bush that night on me and Kit. You made me swear off liquor for a month, Billy. Why didn't you come back to the fort?'

'Didn't dare,' said Sinclair, shortly.

'Don't see what there was to be scared of.'

'Lamont. I tell you straight I was afraid of him. He's a strong will, while mine after that shot got a bit broken. I was weak and nervous as a baby all summer. Then, I reckoned, if I lay quiet till I got fixed up, I might be able to get in a dirty sort of shot at him to level matters. Yes, I was cowardly mean enough to want a pot at him, same as he put in at me.'

There was no remark, so the hunter continued,—

'When Lamont made off, last boat in the fall, my idea was to follow. Menotah helped me again. Through her I got a canoe with a couple of nitchi boys, who paddled me away across to Horse Island.[1] From there I was lucky enough to get a passage in a late fishing boat. It was a terrible risky journey. We were frozen in twice; but it broke and we got back. Even since then I've kept away from Garry, until I'd got everything ready fixed. Didn't want Lamont to see me. He's round here, you know.'

'What's the plan now, Billy?' asked the Captain.

Sinclair smiled. 'A warrant will be out in the morning. We're going to arrest him in the night.'

'Any trouble getting it?' asked McAuliffe.

'Took time, of course. But, I tell you, the Commissioner took down what I had to say, as though 'twas a plateful of oysters.'

'There's the reward as well, Billy,' put in the Captain.

'Yes. He said my services would be referred to the Government—'

'Don't you believe it, Billy,' interrupted the Factor. 'I know that sort of darned business. They'll refer to each other, and this joker will write to another baldhead. He'll go on to some other fool, and that one will refer the whole crowd back to first correspondence. Then they'll start to work over again. By the time your grandchildren are getting oldish, you'll get a letter to say they won't give you anything, owing to lapse of time, incorrect information, and a lot of other truck. That's how they do business in Government offices. They work for eternity, they do.'

'Near shifting time,' said the Captain. 'I'll be finishing my smoke presently, then we'll make. Wake up, Dave.'

The latter gentleman was lolling over the table, breathing deeply. McAuliffe poured some water down his neck with instant result.

'It's your ante, Dave; hustle yourself. There's going to be a picnic round here. We're going to have Lamont arrested and strung up at Regina. We'll go there together, Dave, and cut a dido.'

It took yet another half hour for Captain Robinson to finish his cigar, so the others filled in the interval by much loud conversation, heedless of time, or peace of others in the little wooden building.

Ever since her entrance, Menotah had sat quietly in the dark corner allotted to her, without motion or speech. Frightened by the busy motion and numerous faces of Fort Garry, she had followed Sinclair with an almost dog-like submission, obeying his every word, yet only keeping silence on the matter that lay nearest her heart. Night and day she carried in the warmth of her bosom a black substance enwrapped in dry grass. It was of the appearance and consistency of solid glue. This was Antoine's last gift—a drug, which, when introduced into the blood, cast the body into a consumptive shivering no human art could cure. The time for its use had almost come, but she said nothing. They must not suspect her object.

But she was not to be left altogether to the quiet her soul desired. As the time for departure arrived, Dave, who was far from sober, suddenly caught sight of her. At once he lurched across the room.

'Here's my gal waiting here for me all this time,' he said. 'Darn it, boys, you've left my gal out of the fun. Come along with me, Menotah, and have a sit on my knee.'

He caught at the blanket and pulled it from her head. The beautiful unbound hair flowed down over her shoulders, framing the pale face, which looked up so pathetically at her tormentor. Hunter Sinclair thought of the deer fever when he saw those mournful eyes.

'Come on, gal,' cried Dave, coarsely. 'No moping when I'm around.'

She held out a little hand to him. 'Ah! leave me,' she pleaded pitifully.

'I brought you across the lake. You're going to be my wife, ain't you? No going back on your word now.'

'Come on, Davey,' cried the Factor, in a ripe voice, 'I'm waiting to see you home. No drunks allowed in Garry after nightfall.'

'My gal's asking for a drink. You're a mean dirty crowd finishing up the whisky, and not giving my poor gal a drop.' He lurched to her side, and took her cold little face between his hot greasy hands. 'Never mind, Menotah; I'll give you a good kissing instead. That'll be better than liquor, eh?

She struggled with deep panting breath, and weak little cries for pity. Poor stricken girl! her cup of misery was very full indeed. She was a woman and weak, but an Indian. They were men and white, therefore cruel. This distinction was wide and sufficient.

'Ah! let me go, if you are man and have a heart,' she wailed, with broken sobs. 'You made me promise you would leave me to myself for a time. Will you keep that promise thus? If you have pity, leave me.'

The others stood around with loud laughter and coarse jests as Dave put his amorous designs into execution. And these were men, loyal-hearted Canadians, who loved their queen and flag. The life of one of them had been preserved by the struggling girl he now refused to aid. True, they were all over-mastered by liquor, otherwise McAuliffe would certainly have interfered, probably also Sinclair on the lowest grounds of gratitude. But let it be remembered far worse things have been done, are done to-day, by such men, in full possession of their faculties, with sober and deliberate intent to ruin.

'You blasted gal!' shouted Dave. 'Can't you give decent kisses to the man you're going to hitch on to?'

'Wants harnessing, Dave,' said the Captain. 'Here, I'll hold her, while you smack her on the lips. Ain't she got a pretty little kissing mouth, too?'

He did hold her, careless of her moans and choked sobs. Dave twisted his hand into her silken hair and dragged her small head back, then pressed his dirty, liquor-tainted face across hers. She cried from her bleeding heart to the Great Spirit that he would aid her, and judge between her and these. And doubtless the Spirit heard that cry.

'I'm going, Dave,' stammered the Factor. 'B'lieve I'm nearly full. Must have some fresh air before bed.'

'Give us a show, Dave,' shouted the excited Captain. 'It's my turn, I reckon.' He pushed Dave aside, then tried to kiss the trembling, miserable girl.

But Dave was at him in an instant, with a dim idea that his rights were in danger of infringement. 'You'll insult my gal, will you? Darned if I won't fight you, Captain. I tell you, you don't know Dave Spencer. He's terrible tough when roused.'

He pulled off his canvas jacket, and danced like a figure on wires round the Captain. The other two interfered, and soon the whole four were quarrelling together noisily.

In the midst of this tumult, Menotah rose and quickly slipped to the closed door. Dave immediately wheeled round and lurched after her. She struggled with the handle, which she could not understand. He caught her by the arm just as the door came open. She clenched her teeth, then, as a spark of the old fire shot into her lustrous eyes, she struck him with all her strength full in the face with her free hand. Half dazed, he dropped to the floor, while she disappeared—out into the hot, clear night, beneath the kind gleam of the stars she knew and loved.

The quarrel ended. Dave was raised by jocular arms, swearing fearfully. He announced his intention of going at once after the girl and smashing every bone in her body. McAuliffe offered to join him, so the two tumbled heavily down the narrow stairway. The Captain and Sinclair lurched off in an opposite direction.

The former couple forgot all about Menotah, even before reaching the outer air. They stumbled along cheerily for a short distance, only intent upon their own happiness.

'Say, Alf, where are we anyhow?' asked Dave, thickly.

'We're all right, Dave. Straighten up, now; this is New York City,' came the confident reply.

'Don't say. Well, well, sort of thought I was in Fort Garry to-day. Couldn't have been, Alf, eh?'

'Course not. Ever been in New York before, Davey?'

'First visit, Alf. Fine place, ain't it?'

'Bet your life. First-class saloons, I'm told. We'll sample 'em, eh?'

Dave sniggered. 'I reckon.'

More he might have said, but at that instant they came upon a log lying across the road. Without the least hesitation they both took a header, then lay sprawling on the other side in the dew-wet dust.

They sat up, more pleased with themselves than damaged by the fall. 'Was it a cyclone, Alf?' asked Dave, blankly.

'Whist, Dave. Don't make a racket, or we'll have the police on us. They'll say we put that thing across the sidewalk. Disgraceful in a great big city like this, ain't it?'

Dave sympathised, then the Factor's note changed to anger. 'Goldam! I've split up my right boot and half smashed a toe. I shall go to a lawyer's office first thing, and sue the corporation of this darned city. Sticking obstacles on the sidewalk to smash the toes of honest citizens. Sha'n't be able to walk in Central Park to-morrow, now my boot's broken up.'

'Never mind, Alf. You can get boots half price from the Company. Nothing at all, if you cook the books.'

'Davey,' said the Factor, reproachfully. 'I couldn't do it. I'd like to cheat, but dern it, Davey, I can't. I'm too high-minded.'

For some time longer they talked from their respective dust heaps, while mosquitoes sang in the air, and frogs chirped in the grass around them. Then they climbed to their feet to continue aimless peregrinations.

'I know, Davey,' said the Factor, suddenly, as they came to a corner house. 'There's a nice little saloon right up here. Come on, and I'll drink your health, lad.'

'Isn't it next turning?' said the other, merely for sake of argument.

''Course not. That 'ud take us down to Broadway. Think I don't know my way about?'

'Long time between drinks, ain't it, Alf?'

'You're right, Davey. Wonderful fine place New York, ain't it? We'll have a drink, then I'll take you around on a car, while we take in the show.'

'I'm right on,' hiccoughed Dave. 'Come on, Alf.' They linked together, and staggered up the byway in the darkness. The road and themselves soon ended in a ditch.

[1] Geographically known as Selkirk Island, though wrongly placed on all maps.

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CHAPTER V

THE DEAD HEART

While the lonely, heart-broken girl sat in that tainted room, her whole being bowed with grief, the drunken revellers shouting before her, many thoughts passed and flashed across the highly-strung mind.

Position, before that brutal assault, was as nothing. It mattered not at all that she looked on others enjoying themselves in the manner to them most congenial, that she was outside all this, barred by the law of race from having any part in their festivities, even had she wished it.

But why should men be cruel to her, she who had harmed no one? Why, because she was Indian, should she be treated as animal? She knew she was beautiful—once that knowledge had been the chief joy of the heart; she had, to the ruin of that joy, succeeded in attracting the desire of a handsome white; he had told her she was perfect in face and form, that she was in fact the divine woman of Nature. Yet he had taken her, under the seal of a false love, but to while away a few careless hours of leisure.

He would not so have treated the woman of his own race. Had he ventured to, others would have risen to prevent the insult Yet the same justice-mongers would have raised no bar to the ruin of the poor girl, more perfect, more trusting, infinitely more loving than her white sister. She might be trampled on, despised, destroyed. And why? Because she was merely the girl of the forest, the Indian, not a human being in their sense of the word.

Her brain could not unravel this paradox.

The tears of blood dripped forth silently. Once had she been Menotah, now time and treachery had changed that happy heart into dead fruit. The lively girl had grown to a revengeful woman. In such a state, sympathy would have been gall. True, there were none who would offer pity. Had there been, what balm of healing could their compassion bring to that diseased mind? Every incident in the bright past had faded, each hope and warm pleasure had been shrivelled up like a dry leaf and swept away For the one hour of deepest misery drives into oblivion all memory of the lapsed years, when joy was ever present, into forgetfulness each day of laughing sunshine, each hour of unburdened delight.

Each man or woman in the last despair can live upon the dreary phrase, 'There was a time.' All, whether in poverty, in death, or time of lost honour, may repeat the sad and mocking words for what consolation they contain. There was a time of youth, when sorrow was unknown, when the mind was always a butterfly with its light hope, when the heart was hot and large with love. It was summer then. Now it is winter—all is coldness and desolation.

