Lords of the North

by Agnes C. Laut

"Would that I had taken lessons in forest lore before I went among the Sioux," I thought to myself. Now I knew what had been incomprehensible before—why all my well-laid plans had been detected.

A wind rustled through the foliage. That was in our favor; for in spite of our care the leaves crushed and crinkled beneath us. At intervals a glimmer of light shone from the beach. Louis paused and listened so intently our breathing was distinctly audible. A vague murmur of low voices—like the "talking of the trees" in Little Fellow's language—floated up from the river; and in the moonlight I saw Laplante laugh noiselessly. Trees stood farther apart on the flats and brushwood gave place to a forest of ferns, that concealed us in their deep foliage; but the thick growth also hid the enemy, and we knew not at what moment we might emerge in full view of the camp. So we stretched out flat, spying through the fern stalks before we parted the stems to draw ourselves on a single pace. Presently, the murmur separated into distinct voices, with much low laughing and the bitter jeers that make up Indian mirth. We could hear the crackling of the fire, and wormed forward like caterpillars.

There was a glare of light through the ferns, and Louis stopped. We all three pulled abreast of him. Lying there as a cat watches a mouse, we parted first one and then another of the fronds till the Indian encampment could be clearly seen.

"Is that the tribe?" I whispered; but Louis gripped my arm in a vice that forbade speech.

The camp was not a hundred feet away. Fire blazed in the centre. Poles were up for wigwams, and already skins had been overlaid, completing several lodges. Men lay in lazy attitudes about the fire. Squaws were taking what was left of the evening meal and slave-women were putting things to rights for the night. Sitting apart, with hands tied, were other slaves, chiefly young women taken in some recent fray and not yet trusted unbound. Among these was one better clad than the others. Her wrists were tied; but her hands managed to conceal her face, which was bowed low. In her lap was a sleeping child. Was this Miriam? Children were with the other captives; but to my eyes this woman's torn shawl appeared reddish in the fire glow.

"Let's go boldly up and offer to buy the slaves," I suggested; but Louis' grip tightened forbiddingly and Little Fellow's forefinger pointed towards a big creature, who was ordering the others about. 'Twas a woman of giant, bronzed form, with the bold stride of a conquering warrior and a trophy-decked belt about her waist. The fire shone against her girdle and the stones in the leather strap glowed back blood-red. Father Holland breathed only one word in my ear, "Agates;" and the fire of the red stones flashed like some mystic flame through my being till brain and heart were hot with vengeance and my hands burned as if every nerve from palm to finger-tips were a blade point reaching out to destroy that creature of cruelty.

"Diable's squaw," I gasped out, beside myself with anger and joy. "Let me but within arm's length of her——"

"Hold quiet," the priest hissed low and angry, gripping my shoulder like a steel winch. "'Vengeance is mine,' saith the Lord! See that you save the white woman! Leave the evil-doer to God! The Lord's with us, but I tell you, don't you bungle!"

"Bungle!" I could have shouted out defiance to the whole band. "Let go!" I ordered, trying to struggle up; for the iron hand still held me. "Let go, or I'll——"

But Louis Laplante's palm was forcibly slapped across my mouth and his other hand he laid significantly on his dagger, giving me one threatening look. By the firelight I saw his lips mechanically counting the numbers of the enemy and mechanically I audited his count.