CHAPTER XVI.
A VOICE IN THE NIGHT.
I knew no more of what passed until I found myself lying on a pile of skins, my head throbbing painfully. Opening my eyes, I saw that I was lying beside a fire, while around me were Chippewas, and standing over me was my enemy.
"Awake, eh?" said Gib softly, in the old Gaelic, which he spoke with the Highland burr. There was an evil smile on his crafty face as I struggled to sit up. For a wonder, I was not bound, which I suppose he did not deem necessary.
"You are a troublous fighter, MacDonald," he sneered. "But with the great Radisson dead, you will have hard work to squeeze out of this pocket of mine."
"Radisson—dead?" I echoed dizzily. The shock of it cleared my head and I looked up at him. "You lie, Gib o' Clarclach! No dog such as you could slay Pierre Radisson! His fate lies in higher hands than yours!"
"So?" he snarled, sudden rage whelming in him. Swiftly, he reached out and kicked me with a vicious foot. I gathered myself together, but brown hands gripped me and held me there helpless, while he raved wildly in his madness. And by that I knew that he had lied, and that Radisson was not dead. So I laughed at him as they bound me hand and foot.
More than one of his men seemed wounded beneath their furs, and beside the fire lay two silent warriors. We were in the center of the group of lodges, and as there were but half a score of men around me, I gathered that the rest were scattered through the trees on watch. There was no sign of Ruth, and with that I set myself to taunt mine enemy, speaking in the Cree which all his men doubtless could understand.
"You are a fine leader of men, my brother! Well were you called The Pike—crafty, cowardly warrior who shuns the shallow water! See, in our village lies your chief Soan-ge-ta-ha, while our women laugh at him, and in the snow lies one of his young men, dead. The Cree knives are sharpened, my brothers, and with them are the knives of Radisson, the White Eagle, and of his friends, the Brothers of the Thunder." For this was the name by which the two Mohawks went in all that north country.
My words, as they were designed, sent a swirl of rage through the Chippewas, who with a growl turned on Gib. But he, the crafty one, appeased them swiftly.
"Brave Heart is not hurt, my brothers," he cried. "My medicine tells me that he is even now on his way to join us. As for you, Brave Eyes, you lie. The White Eagle has no men with him—only the tall Mohawk chief."
"Yes, mayhap," I answered, "but these twain are more than a match for your Chippewa women. You stole upon our village, and what gained you? Only one poor captive. It was a great raid, worthy of The Pike, and you have paid for it dearly with your chief and your young men. And the White Eagle is sharpening his claws, my brothers—out there in the night somewhere."
My words reached them, and more than my words. For barely had I finished, when the darkness was split asunder by a musket-shot. The man beside Gib whirled about and fell into the fire.
"Scatter!" foamed Gib, raging. "Scatter and slay the White Eagle, fools! Out with the fire!"
The embers were dashed over the snows instantly, and under his rapid orders the band vanished. Two of them remained to lift me, and they carried me to the door of one of the lodges, a little apart from the rest. Gib flung away the flap, and by the light of the lodge-fire inside I saw the pale, frightened face of Ruth.
"What means this intrusion?" she demanded in French, not seeing me. "I thought we were to remain unmolested!"
The scoundrel tendered her a low, mocking bow, and stepped aside to show my figure, as the two braves flung me at her feet. She gave but a little frighted cry, and stood facing him.
"A meeting of old friends, Mistress de Courbelles." It was the first time I had heard Ruth's name from other than the lips of Radisson. "How could I separate such dearly loved ones? See, I bring you a visitor of great value, and ere long you will have others. So I bid you good-even."
With this he bowed again and was gone. Outside came his voice giving sharp orders, and all was still. But Ruth sprang forward and was on her knees beside me.
"My poor Davie!" she cried, lifting my head in her arms. "Some water, Laughing Snow!"
From out the shadows moved the figure of a Cree woman—a sister of Uchichak's, whom the Chippewas had carried away to care for Ruth. She brought water, and the two of them bathed my wounded head, where I had been struck down from behind. As they did so, I told them all that had passed.
"It was the night after you and The Crane left for the hunt," Ruth told me, "that the Chippewas came. For a little while the old men held them off, which gave most of the women time to flee. I had just left my lodge to find the cause of the shouting when Gib's party broke through. They seized me, set fire to the lodges, and were gone again. Oh, they treated me kindly enough, Davie, but—but I cannot bear that smiling, evil face of Gib!"
"Be not afraid, sister," spoke out the Cree woman, stolidly. "The Crane is a great warrior, and his men must be very near. These Chippewa women will flee before him like leaves before the wind of autumn."
"Yes, I think that Gib's plans were all upset by Brave Heart," I tried to reassure the little maid bravely enough. "But for him, and for the Mighty One, we had never been here, Ruth. As it is, the Swift Arrow will bring Uchichak and his men."
"We have been foolish," declared Laughing Snow bitterly. She went on to tell us how, years ago, it had been rumored that men lived in the Ghost Hills. By piecing together the fragments of Radisson's tales and this of hers, Ruth and I gathered that Gib o' Clarclach had maintained a sort of robber band in these dreaded hills in the old days, when French and English were at war on the Bay. Gib had afterwards, when Radisson dwelt in England, made the journey from the Canadas with d'Iberville and his raiders, and had guided them to the English posts when the French swept them clean. The villain had served both sides, lending himself wherever the more gain promised, and the Cree woman prophesied that once these things were known in the land, her people would make a war on the Chippewas that would go down in fable long afterwards. So indeed they did, but these things came in after years and have no part in this my tale.