Yet the hour of vengeance approached, when that terrible life duty must be discharged. She felt the substance warming in its poison by her bosom, and, in the bitterness of her grief, smiled. She must make entrance into her husband's room and find him alone. This drug had no internal effect, though its commingling with the human blood meant a death lingering and terrible in its slow wasting. She would place a portion in her mouth, then approach the destroyer with tears and bitter protestations of yet living love. As a last favour she would beg permission to kiss the hand which so often had fondled her. This he could not refuse. Then she would bite deeply with her poisoned teeth into the flesh, and watch him, as he fell away from her, with the fearful greyness spreading over his features, as the racking cold seized every limb and made each muscle shiver. Afterwards she might go away and look for peace.

Yet, supposing that he relented at the sight of her, that he renewed the vow of love, that he swore again to be constant. Should she grant pardon, if only for the sake of healing her own deep wound?

Never! Take again that which had been given in pure confidence, the gift which had been despised? She had given him her best, her all. He had broken it with scorn, had cast it down, and trampled on it with his feet. Perhaps he might even now offer to return it as a proof of his manly affection. What would be the value of such a gift? What would be the true feeling at the heart of such a man?

Then forget the wronger, and search for the true-hearted. If some men are faithless, there are others, and many, who are honourable. If there is one enemy, there are others who are friends. Surely such a vile man is not worthy of remembrance. Forget that black clouds of treachery have ever darkened the sunshine happiness of a past.

Forget! This, alas, is the ever-present impossibility of life. None may forget death, when its grim power lies across the body, nor may the wound be disregarded, while the red blood pours therefrom. Can the heart forget when it has been robbed of life, of health, of joy, of hope, of all that makes the world beautiful? There is but one thing that in such case may be brought as food for oblivion—the vanished happiness of the past.

For this wound was deep as death itself. There was nothing left but vengeance, and after that—after that—Rest comes only after duty.

How mighty were these white men in their creations! How weak were they in themselves! For, in the lust after power, they had cast aside Nature and her works. They knew nothing of the sacred fire, of the beauty of life. Across the mighty water they came in great vessels to seize upon the territories of the weak Indian. With might they had driven out right, and made the former owners slaves in their own land. But when these conquerors lay beneath the cold shadow of death, whom would they call upon for aid? The Indian, with his deep knowledge of healing medicines. When food was desired for the body, to whom would they turn for assistance? To the Indian, who alone could lead them to the spot where the animals lay concealed. When it was their wish to feast the sight upon things of wonder, whom would they summon? The Indian, with his inscrutable knowledge of Nature's inner secrets. Finally, when they wished to learn the power of love, it were useless to search for it among their own habitations. They must turn to the tents of the despised race, then depart with knowledge gained. Yet, by the law of justice, the white ruled the world. The Indian lay beneath his feet and looked to him for life.

Stranger than all this was the story of the white man's God. If the old mentor had not been advised wrongly, this God had walked the earth for years, to teach His children the lesson of life and death. This God must have taught them that women were of no account. One was to be taken and sported with, then cast aside for another. Their tears and their sorrow were to be laughed at and counted as nothing. This was strange teaching, for why should the woman be held so inferior to the man?

But perchance the white man had many gods, who gave each a different teaching. Yet no, it could not be. From all sides came the same unvarying tale of treachery and desertion. There were many white men in the country, yet they were all the same. All treated the women with cruelty, all were inconstant. Some there were who married, then deserted their wives for other women. The faith of the white God must be a cruel one. She would have none of it.

Yet, in obeying the prompting of her own mind, the will of the Spirit had been disobeyed. She had allied herself to one outside the tribe, and now but suffered the penalty of wrong-doing. A man who could not love joined to a woman with a heart. The result of such union meant misery to one, death to both. The heart continued its musings on the mystery of love.

Man is man, and woman, woman, whatever race or colour. They mingle together and pass daily, until one is strangely stopped by power of attraction for another. The man looks upon the woman, and sees that she is beautiful. She regards him with the growing thought that he is good and strong. Then, as the time passes, he comes to know that here is the life being whom the Great Spirit has brought into creation and led across his track, that he may take her to his home and call her his. For she was brought into life for him, and he for her. So he takes her by the hand in the evening time, and whispers in her ear, 'Let me twine my life with yours. Let us live as one, with soul to soul, having one mind, one wish.' Then she will agree, and the solemn compact is made, with the Great Spirit as witness. He has promised to shelter and clothe her, to care for her in time of sickness, to rejoice with her in happiness, to grieve with her in sorrow. She, also, promises to lighten his burden of daily toil with her soft love touch, to devote herself to him alone, to prepare his comforts, to make his home the centre of heart joy. But what shall be done to that man, who has fallen away from the great oath, by her who has remained true and faithful?

Let him be forgotten and forgiven? It were impossible. The heart, when it stirred into faint life, prompted otherwise. The teaching of the God was different. What justice was there in treating the apostate as though he had remained constant? Nor could it bring satisfaction to the stricken mind to see the God performing the work of vengeance.

Was there strength at the heart? Resolution for the meeting and the work? Doubtless, yet the strain and tension would be well nigh unbearable. There would be the journey, the watching for the opportunity, the anticipating of others, then the dread discovery before the once loved. After that must come the actual bitterness of the struggle. To look upon that face, which had been so indelibly stamped upon the memory; to behold again that well-remembered form; to speak and plead, with a love assumed, while hatred burnt within; to hold that hand, which had so often caressed her in the days of innocence. All such must be endured before commission of the act. The poison would be dissolving and stirring within her mouth, mingling with the breath, lying upon the tongue which had softly spoken to his ear the sounds of love. Another moment of strength, one more wave of feeling, and the work would be accomplished. The hand would be seized within hers, the touch electrifying each subtle sense current in her body. She would raise it to her lips, and she would kiss—yes, she would kiss first, then bite, burying her white teeth in the flesh with the mad intensity of the passion hatred, feeling his blood dripping and surging hotly across her mouth, mingling with the poison, which must then commence a deathly revelry along his veins. If the heart strength lasted for so long, all would be well. She might then crawl away to a place of quietness, cast down the aching body, and suffer the final pangs of ebbing life.

Was the heart of joy entirely dead? Had the single ice-stroke deprived it of all consciousness, blotting out the warm love and flowing vitality in a breath? The limb, frozen by the rigours of Arctic cold, is wax-like, cold, and dead to feeling. Yet it may perhaps be gradually revived and restored again to use and animation by assiduous attention. Was there not then some sensitive fibre of the heart, at present numbed by the intense frost of sorrow, yet which might be re-animated into at least a portion of the old happiness by tender nurture? The heart is so great in its far-reaching sympathies, so diversified in its range of feeling. Was there not a spot, as yet untouched by the mortification, one slight nerve which could yet respond to the anxious voice of friend—more, to the soft sound of lover's voice? Assuredly not. The heart was dead to feeling of human passion, alive only to its ice-cold determination of duty. Nothing could stir its sluggish pulsations as it lay within the flesh tomb. Not the excitement of her mission, nor the taunts of those who should have been men enough to have protected her from insult, not even the contemplation of again facing him she had so wildly and so foolishly loved, could awake that heavy, torturing burden within to a semblance of its past activity, to a shadow of the former brightness. All light and colour had been stripped from life. Even the body was cold, shrunken and debilitated. The mind had no resource to lean upon, the body no satisfaction to hope for. For the latter there remained death; the former looked only for silence.

A faint colour crawled into her thin cheeks and became constant, increasing in intensity of shade. The remainder of her face and the dull eyes became ghastly by contrast. Such a bright colour had once marked the rich stain of health; then it had altered to the pure heart blush; now it was the slow spreading fever of the mind. It seemed, indeed, as though the fire which had long been consuming her heart, after burning away the vitals, had spread to the exterior, there to consummate its work and consume the poor remnants of life.

There was one more thought at the dead heart, one doubting and perplexing query. Well might it trouble her, for none could have given answer to that constant cry—what is the rest that comes to the mind of sorrow after death?

---

CHAPTER VI

DURING THE DAY

Next morning the sun came up brightly in a clear blue sky. Two hours later a hot wind began to blow softly from the direction of the international boundary, bringing with it a heavy haze which soon settled over the entire heaven. Then the breeze dropped, while a dead calm brooded above and around Fort Garry. But the heavy atmosphere remained, enwrapping the place in a sweltering, mist-like shroud, through which the blinded rays of the sun fell sullenly in a stifling glare. Later, the heat became fear fully intense. Men, scantily attired, might have been seen stretched indolently in every patch of shade along the shelter of each house, fanning their perspiring faces with wide-brimmed hats. Insect pests, prominent among which appeared flying ants and malevolent 'bulldogs,' revelled in the thick air, to feed joyously off abundance of human and animal flesh.

Two strange-looking apparitions dragged their limp bodies from the depths of a profound ditch, which may even now be found to the west of the modern city of Winnipeg, and gazed around, then at each other, in utter bewilderment. Their faces were red with insect bites, and very dirty; their clothes were torn and covered with grass marks; they wore, in fact, the appearance of men who had unconsciously enjoyed a night out.

Presently the more genial looking of the two bethought himself of speech. 'Well, Dave, strikes me we've been camping out.' When the idea fully struck him, he slapped his knee as he sat on the edge of the ditch, and laughed lustily.

Dave was sulky and large headed. One side of his nose was much swollen, while a great thirst irritated his soul. He merely growled forth an incoherent reply.

'Tell you what it is,' continued the Factor. 'You've been loaded up again, lad. Guess I was seeing you home, when you went to work, tumbled into this ditch and dragged me in after you.'

The plausible explanation roused a sense of injustice in the other's breast. 'Why didn't you get out and go home, then?'

'It's a steep fall, Davey. Mind I'm getting oldish now. Reckon the shock would have stunned me. Must have been that, for I feel sort of queer in the head.'

Dave was panting like a dog, and vainly endeavouring to moisten his cracked lips. 'I've got a terrible thirst, Alf,' he exclaimed pathetically. 'I'm pretty near bad enough to drink water.'

Here the other could sympathise. 'You're bad, Dave, all right,' he said. 'Now you're talking, I almost reckon something cool would sort of make me easier. Come on, let's git.'

They dragged themselves upright to retrace the steps of the previous night. 'Goldam!' exclaimed the Factor, 'it's going to be a scorcher to-day.'

Presently they came out upon the Assiniboine. By a tacit and mutual understanding they shambled down the long shelving bank. Then, stretched at full length along the ground in luxurious fashion, they plunged their faces into the cool stream and sucked up long draughts of the pure water. Physically refreshed after this act of temperance, they sat for some time on a grass patch renovating their garments.

'Tell you, Alf,' proclaimed Dave more good-humouredly, 'folks'll be wondering what's lowered the river.'

They filled their pipes, though tobacco smoke was almost stifling in that atmosphere. Then they struck along the homeward trail.

'I'm terrible mixed up, Dave,' confessed the Factor, after a silent interval. 'Seems to me old Billy Sinclair turned up again last night. A fellow gets hold of queer notions at times, don't he?'

Dave assented, though somewhat doubtfully. 'I've got a sort of idea there was a whole crowd of us. A good crowd, you know, Alf, just having a quiet talk.'

'Then some bell started a racket, and old Billy's ghost turned up to scare us. Remember that, Dave?'

'Queer we should both get hold of the same notions, I mind hearing a laugh right by my ear, and I said to myself, well, well, that's just like old Billy's voice grin. Couldn't have been, Alf?'

'Don't see how,' said the Factor, unwillingly. 'Billy got fixed last summer.' But then a direful thought came upon him. He stopped and grabbed at his companion. 'You saw him, Dave? You saw Billy, same as me?'

'I didn't say that, Alf. I couldn't swear to it. I sort of thought I saw him. Put it that way, Alf.'

'How am I looking, Dave? Kind of wild the eyes—crazy, you know, Dave?'

'You look right enough. Eyes are same usual, 'cept for a bit of dirt under them.'

'Well, well,' muttered the Factor, reassured, was terrible scared I'd got 'em. But if I have, you've got 'em, too. That's sort of consoling, anyway.'

Dave was alarmed. 'We'll have to fix this up right away. It's ter'ble having to walk around, not knowing if your brains are right. What do you think, Alf?'

McAuliffe was inclined towards the gloomy side. 'It's a matter of doubt, clean enough. If we can see men that ought to be lying quiet in their graves, it can't be anything but a bad sign. We'd best make off to bed, Dave, and see if we can't sleep it off.'

'There's my nose, too. It's painful, I tell you. Feels as if someone had been dancing on it. That's another mystery, Alf.'

'There's lots of 'em,' said the Factor, mournfully. 'How did we come in that ditch, Dave? Billy's ghost couldn't have chucked us there. I'll make inquiries soon as I get back to the hotel, and find out if they know anything.'

'They wouldn't have seen Billy's ghost,' interrupted Dave.

'It's true enough, Dave. I tell you, I don't like it, for my head feels a bit shaky. It would be terrible if we were both locked up in an asylum.'

Dave shivered at the thought. 'I guess it's the heat, Alf,' he said hopefully. 'I'm feeling a bit beetle-headed—but not crazy. No, Alf, not crazy.'

'Then there was Captain smoking a cigar,' continued McAuliffe, blankly.

'I mind it. 'Twas how I reckoned the time watching it getting shorter. Well, well, Alf, we've had strange dreams this night, sure.'

'It's been a terrible bad night, Dave,' replied the Factor, ominously.

Then they quickened speed, in spite of the increasing heat, anxious to get back to the hotel and learn the worst. Their remaining remarks were divided impartially between mutual sympathy for a terrible affliction, and disputings as to whether the hunter's appearance had been real or imaginary. McAuliffe's final opinion was that Sinclair had actually appeared in the flesh, but that Dave was 'terrible crazy, anyhow.'

It was late afternoon before Sinclair felt himself disposed to stir outside into the white, stifling glare. But business called him, so he presently made off to attend to preliminaries of the approaching night work. This accomplished, he turned towards the hotel where he had made a dramatic appearance some hours earlier, but had not journeyed over half the distance when he encountered no less a person than Captain Robinson, as usual buttoned up to the neck in his blue coat, and pulling at a formidable cigar. This latter gentleman appeared to have no appreciation whatever of heat.

They linked arm in arm at once, though the hunter was unwilling to walk abroad for any distance. 'Don't want Lamont to get sight of me,' he said. 'It would scare him badly, I've no doubt, but then he might take it into his head to clear out before night.'

'Which direction does he live?' asked the Captain.

Sinclair nodded his head backwards. ''Way north,' he said. 'Comfortable little shanty. Married, too.'

'He's a daisy. Well, Billy, he's run down at last.'

'Sure enough,' agreed the hunter.

Then their conversation veered towards the events of the night preceding.

'Wonder where Alf is,' said Sinclair.

'I've just come from the hotel. Fellow there said Alf and Dave Spencer came tumbling in this morning, looking a bit used up, and crazy to know whether you'd turned up last night. They got mixed up over the drinks, so couldn't be sure whether they'd seen you or your ghost. Alf was wonderful relieved when he found out 'twas you right enough. Took another drink on the strength of it. He'd gone out again then. Guess we'll find him bumming around some place.'

Sinclair chuckled. 'Alf can't be still long, when he's awake. Got lots of life for his age.'

'Reckon I know him better than you, Billy,' said the Captain, who was dropping into a talking vein. 'Last night he was accusing me of being religious—so I am, mind you, Billy—but it may surprise you to hear that Alf himself gets the fit at times. No, you never would suspect him of getting any idea on religion. Before he went north as Factor, he was clerk in a store down Port Arthur way. I knew him well then. He used to have a whole lot of literary truck someone had sent him up from the States. Always reading these books, he was. You know, Billy, they weren't the sort of thing you could safely put before a Sunday school class. Well, 'bout twice a year regular, I'd get a bundle from Alf with a sort of note, which would read this way, "Got a bit of religious fit on me. If I kept these, reckon I should tear them up. I'd be sorry for that later. Sending them on to you to look after till I'm all right again. One in the blue cover's best for reading." A week or so later, another letter would turn up, something this way, "It's all right. Captain. Religious fit over. Send along books soon as you can." One day, though, the fit came on him sudden, before he had time to mail off the books to me; so he burnt them all right on the spot. Tell you, he was mad when the fit passed.'

They were now approaching the business portion, as represented by a short length of sidewalk, and a few stores crowned by offices. When about a hundred yards distant, they both became attracted by the spectacle of a knot of people, in the centre of which gleamed hotly the red coats of a couple of the militia, who at that time were responsible for the orderly conduct of those living in the Red River Settlement. The band approached slowly through the heat, while shouts and derisive laughter ascended continuously. There was a certain deep roar, which completely drowned all other voices.

The two outsiders became more interested. 'I'm dead sure that was Alf,' said the hunter.

'There's fun going on, sure,' said the Captain, beaming at the thought. 'Let's get over there, Billy.'

Sinclair soon spoke again. 'It's only a blackleg pulled up, Captain.'

The soldiers just then had particularly strict orders to immediately arrest all suspicious characters seen about the fort, because many unprincipled actions had latterly been committed by members of the loafer fraternity. Therefore the smallest unprincipled action perpetrated in Garry during these days, immediately subsequent to the Rebellion, seriously endangered personal freedom of action.

Then they came up to the excessively hot yet jubilant procession, which was composed somewhat as follows,—

A motley crowd of loafers and deadbeats, who jeered in unison, and part sympathy for the law-breaker, at the perspiring efforts of the police behind; a plentiful sprinkling of the omnipresent small youth, and ubiquitous dogs; then the culprit himself, half dragged, half supported by the two soldiers; close behind appeared the master of ceremonies, one Alfred McAuliffe, closely attended by a jovial party of grey-bearded men, who strenuously seconded the efforts of the chief speaker by pelting the prisoner with language and what missiles came convenient; the procession closed by more loafers of assorted classes, with other specimens of small fry, both human and canine.

All interest was centered upon the prisoner, who was being forcibly projected along the strip of sidewalk, indulging in language more varied than seemly. He was no less important a personage than Peter Denton.

The factor was in a condition bordering closely upon extreme bliss. Shouting with the full force of his great voice, he strode along the walk, inciting the already too-willing small boys towards the persecution of the luckless prisoner. A huge felt hat crowned the red face, which was glistening with heat and delight, while big drops coursed unregarded along his nose, to be buried and lost within the mazes of his thick beard.

'Reckon we've found Alf,' said the Captain, blowing a greasy smoke cloud from his lips.

'Well, I should remark!' said the hunter.

'Pick up good chunks of mud, boys,' shouted the Factor. 'Don't bother about the stones. Fifty cents to the younker who first catches him on the nose.'

'Make way, there!' ordered the police.

The advance guard of deadbeats yelled derisively.

'What's he done?' asked the hunter, stopping an individual with a bibulous nose.

'Hooked some bills that he found lying around a bit too handy—'bout fifty dollars, they say,' came the answer.

'They'll tan his hide for that,' chuckled the Captain. 'Where was it?'

'Don't know for sure. But while ago he started in to paint the Archbishop blue. Putting out some terrible talk he was.'

'They wouldn't stand that,' said the hunter.

'Bet you they wouldn't. The boys were hot at him, before the boiled 'uns[1] came round. Ter'ble thirsty day, ain't it?'

But this hint passed disregarded.

'Don't hit the bullet stoppers, boys. They're only for show, and won't stand rough handling.' The Factor's bodyguard loudly applauded this sally against the unpopular police force.

Then an old man, who was hobbling briskly along with the assistance of a couple of sticks, delivered himself of an opinion. 'I tell you, boys all, this chap's as crooked as the river. If I was asked to lend a hand to splice him to a tree, don't know that I'd refuse.'

'Right enough. He's a teaser,' said another. 'He was swearing bad, right out in the middle of the road, with ladies passing and all.'

'That's so. I was listening to him. After a while I swore back at him, but it warn't any use,' said a fat man, with the air of one who has executed an unpleasant duty. 'My pard, Sammy swore at him as well. Didn't you, Sammy?'

He gazed round, but Sammy was only conspicuous by absence.

'He was using fearful words of blasphemy,' said a weird-looking individual, in the mottled garb of a minister.

'You and he wouldn't quarrel on matters of religion, then,' retorted the deadbeat of the bibulous nose. The noise became at once increased by an exchange of vocal amenities, in which, be it said, the minister more than held his own.

The procession reached a drinking saloon. Here it might have been noticed that a perceptible diminution in the crowd took place. But the Factor refused all such temptations, and remained faithful to the end.

'You're speaking your own language now, Peter,' he shouted, in his stentorian voice. 'There's no hypocrisy in you now. Keep it up, boys!'

'Hit him for me!' said a malicious little man with a squint. 'That blackleg cheated me out of five dollars the other day. I've never been able to get square.'

'All your friends coming up, Peter,' continued McAuliffe. 'Goldam! wouldn't have missed this—not for a hundred dollars, cash down!'

'What there, Alf!' cried the Captain.

McAuliffe turned, and recognised the two. 'Come on, Captain! Here's more fun than a bagful of monkeys. Hello, Billy! Goldam! this is the first time you haven't scared me. Join right on with the crowd. After we've seen Peter to the cooler, we'll go and get some supper.'

They did as directed, while the Factor returned to business.

'It'll be a case of a big fine, or a few months on the stones!' he shouted, with considerable unction. 'Know you haven't two five cent pieces to rub together, Peter; so we'll have to part from you for a time. Guess a few of the saloon keepers will have to shut up after you're gone.'

The procession wheeled sharply round a corner, and made for the place of detention. Here McAuliffe was compelled unwillingly to part from his victim and return to the hotel. When there he put a leading question to the hunter, 'Got the warrant out, Billy?'

Sinclair nodded. 'We're going round to net him soon as it's dark,' he replied.

No question was asked as to the whereabouts of Menotah. Indeed, for the time they had forgotten all about her. She was not one of them, she had nothing to do with their affairs, so why should they think about her? Her sorrow could not concern them.

[1] The soldiers.

---

CHAPTER VII

DISCOVERY

The cool breeze, which usually blows nightly in north and west, did not rise after the sun setting. On the contrary, though the thick atmosphere cleared slightly, and the wearisome white glare disappeared, oppressive heat stillness grew yet more intolerable. Sleep in such a hot bath became almost impossible. Shortly before dark, there were visible above the southern horizon small clouds of a copper tint, which ascended with peculiar, twisting motions, to break into incessant lightning on reaching a certain higher point.

That portion of the prairie, which receded from the north wall of the fort, was known as the least wholesome quarter in the district. It was infested by a cosmopolitan crowd of the poorest class, chiefly Jews and half-breeds, whose miserable shacks were scattered everywhere within dirty enclosures. Beyond this unfragrant belt were several small houses of light framework, surrounded with high fencing, which might almost have been dignified by the title of palisade. The furthest of these improved dwellings was the first to show a light on that evening. A lamp stood near the ground floor window, which was standing open, and cast long, yellow rays across the open space in front.

The dark figure of a solitary woman came from the deep shadows beneath the north wall, and made in the direction of this house. Though her feet were bare, she walked indifferently, without flinching, over the broken fragments of bottles and other refuse which everywhere strewed the grass. Her features were concealed by a black cloak wrapped round head and shoulders. Yet, even so, at times might be seen the quick glitter of determined eyes as she glanced suspiciously towards the occasional figures that drifted along distantly in the gathering gloom. She passed from grimy tent to tarred shanty, until the unsavoury quarter had been left behind. At length she reached the tall fence which protected the house where burnt the guiding lamp. Here she paused, as though the journey's limit had been attained, and crouched into the long grass, half concealed by a bush maple which sprang up alongside the fence. Eagerly, as the tiger lying in the jungle for its prey, she kept her gaze fixed upon the illuminated window, which was scarcely more than a dozen paces distant.

By this time it was quite dark. A few gauzy moths and cumbersome beetles circled drearily round the drooping flower heads. The night air was stifling. Soon soft lightning began to play incessantly along all parts of the sky.

The woman remained bent in her cramped position, unconscious of the deadness, of sharp pricking of the limbs, disregarding the wounds in the soles of her feet, where blood trickled forth slowly. Her straining eyes were constantly fixed ahead. She could not note such trivial torments as attacks of insect or any mere suffering of the body.

A sullen roar broke from the south and trembled along the ground, while a faint air wave rippled through the night. Then silence and heat settled down again.

But, before the echo of that sound had rolled itself away across prairie, a deep groan burst from the woman's lips as she sank back in a trembling heap. Every muscle in her body shuddered; her mad fingers fought into the dusty turf; she sobbed and wailed so piteously that any chance listener might well have wondered at so great a sorrow, yet withal so quietly that the sounds covered a very slight interval. This was weakness, but nature dies hard.

For in the full light of the lamp stood two figures within that room—a man, and close to him a girl, slender and dark. His arm was encircling her waist, she was pressed to him in an embrace, while he was looking down upon her upturned face with a smile—doubtless, also, with words of love.

This was an ordinary sight, surely, that of a greeting between husband and wife on the former's return from daily toil. The woman in the dark heat outside was surely strangely influenced by trifles.

During those past few days Lamont had been making mental preparations for departure. He felt that his continued presence in Garry was perilous. Any day there might enter the fort some Indian or half-breed, who could recognise his former leader, and who might feel inclined to place himself in comfortable circumstances by denouncing him to the Government. Sinclair, his especial enemy, had been dead for some time. Nothing but an accident could now divulge his identity as the notorious White Chief. Still, with the roving passion of the adventurer, he longed for another country, for fresh faces.

He had practically abandoned the idea of instituting a search for the river of gold which lay hidden in the distant north. The journey was a difficult one, and failure probably lay at the end. Then it would be almost impossible to find companions in whom he could trust—to venture alone would be madness. Besides, once in that district, there lay the danger of crossing some Indian warrior, who would strive to avenge Menotah's lost honour.

So far, the attraction which had bound him down to the western land was his real affection for his dark Canadian wife. He had been duly married to Marie by the rites of her religion, and for the time—as with Menotah—he was quite satisfied with his heart choice. But Sinclair had spoken truly to the Indian girl when he said, 'Lamont can't love; he hasn't got the heart.' So he had recently made the inevitable discovery that her presence had ceased to bring him pleasure; in short, that he was growing tired of her, as he became weary of anything which had a tendency towards daily repetition. This fact Marie, with woman's quick discernment, perceived, and—not possessing Menotah's tender devotion—resented, as she had indeed a right to do. Slight quarrels had arisen, like first mutterings of the yet distant storm, which could not fail to widen the breach which had been already formed by his growing indifference. On more than a single occasion actual bitterness had shown itself, and though such scenes more usually ended with kiss and fresh protestation of love, memory survived, converting the lip promise into a mechanical action which had no consent of the heart.

So Lamont was only now waiting for a favourable opportunity to steal away from the country, and join the forces of some insurrection in any other part of the world. His wife would be left behind as a matter of course. There were women to be found everywhere. Doubtless he could discover many as beautiful in the new land of his choice. Had Sinclair set the wheels of the law revolving but a month later, he might have found himself too late.

On that particular day they had quarrelled—the heat had made him irritable—but as evening approached and an indefinite feeling of fear tormented the mind, he had made such humble overtures towards reconciliation that Marie was astonished at the change. As she was sincerely fond of her husband, when it so happened that his moods agreed with hers, she was perfectly willing to meet his advances half way. Consequently it appeared that the threatened storm had been averted. Then the lamp was lighted in the little sitting-room overlooking the dark prairie, the window was left open on account of the heat, while they listened to the first smothered exclamation of the distant thunder.

Then Lamont began to experience that dim presentiment of approaching evil, which is such a real and such a terrible truth. He became suddenly so entirely lonely, and in so fearful a mood, that he was compelled to turn to his weak wife for protection as well as sympathy. It was impossible to remain any time in one position, while thought became intolerable.

'How irritable you are!' she said, when he began to pace up and down the room.

'The place is full of mosquitoes. It is the lamp light. Shall I shut the window?'

'If you like,' she replied. 'They don't trouble me, though.'

He did not go to the window, but sank into a chair. 'Marie!' he called suddenly.

She looked up in some wonder, when he called again. Then she crossed to his side. He threw his arm round her and drew her on his knee, to whisper in her ear, 'You love me, chérie, don't you?'

She did not know what to make of this sudden change of front. Somewhat doubtfully she replied, 'Yes, Hugh, when you're nice to me.'

'You don't say that in the way you used to.'

'And you haven't kept all the promises you once made. You were never to speak a harsh word to me; never dream of quarrelling with me; I should always have my wish; you would always love me devotedly; and—oh! I don't know how many more.

He put his hand over her mouth, then caressed her half fondly, half nervously.

'I always love you, chérie. You know I do, so you must forgive me. And you will always remain faithful to me, won't you?'

'Yes,' she said carelessly.

'You will always take my part? You will protect me—'

She gave a short laugh. 'How can I protect you?' she cried, with some scorn. 'What's the matter with you, Hugh?'

He passed a hand across his forehead. 'I'm unsettled. I hardly know what I'm talking about to-night.'

'Go and lie down. I'll bring you something to drink presently.'

He took no notice of her words, but pressed her to him eagerly.

'You will never desert me, Marie mine? You will be faithful to me always?'

'Of course,' she replied petulantly. 'At least so long as you are faithful to me—and country,' she added, as an afterthought.

He started wildly, all his worst fears aroused. 'What has that to do with us? If I am true to you, why think about country?'

The small patriot became infected by his strange mood. 'It is the true man's first thought. Home and country must always go together.'

'Pshaw! What has it done for us? If it is to a man's interests to go against his people, let him do so.'

He was almost startled at the horror on her face. 'Fight against your own land, against your own people! Do you mean that?'

'Why not?' he said huskily.

'It is the vilest thing a man can do,' she cried hotly. 'Look at the Rebellion that is just over. Don't you think with me that the traitor they call the White Chief is an evil spirit, and not man at all?'

The next instant she had approached him with solicitude, for his face was ghastly. 'Why, what is it, Hugh? You are not well.'

'The heat,' he muttered. 'I'm faint.'

Then there came a loud, hollow knock upon the outer door.

Lamont forgot his infirmity and sprang up excitedly. 'What is that?'

'I believe you are crazy, Hugh!' said his wife angrily. 'The paper, of course.'

'Don't go, Marie,' he pleaded. 'Stay here with me. I'm not feeling well. I don't want to be left alone.'

She stopped irresolutely at his side, and looked up at the nervous face. He was greatly excited, and trembling. With the woman's sympathy for suffering, she placed both hands on his shoulders, then said kindly, 'I'm just going for the paper. Then I will sit by you and read the latest news.'

With a soft hand she pushed back the hair from his forehead. It was moist with heat and his fear of the unknown.

'You really are unwell.'

He put his arms round her; then, yielding to a sudden impulse, he said, 'Kiss me, chérie.'

She did so, though with a perplexed smile, and with no conception of the idea that this was the last embrace which was to pass between them. As she released herself, the deep roar broke forth again from the southern night.

'The storm's coming,' he muttered, thinking on the night of Muskwah's end, 'It's the only way such a day could end.'

She was not gone more than a few minutes, yet when she returned her husband was standing near the window in a pitiful state of alarm. As she came questioningly to him, he clutched her arm with the weak action of the child who seeks protection from invisible dangers.

'There was a face—a white, revengeful face.'

'Where?' she asked, quickly with a strange glance. 'At the window. Only for a moment. The eyes were terrible. There was death in them. Didn't you hear me call out?'

Marie advanced to the open window, where a few mosquitoes sang their mournful, high-pitched note. There was nothing, except the soft lightning playing incessantly through the hot air. 'It was your imagination,' she said, with a certain wondering contempt. 'Come and see for yourself.'

But he did not stir. 'I hear footsteps. There are men coming through the grass.'

'Well, the prairie is public. People have a right to pass if they like. Ciel! Get rid of this folly of yours.'

She drew him to a chair, then seated herself beside him, and opened the single vilely printed sheet published in Garry at that time under the title of newspaper. That evening it was larger than usual.

He was completely beneath her influence, so obeyed her light touch, casting many furtive glances in the direction of the window, which was constantly flooded in a pale blue light. The thunder now commenced to roll and roar through the stifling night.

Outside, between the fence and the bush maple, still crouched the dark figure, never shifting her position, and always gazing into that room. Occasionally she could even hear a portion of the conversation.

Marie's attention was drawn at once towards the black lettered headlines of the opening column. 'It is an account of Father Lecompte's death,' she said solemnly.

'He is dead, then?' said Lamont, blankly, his thoughts on other things.

'You know he is. Didn't you listen to the bell tolling last night? You said it kept you awake.' Then she began to read from the closely printed sheet. 'The Archbishop has lost his right hand. The good priest, who fought with him so loyal-heartedly in his endeavours to quell the Indian rising, will be seen in our midst no more. During the Rebellion, when there were traitors—'

'The Rebellion!' he interrupted violently. 'You're always talking on that. I tell you, it's over and done with. I don't want to hear about the priest's death, Marie. Heaven knows this night is dismal enough without making it worse by reading such things.' Ho shuddered as he spoke.

With a little petulant movement his wife turned over the sheet. Her eyes were immediately caught by another headline, announcing far more significant intelligence. She read the paragraph that followed quickly, then turned to her husband, who sat motionless in his chair.

Sinclair, the simple-minded hunter, had reckoned without the journalist in the laying of his plans. He knew nothing of the searching curiosity of the reporter, with whom nothing is sacred, reputation least of all. During a moment of incautious jubilation in official circles, the secret must have leaked into the ears of clerks, each a type of garrulity, and the keen-scented news maker, who could track copy in the air, had made the tidings his prey. The newspaper is always the criminal's most faithful ally, the friend when everything human has dropped away from him. Now it came very near to wrecking Sinclair's well-devised plans.

Marie spread the sheet across her knee and smoothed it out excitedly. 'Listen, Hugh. Here is something that really will interest you.'

He made no reply, nor was there any curiosity in his manner. Full of the startling intelligence, she continued quickly,—

'It is about the White Chief. He has been discovered.'

She bent her head to read from the paper, but at the moment a strange sound of deep gasping came to her ears. She looked up hurriedly, and then her own face for the moment grew white with fear.

He stood in the centre of the room, a livid hue crossing his face, knees knocking together in weakness of extreme terror, hands clutching at the table for support. His entire being was transformed.

Marie came forward, trembling. 'What is it? Tell me, Hugh—'

He reached out towards the paper, and tried in vain to speak. The shock had been so terrible, so fearfully sudden.

'It is that, then,' she said, with a strange light growing in her eyes. 'Would you like to hear the rest?'

She held the sheet beneath the lamplight. 'Information has been given by a man who for some time was believed to be dead, hunter Sinclair of St Andrews.'

It was all over now. There could be nothing worse than this, so strength, the unreasoning strength of despair, liberated his tongue and brought energy back to the limbs. He forgot the presence of his wife, everything save his awful position. He stood surrounded by a blood-red atmosphere, where lightnings blazed and thunders crashed; before him he saw the limp figure of Riel swaying at the rope's end; in his ears sounded the mad shouts and execrations of the people. He was a man by himself, outside all mercy, with a country shrieking for his blood.

'Sinclair is dead!' he cried, in an awful voice. 'He never rose, never moved. I could not have missed my aim. He is dead—dead.'

His wife shrank in her turn, the horrible truth worming into her heart.

'Speak!' she shouted at him. 'Tell me the meaning of this.'

He did not notice her. 'There is no one else. Spencer had no proofs. Sinclair is dead.'

He shuddered frightfully, then staggered across the floor.

Motion removed the numbness from his mind. The first paralysing wave of terror had passed, so now he saw again clearly. He looked upon his wife, with hatred growing in her eyes; he thought of the possible foes already in wait outside the door; he beheld the window, and knew that salvation lay there.

Thither he went, with an attempt at a smile upon his features. Ah, there was shelter and life in that dark night. But then the lightning burst forth wildly, converting the outer blackness into a weird atmosphere of shuddering blue.

He fell back with a shout no effort could repress. In the brief space of light had been plainly visible a knot of men crossing the prairie in that direction.

But his wife had seen them, too. The dreadful truth, so far a suspicion, now became a certainty. Unwittingly she had taken to husband the vilest and most cowardly of all her country's treacherous sons.

'I see,' she said, bending forward like the snake about to strike. 'You are afraid of these men. They are coming here. Perhaps you know why.'

One minute of perfect coolness, and he would be safe. He could escape by the door, pass out at the back, reach open prairie, then make for the bush. None could touch him there. But he must first secure his weapons, which lay in the next room.

So he laughed feebly, and smiled in ghastly fashion upon his wife. 'It's all right, Marie, chérie. The heat has knocked me over altogether. I'm just going out for a bit.'

But as he crossed the floor, she stepped forward and put herself in his way.

'Where are you going?'

His tongue and throat were parched. All he could say was, 'I'll be back in a few minutes. I can't tell you.'

She held his arm. 'Before you go, tell me what you know of the White Chief?' There was a pause, broken by the rattling of the thunder, then her voice came again, 'Why did you try to kill Sinclair?'

He tried to move onward—naturally the one idea was immediate flight—but she hung to him.

'I can't tell you. I know nothing.'

Then she placed herself between him and the door. Her face was hard and stern.

'You shall not go. I believe you know who this villain is.'

Again he tried to laugh. 'Yes—but I couldn't tell you, or anyone. He's a friend, who often has done me good service. I can't forget him now. He lives in Garry, so I am going out to warn him. I shouldn't like to see him hung.'

The last words were spoken in a thick whisper, while he turned a frightened glance towards the window.

'You liar!' she burst forth. 'Why did you speak to me on fidelity to country? What was the reason of your fear, and why did you see an enemy in every passer by? Why did you almost lose reason when I read that paragraph from the paper? Why did you yourself confess that you tried to shoot Sinclair?'

Deceit was now a useless weapon. The last resource lay in the power of a terrible name coupled with brute force.

'Damn you,' he said in a soft, sinister whisper, which had often aided him better than muscular strength, 'I AM THE WHITE CHIEF! Stand aside, and let me pass.'

'Never!' Then she compressed her lips fiercely.

He clenched his fists and made a menacing movement. 'Come away from that door!'

'You shall not pass.'

Then she locked the door and drew forth the key.

'It will have to be over your body. The choice is yours.'

She raised a denouncing finger, and met him with the single word, 'Traitor!'

He was cool again now. 'Too late for that,' he began, but her passion was fully aroused.

'See! Those men are waiting outside for a signal. They have come to arrest you. I shall see you hung at Regina, if the people do not kill you here.'

Her concluding words were almost drowned in a crash of thunder. A lurid picture of the bloodthirsty lynchers, with a prospect of horrible death by burning, flashed across his mental vision. Weakness returned, and he trembled.

'There are footsteps. There is someone coming up to the window.'

He would have rushed there, but dared not. Escape by the door was his only chance.

'Dare to lay a finger on me, traitor. I am a free woman now. Your perfidy has divorced me from you.'

'The key!' he cried in hoarse tones many times.

'There is the open window. Leave the house that way. The soldiers are waiting to receive you.'

The sweat broke on his forehead. 'I give you another chance. Stand aside, and let me pass.'

She drew herself up proudly. 'No man shall ever say of Marie Larivière that she feared a traitor to her country.'

This return to her maiden name showed him how completely isolated he was from all human sympathy.

He swore fiercely, then sprang forward at her. But the little patriot was ready; she doubled her fingers and struck him across the eyes.

'Perfide!'

The bold action aroused his entire fury. He seized her by the waist and flung her brutally to the floor. Bravely she clutched the key within her two hands. He bent over, and furiously struggled to wrest it from her grasp. But it is no easy task—even with far greater strength—to open the fist which is closed in a grim determination. She panted and sobbed, yet fought nobly; he swore and threatened, but could not succeed.

It was terrible. The sweat flowed from his face. Any second he might find himself surrounded by soldiers and his last hope gone. The demon within triumphed. He struck the girl twice upon the side of the head. She sank upon the floor, while the fingers yielded limply. Feverishly he clutched the key, again seeing the world of liberty opening and spreading before him.

He reached the door. With shaking hands he endeavoured to force the key into its place.

Suddenly a new flood of terror passed into his being and robbed the hands of strength. They were unmistakable sounds in the room. Someone had entered. As he started round, a low voice gave utterance to the pitiless words,—

'It is no good.'

Standing in the centre of the floor was a woman, barefooted, bareheaded, with hair streaming wildly over her shoulders, with hungry set look on her colourless face.

---

CHAPTER VIII

RETRIBUTION

It was Menotah.

Calmly she looked again upon her betrayer, the man who had won her heart, he who had lightly stolen her happiness. No shadow of doubt crossed her brow, nor was there; any sign of swerving from the path of duty in her passionless face. She had completed a dreadful journey to avenge, as her religion directed. Now that the moment had arrived, she would not be the one to display lack of resolution.

And again he looked upon her, his former and present lawful wife. Even then, with vision obscured, with eyes failing by heat and his fervent fear, he marvelled at the complete change which time and his perfidy had worked. There was something familiar in that figure, in the stern features, in the cold voice as it delivered its mortal message. Could this hard-featured woman have owned at any time some connection with the laughing girl he had taken to himself in the lone forests of the Saskatchewan? Yet, if so, where were the eyes that always danced with joy, where was the colour that had played like chequered sunshine across her cheeks? What sickness had robbed her step of buoyancy, what hand had deprived her of all the numerous graces that had contributed towards making her so adorable a thing of life?

Even in that moment of selfish terror he could realise that Menotah had vanished with all her youth and beauty; that, from the ashes of her dead heart had sprung another being, bearing her name, though lacking all her womanly qualities. This figure had but one object in view. The words of the careless, beautiful Menotah of the summer forest rang forth with the thunder, and flashed within the lightning in letters of fire, 'If anyone should kill my heart with sorrow, I would give life and strength to the cause of vengeance. I should never turn back!'

Yet, outside everything remained quiet, save for the tumult of the elements. There were no visible signs of other enemies. This woman, though terrible perhaps to gaze upon, was devoid of strength. As he had no feeling apart from his personal safety, he began to breathe again.

But she divined his thoughts. Deliberately she drew from the folds of her cloak a small knife, then, with the indifference of a butcher about to slaughter, examined the point. The brightness of the metal was dulled at the edge by a brown stain.

Stealthily she came round the room and crept near the door. He was fascinated by her eyes, and fell back as she approached. Then she spoke in a dull voice, 'There is poison on the knife point.'

Then he understood the deadly nature of that brown stain. She slipped into his late position near the door, still watching him with eyes that never twitched or closed.

Soon Marie recovered partially and dragged herself to a sitting posture. With large, wondering eyes she stared upon the intruder.

'I am changed since the time you last saw me,' said Menotah, in passionless tones. 'Why am I another woman, while you remain the same man?' She paused, as though waiting for reply. When none came she continued, 'I will tell you.'

But she did not, for with the thought came other recollections—the aged Antoine and his last weak words; her dying father and the oath she had sworn over him, using words which might not be lightly set aside. Already had she failed in the appointed course of action. She was threatening, where she should be pleading. Still, before the final act, she would trifle with this man, as he had played with her. She would put his courage to the test. But first she turned to Marie, and said in her patois French,—

'Do you love this man?'

The girl was half dazed, but she directed her gaze towards the pitiless face. Then Menotah, attracted possibly by sympathy for one who was to suffer her pangs, drew nearer and looked closely at her features. Then she said, 'You are his wife?'

The other moistened her dry lips. 'I was,' she muttered.

'He deserted me for you.' She hung on every syllable. 'When he said he loved me, you were at his heart; when he caressed me, he thought of you; when he spoke tenderly, he forgot it was not you he was addressing.'

An angry flush of shame crossed Marie's brow. 'He never cared for me—the traitor. And I hate him.'

Menotah turned. 'So; she who was your wife before your own people has nothing for you but hatred.' Then she picked up the key, which Lamont had dropped in his sudden fright. 'It is time,' she said quietly, then unlocked the door and threw it wide open. She cast aside the cloak, while the knife glittered as she stretched forth her arm. 'You may pass if you wish.'

He was stupefied at this new move, and wondered at her meaning. Beyond he could see the lamp light flickering in the hall, and further, half hidden in shadow, the dim outline of the outer door. In that direction lay liberty. How simple it was! A quick bound forward, two or three steps, and life would be his again.

But then the cold voice struck on his ears again,—

'First I will warn you. As you pass I shall strive to wound you. A touch with this knife is death.'

He stood irresolutely, while a contemptuous smile broke over Marie's white countenance.

'I am waiting for you.'

He gazed from the open door to that terrible window, where the dreaded power of justice perhaps even then lay concealed.

'It will be over in a single moment.'

He tried to nerve himself for the act. With a single motion of his hand he might hurl the slight girl from the door; with one blow of his powerful fist he could paralyse that arm. But she was quick, and fearfully determined. The risk was too great.

'Coward!' she burst forth in a first expression of passion. 'I am but a weak woman—how weak you can hardly tell. But even for your liberty you will not attack me, for the gift of your life you dare not pass me.'

There was silence, until the splashing of heavy raindrops on the shingle could be distinctly heard.

'Hark! there are other sounds than the rain and the thunder.'

'I hear footsteps,' said Marie, in a barely intelligible voice.

Menotah barred the doorway with a trembling arm. 'Your chance is gone,' she said, yet with a peculiar deliberation. 'You know why these men have come. You do not deserve to live, for you have been false to everyone. They will take you with them, and treat you as they did Riel. They will hang you as they did him.'

She fell back as she spoke against the wall, while the hot breath choked her.

Another thought occurred to him. If he could reach the next room he might obtain his weapons. Armed, he would be not only a brave man, but a formidable foe. But Menotah still guarded the threshold, the deadly instrument in her hand, her eyes following his every movement.

'You cannot escape,' she murmured with low, fearful accent. There was a new expression upon her face which Marie wondered at. 'You are captured by a weak woman. You did not think to set eyes on me again. You thought I should crawl away to some quiet spot, there to sob away my life as the wounded deer. Yet I have followed your footsteps to repay you for the wounds you have inflicted upon me. The time is here now—the hour for vengeance.'

The last words fell from her lips in a frightened whisper. For the first time since that fatal night of desertion, emotion awoke in her colourless face, while a strange moisture started into her eyes.

But where was the plan for vengeance, and why did she not follow it out? For this meeting she had waited and planned. Now it had arrived. Why did she not make use of opportunity and act quickly? The deadly drug still lay unused in her bosom. Why did she not make use of it? Because she had then forgotten its very existence.

Again came the sounds On this occasion Lamont fancied he could detect a creaking of the storm door outside.

'They are coming,' said Marie, in a hushed tone.

Menotah looked upon her wildly. She repeated the words as though doubtful of their full significance. Then in a tremulous half whisper, 'Perhaps they are all round the door. He might escape by the window.'

'Escape!' half shouted Marie, excitedly.

Menotah's face had broken and changed, like the sky after a storm. The cruelty had melted and gone. A look of fear crept into her pain-filled and lustrous eyes. Suddenly, after a short and mighty struggle with herself, she turned and loudly cried at Lamont,—

'The window!'

The guilty man started at the change in that voice. Again he saw Menotah in the full sunshine, flitting along by the high cliff of the Saskatchewan, with bright song and laughter.

'There is still one chance left.'

Lamont could not move. He was divided between paralysing dread and suspicious perplexity. But she came towards him. He shrank from the knife with the brown stained point. Fearlessly she took him by the arm, then compelled him across the room.

'See!' Her voice was low and fervent. 'You may yet escape, with this knife to aid you. Make for the bush on the river's opposite bank. There you will be safe.'

There was a trembling pity in every motion, while her limbs shook with weakness. Upon her he turned his dazed eyes. Then he saw that her cheeks were burning, as though with fever, that the look on her face was wild and cunning.

'Let me go for my rifle,' he said.

'You cannot. They will see you. Go! For the love you bore me once—escape.'

Marie passionately intervened. 'You have jested with him enough. Take care, or he will snatch the knife from you.'

'Jesting!' cried Menotah, piteously. 'Ah, no. I am the coward now. I loved him. I gave him my heart and wrapped my soul round his life. Now I am called to avenge. I cannot. I cannot. The pain has returned—back to my heart. I thought the flame dead and cold. But it has sprung up again. It lives! It lives!'

She sprang at Lamont, and hung to him with an embrace. 'There is still time. Go! Go!'

'Stop!' cried Marie, furiously. 'You are in league with him. He shall not escape.'

'Do not listen to her. See! I will hold her arms.'

Marie advanced with a loud cry, but Menotah was upon her with all her lithe strength, holding her back, stifling her screams.

'The knife!' cried Lamont, with his usual selfish thought.

She threw it at him, but in the effort Marie cast her aside. Frantically she cried, in a piercing voice which rose above the storm, 'Help! He is escaping. The window!'

A second of silence, then there came deep voices and sounds of hurried footsteps.

'There is death on the point of the knife.' Again she held back the struggling Marie.

Lamont sprang to the window. Freedom was his. Another second—one more step forward, then the darkness would have received him, the night would have covered his flight. But that step was not to be made.

A man rose up suddenly from the gloom, a spare man with thin, nervous face. There could be no passing, no resisting, this new opponent. He had not strength to raise his hand against that figure.

'Sinclair!'

The single word burst from him as he fell back in a bath of terror. There was no hope now.

For hostile sounds uprose on every side. Like a man in a dream, he watched an officer, followed by two soldiers, entering the room at the door. These men were deemed sufficient to arrest one who would be unprepared. A larger band might have excited suspicion; besides, there might still be partisans of the White Chief hanging round the enclosures of the fort.

But as these entered a dreadful cry rang forth. Menotah was upon her knees, crying bitterly in this new sorrow. 'We may not turn back, if we have sworn to hate. If we pray for vengeance, the God will force it on us against the will.'

Sinclair advanced with an oath, and took her by the shoulder. 'What are you doing here? Helping him to escape—eh?'

'Yes,' cried Marie, fiercely. 'And she would have killed me—the savage!'

'You'd better get out while we give you the chance,' said the hunter, 'or you'll be taken and hung along with him.'

She raised her streaming eyes to his, until the grandeur of her romantic beauty touched even him. 'I care not. I am woman again now. That is why I could not harm him whom I had loved. Take me and hang me. See! I ask it of you. It will be pleasure after my suffering.'

Trembling and hopeless, Lamont stood against the wall, though the knife gleamed threateningly in his hand. Sinclair covered the window, one of the soldiers was backed against the closed door, before him stood the officer. The latter held a bright object, which glittered ominously beneath the lamp light.

'Come, Sinclair,' said the latter, 'leave that nitchi girl alone. She can't trouble our plans, but if we fool around here for long, some may turn up who will. We may have been watched coming here, and, mind, the Rebellion hasn't been long over.'

'You're right,' said the hunter. 'Well, I'm ready.'

The officer pointed. 'This is our man—the White Chief, eh?' he asked, in his strident tones.

Fiercely Menotah turned upon him. 'No! it is not. This man is innocent. The White Chief is dead. I know he is. I myself saw him—'

'Quit your darned noise,' interrupted the man. 'What the devil have you to do with it? I'll fire you out of the window, if you talk another word.'

'That's the White Chief, all right,' said Sinclair, with a slow, savage satisfaction. 'He's your man, officer.'

Menotah could not be repressed. 'You dare not touch him. That knife he holds is poisoned.'

The men looked at each other. Close quarters with the traitor meant certain death. But the officer was equal to the emergency.

'I've got a warrant for your arrest, and I'm going to take you alive or dead. I allow I'd rather have you alive, so I'm going to give you two minutes by my watch to chuck down that knife. None of us mean to be fixed by any more of your dirty tricks.' Then he raised his hand, with the revolver levelled against the prisoner's heart.

The last faint hope died, though he still mechanically retained his grasp of the knife.

Sinclair chuckled. 'I reckon I shall get square for that scar on my shoulder now,' he muttered.

Then Menotah passed before him and knelt before the officer. She lifted her beautiful moist eyes, with a last request, 'May I speak to him first—just for one moment? He was my husband once.'

The others burst into coarse laughter. Then the officer pushed her aside. 'I told you not to say another word, didn't I?'

'Don't let her speak to him,' cried Marie. 'She wants to free him.'

'How can I do so?' flashed Menotah. 'There are four men here, and I am unarmed. What can I do?'

'Better put her out of the house,' said Sinclair.

Her face was grand as she turned at him. 'Who saved your life in the forests of the Saskatchewan?'

The hunter turned red, and muttered something awkwardly.

'Ah! let me wish him good-bye. He was my husband, and I love him.'

Her excitement, the heat of returning passion, had made her again lovely. The hair fell in luxurious disorder, the bosom heaved, and eyes glittered between wet lashes. The officer observed all of these things, and did not give the order for her ejection. On the contrary, he bent down and whispered something into her ear. The others guessed what this was, and laughed again.

She did not flinch when the proposal was made. It was indeed what she had expected. 'Honour is nothing to me now.'

'It may be risky all the same,' said Sinclair, addressing the man in command.

She smiled bitterly. 'Are you still afraid of one weak girl?'

The officer bit at his moustache. Then he said, 'You can't have more than half a minute.'

'She may give him something,' cried Marie.

'Hold my hands.' She stretched them forth proudly.

The officer nodded, and the two soldiers came forward. They placed themselves on either side of the girl, and took each a hand. Then they crossed the floor.

She twisted herself in front of the men, who stood well back from the dreaded knife, and spoke a few words into Lamont's ear. Afterwards the three stepped back, and left him standing by the side of the lamp.

The officer pulled out his watch. 'The two minutes start now,' he said briefly.

Menotah drew near his side, falling a little behind in the deep shadow. Perhaps her beauty had never been so remarkable as at that moment. Her eyes were glowing with unnatural fire, the light intensified by dark lines beneath, and brilliant scarlet of the cheeks. The lips were parted half painfully. She was breathing fast, and fighting for each deep breath. For this was all the last effort of nature. The whole of her remaining life strength was being cast into one supreme endeavour to save the man who had wronged her. That colour was but the hot passion fever of the mind; the brightness of the eyes was closely akin to the light of madness. During that awful day she had not tasted food; sleep had scarcely been hers for the past month; now she was nothing but a shell, containing a single spark of fire, which would flash once, then die away for ever.

The officer had raised his revolver, and now covered Lamont. The traitor stood motionless in the same spot, still clutching the death knife. The seconds of time which made up that first minute ticked away without action on his part.

Lamont glanced wildly at the dark window, the silent soldier guarding it, then at the standard lamp which stood between them. Every eye was upon him. Sinclair knew that his triumph was complete. Marie, with large eyes of hatred, regarded the man who had won her young affections and had so grievously dishonoured her life. None thought of Menotah, as she stood in the shadow. She never for a second removed her gaze from the officer within reach of her hand; she noted his slightest movement; deliberately she counted the rapid pulsations of these two terrible minutes.

And the last of these now drew towards its close, Lamont had not stirred, nor did he show any sign of dropping the murderous weapon.

'Fifteen seconds more.'

'You're a fool, Lamont,' muttered the hunter. 'Chuck the thing away, and be a man.'

'Ten.'

Menotah was quivering like an aspen in the breeze.

Grimly the watch ticked off the last few seconds.

The officer took a more deliberate aim, while every man held his breath.

'Time.'

Almost before the word had formed into sound, Menotah dashed the revolver from his hand.

'Now!'

Lamont hurled the lamp to the floor in front of him, then bounded forward in the darkness. The soldier moved to meet him, despite the almost certainty of death from the poisoned knife. But, instead of the fugitive, he caught in his arms the figure of a girl. Menotah had cast herself against him to assist the escape. They rolled together on the floor, and Lamont tumbled over them both. Then, with a desperate movement, he dragged himself to the window, until he clutched the ledge with his fingers. But the man caught him by the ankle. Menotah deliberately threw her whole weight upon the detaining arm, and it broke down beneath the strain.

The next second Lamont had dragged himself free. Then he clambered to his feet, and in almost the same motion leapt from the window. All heard the furious shaking of bushes beneath, the hurried click of a gate in the palisade, followed by loud beating of feet upon the hard road.

'After him!' shouted the officer, swearing violently in his rage. 'Shoot him! Club him—anything.'

'He's bound for the river,' shouted one of the men. Then he flung himself from the window. The other followed, and after him the officer.

Sinclair stood in the dark room, biting his hands. 'If he swims across and reaches the bush, we sha'n't see him again,' he muttered furiously.

Then he struck a match. The pale, sulphurous flame lit up the room weirdly. Marie's nerves had given way, and she lay in a chair sobbing with weakness.

The hunter brought in the lamp from outside. As darkness disappeared, Menotah rose from the ground and tottered with feeble motions towards the door. That frightful strain had been removed at last. The work for which she had retained life and strength was done. Her vengeance had been accomplished, so she might rest—rest in the peace of death, for now there remained no further duty in life.

She spoke in a low voice of anguish. 'Has he escaped? They did not seize him? Tell me.'

Sinclair turned viciously upon her. 'Damn you!' he snarled, 'I could fix you for this. You've robbed me of my revenge, after all my planning and waiting. But you'll have to pay the devil now. Wait till they come back. I tell you, if they haven't got him you'll swing instead. They'll hang you, right enough, for this.'

Madly she drank in the glad truth of his opening words. Then she moved again nearer the door, as though she would once more seek a hiding place.

But tension never fails to find the weakest spot.

Suddenly she flung both hands to her burning forehead, staggered on another couple of paces, then fell crushed to the floor, with a low, heart-breaking cry.

The kindly darkness of insensibility blotted away for a time her madness and her pain.

---

CHAPTER IX

DARKNESS

Thus the weak hand, which was to have dealt the death blow, gave life to the traitor and liberty to the betrayer. For a secret tendril of love still clung and quivered about the dead heart. This might not be killed entirely, nor stamped out by a mere effort of the will, though for long it lay quiescent, in the mood of eternal silence. The presence, the sight of the once loved, aroused that latent force into hot overwhelming life, banished all recollection of duty, cast into oblivion memory of the sacred oath, the curse of her shattered life.

She became woman again—that was the difference.

Once he had deserted her, and the heart flickered out in a wild grief. The one thought then was for vengeance. She lived for it; cried for it to the Spirit; her soul was fed with the longing, while the waiting for it maintained the body in strength. Then it came, the life lay in her hand, she was bidden to crush it and satisfy all longing.

But instead she courted a felon's death in a wild effort to assist him in escaping. To save him she gladly offered to sacrifice life and honour, though both of these things were valueless, and dead fruit in her mouth.

For when she saw the figure she had loved, feeling returned in a mad torrent. Still she hated him for the vile treachery; she despised him for the lack of manly courage: but she could not lay a destroying hand upon the body she had worshipped. For she had loved him with a passion of which even he himself could know nothing. She made, at the dedication of Self, no empty lip promise; she offered no meaningless service of the tongue; but she offered the soul and life happiness.

In her false strength, all through the weary months of the northern winter, when she rocked the babe upon her knee, she had played the part. It was then her strong determination to do justice to her people, to obey her gods, to avenge her dishonoured self. Yet what was the result of this mighty striving after an imagined duty? When the moment arrived for the act which should for ever quench desire, when she heard the steps of the approaching soldiers, when she knew they would seize him she had loved, hang the one she had fondly caressed, then came the flood of reaction. The old sharp pain crept back to the body. Again she was woman, weak, foolish woman, with no thought but to protect, and, save the man—what mattered it whether he were worthy of the sacrifice?—who had first lit that sacred fire within her breast. She was fool, traitor, coward. That is what the disappointed men called her. Perhaps they were right.

Yet unwittingly she had leaned towards the teaching of the white man's God—the doctrine she had so heartily rejected. The power of love had of itself taught the heathen mind to act according to highest admonitions. Was there then something better and greater in that strange, misty faith. Could it be that the white God had pointed to the Religion of Love?

Presently, as Sinclair waited anxiously for the return of the pursuers, loud shouting uprose from the direction of the palisade. After his reply, noisy footsteps careered along, and a minute later three figures put in an appearance—Captain Robinson, behind his cigar; McAuliffe, with a long-necked bottle protruding from his pocket; Dave, with his short pipe and smug self-satisfaction. This trio had followed the former band at a safe interval, and were now burning to learn how things had gone.

They were somewhat taken aback to find Sinclair standing moodily in the yellow blot of lamp light, with a young woman sobbing hysterically in a chair, and Menotah lying without motion along the floor. The unexpected sight checked their exuberance.

'Goldam!' exclaimed the Factor. 'Say, Billy, what sort of a picnic is this, anyway?'

'He's gone,' replied the hunter, sourly.

'Not Lamont!' the others cried in unison.

Sinclair nodded. Then he pointed to the corpselike figure. 'She's tricked us all.'

Dave, who had completely forgotten events of the night preceding, became greatly concerned when he discovered the identity of the lifeless figure.

'You've gone to work and fixed her!' he shouted. 'Who did it? By holy heaven, Billy, if you had a hand in it, I'll fix you right now.'

'Quit it, Dave,' said the Captain. 'There's another gal here.'

'Damn 'em,' shouted Dave, wildly, 'I'll teach 'em to fix my poor gal! I'm going to start work with Billy here.'

He produced a great revolver from his hip pocket, but before he could bring it down to his elbow the others held him.

'Don't be a gol-darned fool, Dave,' said the Captain. 'Billy's our pard.'

Dave struggled and swore. 'My gal's dead.'

'She's right enough,' growled Sinclair; 'only fainted.'

Dave was himself again. 'Gimme your bottle, Alf. I'm going to give my gal a drink.'

The Factor gave him the bottle, then asked Sinclair to detail events. 'Tell us how the flush was bob-tailed, Billy.'

The hunter obeyed, and startled his listeners by the account of Menotah's courage.

'Well, well,' said the Captain, when he had finished. 'So he's got right away.'

'They're after him,' said Sinclair hopefully. 'He didn't get much of a start, and they're armed.'

McAuliffe had a word to say. 'Pshaw! as if he couldn't get away from those bullet stoppers,' he cried disdainfully. 'Tell you, Lamont's a match for that crowd. Might as well try and catch a badger on open prairie as him. The badger jumps into a hole and pulls it in after him. Lamont's the same.'

In the meantime, Dave was half choking Menotah with the fiery spirit. 'When whisky fails, order the coffin,' he proclaimed, as she began to cough.

Sinclair listened at the window. The night was very dark and pleasantly cool by then. Rain was falling heavily. 'They should be back soon.'

'It's not far to the river, and he'll swim that,' said the Captain.

'Then he'll be all right,' added the Factor. 'The bullet stoppers won't follow. First place, they can't swim; if they could, they'd be too darned scared of getting wet.'

The hunter turned to Dave. 'If you want to save her, you'd better get her away before they come back.'

'I'll chaw them up if they try to start fooling,' said Dave.

'You can't do it. They'd hang her quick enough for this night's business.'

Dave rubbed his coarse hand along the girl's smooth neck. 'They don't get her from Dave Spencer. We'll walk our chalks when we hear the bullet stoppers coming.'

Menotah stirred slightly, while a faint groan burst from her lips. Slowly she was returning from the bliss of insensibility to the awful dreariness of life. Then the Factor bethought himself of offering assistance to Marie.

So he snatched the bottle from the unwilling Dave, came over and touched her awkwardly on the shoulder. Not for years had he spoken with a 'civilised' woman.

'No darned use in crying, far as I can see.'

Marie dropped her handkerchief a little, but made no reply.

'I reckon tears are sort of unsatisfactory.'

Still no answer.

McAuliffe grew desperate. 'Never mind Lamont. He's not worth troubling over, anyway. See here! this is first-class whisky. Have a good pull at it. It'll make you feel fine and comfortable.'

He rubbed his coat sleeve over the neck, then pushed it close to her mouth.

Then she raised an angry flushed face. 'Leave me alone!' she cried.

'You'll have a drink?' said the Factor, blankly. 'It's fine whisky; I'm not fooling.'

'I don't want it,' she said, with a passionate movement.

This rendered McAuliffe speechless. The person who refused a drink of good whisky was, in his estimation, something worse than a criminal.

'If you want to do something for me,' continued Marie, 'you can take her out of the house. She has no business here.'

'Reckon none of us have,' the Factor managed to exclaim. Then he comforted himself secretly by means of the rejected bottle.

Here Sinclair buttoned up his coat and announced his intention of going down to the river. Menotah had sufficiently recovered to walk, so Dave, with a stubborn determination not to have her captured, proposed they should return to the hotel and learn final results the next day.

The others agreed. 'How about you, though?' asked Sinclair.

Marie saw she had been addressed. 'I shall stay here,' she said fiercely. 'I want to learn whether the soldiers have caught that traitor. To-morrow I can go home.'

'She's provided for,' muttered the Factor. 'Come on, Captain. Dave's got his gal.'

They went down the slippery wooden steps, while silence fell again over the frame house where human passion had raged so fiercely that night.

---

Three men, heated with running, wet to the skin by the heavy rain, came to the shelving bank of the Red River. About three minutes earlier another runner had reached that spot. Without hesitation, he had ploughed a rapid course through the mud reach and sought the deeper water. The former had arrived in time to see the latter swimming towards the opposite shore, putting all the force he could muster into the arm strokes.

They stopped at the edge of the mud, with the knowledge that the adventurer had beaten them.

Lightning still played softly across the heavens. The officer pulled his revolver, then fired shot after shot into the deceptive red glow, glimmering over the waters round the indistinct and distant swimmer. With the shot that emptied the chamber they saw the fugitive drag himself to land by aid of the long willows which swept the stream. For a moment he paused at the foot of the tree-spread bank, to coolly wave his hand in their direction by way of farewell. The next minute he was swallowed up by the dark, pathless line of bush.

'No good following him there,' muttered one of the men resignedly.

The officer swore softly to himself. 'Follow! I should say not. He's as good a bushman as any nitchi!

Sullenly they began to retrace their steps, the officer wondering how he could summon courage to face his superiors; but before they had gone far they came across the hunter, tramping stolidly along the rapidly miring trail.

'Where is he?' cried the latter eagerly, as he recognised them.

The officer was sulkily silent, but one of the men answered for him. 'Safe in the bush.'

The hunter's face fell, for he had allowed himself to hope a capture might be made in the mud flats.

'Well, well,' he muttered savagely, as he joined the small band and tramped dismally back with them, 'the White Chief has escaped. That's the devil's business.'

Lamont did not penetrate very far into the dripping bush. He knew there could be no search before daybreak, and by that time he would be in a place of absolute safety. So he rested for some time beneath a bluff of black poplar, the while he planned his future course of action.

There were plenty of friendly half-breeds in the immediate vicinity. In one of these huts or dug-outs he could safely hide for a day or so, with his former disguise resumed. For he could make up and act the part of the native Indian to the life. Then he would steal or borrow a shaganappi pony and ride some night to the States, only forty miles distant in a bee-line across prairie. After, he would escape from that continent at his leisure.

'There's a rising in Brazil,' he muttered thoughtfully. 'That will be a good place for me to try my hand in next. A new rifle, and then for the strongest side. Besides, there are fine women among the Creoles.'

He laughed quietly to himself in the glory of this unexpected freedom and new life, then gathered up a handful of the clammy red clay which had earlier given the great river its name. He squeezed forth the moisture, then rubbed the soft slime across his features.

Next he scraped some powder from the roots of the black poplar and applied this also in carefully arranged markings. The change was startling. It would have required a very keen eye to have penetrated that disguise. Then he made his cautious way into the bush, destroying his trail as he went. There were no bloodhounds in Garry, very few Indians or breeds would lend assistance to track the White Chief Even so, none of them were better bushmen than himself. He was entirely safe from pursuit.

Once he thought of Menotah, but then he only laughed at the weak foolishness of a loving woman; he thought, indeed, more of Marie, but then he frowned with a longing to get her again within his power.

So he passed on until he came to a place of shelter.

Shortly before autumn, he made safe landing at Rio Janeiro.

---

CHAPTER X

McAULIFFE'S RESOLUTION

By the side of the Great Saskatchewan it was darkness and chill evening, with dead leaves spreading upon grey rocks, and sharp sting of frost along the breeze. For winter was again drawing near, closing round the land that year earlier than usual. The following day would witness the departure of the last boat, and after that dreary event the days would roll monotonously one into the other, until it became a matter of difficulty to reckon the actual flight of weeks. Christmas and New Year would pass unrecognised, the February blizzards would shriek, and the ice hills raise snowy caps to a leaden sky. Thus all would remain in desolation, until spring, rising with warm breaths from south and west, should disperse the snow palaces, break the ice fetters and bring new life to earth.

Within the fort a light shone dully. Presently the door opened and McAuliffe appeared. Somewhat wearily he gazed at the heaving line of bush ahead, with the black points of rock between. Soon he perceived the full moon, just rising above the tree tops, defining strongly the tapering summit of each sombre pine. He shivered, then buttoned his worn coat tightly. The frost crept noiselessly along, stiffening each grass blade, while not an insect stirred down the biting air.

Massive in proportion though the Factor still was, he appeared thinner than on that well remembered night of the fight. Also a careworn expression had settled over his face, while the grey in hair and beard was certainly more pronounced. When he stepped out to the open and commenced to pace up and down, it might have been noticed that his step had lost much of its former briskness, that the body leaned forward at a decided angle. He was growing elderly now, and neglected to give the body such care and attention as the years demanded.

A few hours earlier, he and Dave Spencer had quarrelled with such bitterness that Justin had been compelled to interfere. Menotah was the bone of contention. She had prevailed upon Dave to bring her back across the lake, that she might bid a last farewell to the land of her fathers. Then she would return with him to Selkirk, as the slave to do his unpleasant bidding. The time had now arrived. The boat was about to leave, so Dave had commanded the girl to be in readiness to sail with him early on the following morning. She had consented, asking only a single favour—that he would give her that last night entirely to herself. She wished to sleep in the hut, where she had spent the happiest days of youth; to go over again each hallowed spot; to revisit the inanimate objects, each of which brought back some sacred association. In the morning she would be his, and he might do with her whatsoever he desired.

When sober, McAuliffe's heart was large and sympathetic. He was sorry for the changed girl in his rough way, also secretly disgusted at the constant manner of Dave's bullying. Besides, he did not want to lose her from his district. So, as absolute despot of that part of the country, he had ordered Dave to relinquish his claims. The natural result followed, and the Factor came very near to smashing Dave up, as he had threatened. The sequel was that Dave, ejected from the fort after the manner of Denton, found himself compelled to seek shelter for the night within the boat.

The Factor was in a meditative mood, as he passed up and down on his evening exercise, the red sparks of his pipe glowing occasionally in the silver air. There was the rugged patch of bush, where Sinclair had frightened him so badly. That was on the night just about a year before, when Lamont made off, and Menotah went wild with her grief. Further along was a rough irregular mould, covered thickly with pine needles and brown cones. He did not clear these away from Winton's grave, because he had a superstitious fancy that they were keeping the dead body dry and warm.

Like most men accustomed to much living in solitude, he spoke aloud to himself as he walked along.

'Sort of seems to me everything's over now. There's not much for an old chunk like me to do, 'cept settle down quiet and wait for my name to get stuck on the death list. There's old Billy settling comfortable at home. Lamont knocking around somewhere, the Lord knows where, likely enough deceiving some other poor fool of a gal with his handsome face and fine ways. And here's old Mac himself, planted again in his district, just about as lonely as ever. Didn't have so much of a time down in Garry after all. Afraid I made a darned old fool of myself; always do when I get loose for a while, but then it's so quiet and desolate 'way up here, with nobody but the nitchies to talk to. Folks don't think, when they see us old chaps rocketing around, what it is to find yourself in a civilised sort of place, where there are lots of people, with nice bright saloons, where you can get your own mixture fresh and spicy, and a few good fellows on each side of you. Well, well, I'll not be leaving the fort many more times. Then they'll get to work and plant me alongside of young Winton. There we'll lie, a couple of good pards, until the angels come fooling around to wake us. Well, well, life's a queer thing anyway.

He laughed a little sadly, and rubbed his hands together to restore circulation. Suddenly he bent quickly. 'Ah! there's that rheumatism jumping up my leg again. Reckon I shouldn't be strolling around on a cold night. Guess I'll get inside.'

Presently he closed the door of the fort and watched Justin shoving pine sticks into the box stove. More interested than usual, he gazed upon the small bent figure, with grey hair falling over the neck, and heavily lined, expressionless face. Then he exclaimed,—

'Say, boy, how are the years going for you?'

The half-breed looked up and shook his head slowly.

'Don't know, eh? I guess you can't be far off sixty, boy. Anyway, I reckon you're older than this child.'

The other merely grunted. Age was a matter of perfect indifference to him.

'That's what it is, Justin. We're getting two stiff old baldheads. Say, boy, mind the time I thrashed Que-dane?'

A light crept into the half-breed's heavy eyes. He nodded his head violently.

'Couldn't do it now. Haven't got the nerve.'

'He walk this way now,' said Justin, shambling in awkward fashion across the floor.

'Must have twisted his spine. Didn't want to spoil him, but I reckon it did him good. He hasn't been stealing other men's wives since, anyway.'

There was a dreary pause before the Factor continued, 'We won't lose track of days this winter, boy. I'll fix the calendar right up behind the stove, so as we can see it easy of an evening. When I forget to mark off the day, you let me know before I get to bed. We got terrible off the reckoning last year. Time we thought Christmas was 'way behind New Year. We'll have some fun this year, just you and I, boy. I'll make a fine big pudding, and you shall eat it, eh?'

He laughed heavily, then the half-breed, who was not communicative at any time, left the 'office' to prepare the supper moose meat. So the Factor was again left to his uncongenial thoughts.

'Darn it, I'm terribly lonely to-night. Feeling sort of uncomfortable, too. Got to pull through the winter without a friend to talk to or quarrel with. An old chap like me ought to have grandchildren fooling round his knees, digging into his pockets for candies, wanting him to monkey around with them, or spin long lies by way of yarns. I should have stayed east and got married. Then I might have known a decent sort of life. Well, this sort's got to slip off some time.'

He sat at the table, drumming his big fingers on it fretfully. Presently the virtuous fit wrapped itself more closely round his soul. Then his musings became of the following nature,—

'Going to turn over a new leaf right now. Going on a different sort of track from this day forth. There's to be no more deep drinking, or any such bad habits. I'm going to be what Peter used to try and make out he was. I start this night. Some fellows are always fixing up new resolutions—a brand new set once a month regular. Believe they only set them up just for the fun of knocking them down again. I'm not that way. 'Tisn't often I make a resolution, but when I do I stick to it. Goldam! I hang on to it by the eyelids. It's time I thought of turning reformed character, for I'm shuffling along in life pretty fast, getting down to the last few years at a terrible rate.'

He paused in his reflections, as if summoning courage to form a mighty resolution. Soon he wagged his head gravely.

'There's my winter stock of whisky just laid up. A fellow can't resist the smell of a nice mixed glass. If I once start at it, I shall slide back to the old life, and not be a darned bit better. I'll fix that racket right off.'

In his stentorian voice he called out to the half-breed.

There was a slow shuffling within the little passage, then Justin appeared from the kitchen, his tobacco-charged mouth moving slowly.

'You mind my fresh whisky keg—one Dave's just brought along for me, eh?'

The other grunted in affirmation.

'Roll it outside, boy, turn on the tap, and let it run dry.'

The order sped forth in a breath. After speaking, the Factor sat sheepishly gazing at the lamp, half ashamed and half frightened.

Justin stared at his master with unspoken sorrow. Even he felt it a matter of grief, to behold in a man of the Factor's size and strength an obvious weakening of reason. Had he been commanded to go forth and murder someone—that would have been explicable. But to waste the whisky!

'Git now, Justin. Hustle yourself, and let it run. Tell you, this religious fit won't last much longer.'

The half-breed grunted in more knowing a fashion, then shuffled away, presumably to execute the heart-breaking mandate.

Left to himself again, McAuliffe muttered softly, 'Well, I've seen something new to-night. I know now what Justin looks like when he's surprised. That's my first good stroke of work. Now I must think out another one.' Then he added regretfully, 'I shall be kicking myself for having done it in less than a week.'

Then he allowed his thoughts to wander over past events. After a few minutes his lips parted again, and he drifted off into a fresh soliloquy, this time addressing the pipe which lay on the table in front,—

'Now, if I was well enough fixed with shin plasters, I should get to work, resign my post here, and make off east, 'way back to St Catherine's. Then I'd settle down in a little frame house and live comfortable. Wouldn't cost so much. I shouldn't want to go deep into household expenses. Just that, with a couple of suits of clothes, one in spring, another for winter, tobacco, and a little bit for the saloons. S'pose I ought to give that up, though. Well, it's no use thinking about it. This sort of life's spoilt me for anything else. I've got no relations, nobody depending on me. Still, it seems a sort of pity and a waste of your last years to rust out here in the solitude.'

He rose from his chair and paced the narrow floor. 'That's where young Winton used to sit, sucking his pipe stem; Billy over there, on the York factory box; while Peter would be snivelling in yon corner.' His face lit up suddenly into a smile. 'Peter got a fortnight. 'Twas an extra bad case, the magistrate said. He'd have to leave the fort soon as they let him out of the cooler. That magistrate's a sharp lad. He could see through Peter's virtues clean enough.'

After another turn, he bent to rub his legs. 'Well, well, I almost reckon I'll lie down for sleep. I'm sort of tired, and this dirty rheumatism is jumping around in my legs again. Nothing like bed on a frosty night when you're not feeling good.'

A sudden thought perplexed his mind. He stood wagging his great head slowly. 'There's no real harm in it. Not in moderation. All the best men say that. Besides, it's hard to go without it, terrible hard. I do hope Justin didn't think I was talking seriously.'

To ease his mind, he again called out loudly to the half-breed. A muffled grunt came back from the direction of the kitchen.

'Done what I told you, boy?'

A decided reply in the negative was speedily returned.

The Factor rubbed his hands together cheerfully. 'Don't do it, Justin,' he called out. 'That crazy sort of fit's over. Say, boy, mix me a good stiff glass. Take one yourself to keep the frost out.'

After which command he paced the floor again, muttering, 'Darn it, whisky mayn't be a necessity, still a fellow can't pull along without it.'

Presently a curious sound came from within, and arrested his attention. After listening, he dived into the passage, there to discover the cause of disturbance. Justin was pouring some hot water from a kettle into glasses half full of a dark brown compound. But, besides this, he was indulging in an unheard of performance.

He was laughing to himself, with occasional chuckles, as the water splashed into the glasses, and a mist of steam rose round his head.

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CHAPTER XI