There was little sleep for us that night. We had all rested during the day, I high on the ridge, and Ruth in the lodge, for the trip had been a hard one. The two women told how they had come through deep gorges, like those by which we had followed the Mighty One, and how they had given up all hope of rescue.
Now came something which has ever left a great wonder in my mind—one of those turns of chance which come in the most desperate straits. For, when my bonds had been removed, Ruth took from its skin wrappings a little book and showed it to me.
"I found this in the lodge," she said slowly. "Look upon the title-page, Davie, and see if I have been dreaming or not. It seems very hard to believe."
The book was a little leather-bound Bible. As the Cree woman put a flare of birch on the fire, I held it to the light and opened it. There in faded ink were words written, and I copy them from the Book which lies before me as I write. They were in the Dutch tongue, and as follows:
"To Hendrik, to bear with him always in the desert places, that he may make straight in the wilderness a highway for our God. From his beloved wife. A.D. 1605."
And under this, in a firm writing that bespoke strength, were the English words, "Henry Hudson, his book." I stared again, scarce crediting the thing, then looked up to meet the grave, fearful eyes of Ruth. We had both heard the story many a time—how the bold sailor had been set adrift in an open boat, with his son and a few faithful ones, and how they had vanished. Just a century since, 1610, had this thing taken place, and no word had ever come to England of Henry Hudson, through all the years between.
"Then," I almost whispered, "think you that this was really his? How came it here?"
"It speaks for itself," and Ruth dropped beside me and fingered the Book reverently. "Think of it, Davie! In the midst of the wilderness, in the midst of foes, to come into an empty lodge and find this thing! Does it not seem like a message of faith and hope?"
"As to that," I responded, "like enough. But I was thinking on the marvel of it, Ruth. It must even be that Hudson, who was thought to have perished in the waters of the Great Bay, escaped to land. Else how could this Bible have come here? How could Gib have obtained it? Perhaps from the Indians."
With this I turned to Laughing Snow and questioned her closely. But she disclaimed all knowledge of the Book, and said that never before the coming of Radisson had white faces been seen in the northern lands.
For a time we discussed the wonder, failing to gain any information from the Cree woman, but my bandaged head hurt painfully, and after the first surprise I leaned back, faint and weak. Then Ruth took the little volume, warped and stained with time and sea-water, and read to us aloud. As she read, she translated into Cree for the benefit of the other.
I was quite content to lie silently and gaze at her. Very beautiful she seemed there in the faint fire-glow, which tinged her golden hair with ruddy hues and likened her grave, sweet face with the rise and fall of the flames. Her heavy beaver-skins were laid aside, and her inner dress of soft doeskin was decorated with the beautifully marked neck-skins of loons, which Radisson had brought her. Porcupine quills and shell beads fringed her moccasins, while at her throat gleamed that same little gold brooch which had led us so far and brought upon us so much trouble.
Through all our journeys I had kept by me that stained and torn fragment of my father's Bible, and when she had done I wrapped it up again in the skin with the volume that had been Henry Hudson's, and gave them into the keeping of Ruth. Barely had we settled back when the skin flap was pushed aside, and once more Gib o' Clarclach entered.
"I would have some speech with you, David," he announced, no longer smiling, but purposeful and shrewd. Closing the door to keep out the cold, he seated himself on some skins and stared at me across the fire. I made him no answer.
"My young friend, these Chippewas of mine, I keenly regret, are not used to the customs of civilized war. Yet they are far ahead of your Mohawk friends, whom I have seen tie their captives to a tree and build a fire round about. These Chippewas have another method, which is quite as effective; for instead of a fire, they shoot arrows until the victim is like a porcupine with his quills erect. Then they shoot for the heart."
"Well, have on your murderers," I replied, knowing well that he dared not for the sake of Soan-ge-ta-ha. "Methinks their chief will suffer if I do."
"That is exactly the trouble, my bold young friend," he answered me. "Personally, it matters little to me what becomes of the chief, for he disobeyed my orders. But his warriors take another view of the situation. They would have me be fool enough to turn you loose so that their chief may be restored to them."
"Then they may save their worry," I shot back bluntly enough. "If you want Brave Heart, give the maid here back."
"Ah, that is impossible," his suave answer irritated me the more. "For her, we are to receive many fine gifts at the Post—beads and powder and blankets and—other things. No, I deeply regret that I am unable to meet your just demand. But on the other hand, as I was about to propose, unless you consent to parley with Radisson for the return of the chief, my warriors will insist on using you as a target."
Ruth stared at him with frighted eyes, but I knew well enough that the man spoke in deadly earnest. Could I have had my way of it, I would have bade him do his worst; but a little hand fluttered down to my wrist, and I could not withstand the unspoken appeal of Ruth.
"Have it your own way, then," I growled. "I suppose you would have me seek my friends at once?"
"Not till the day, sweet sir," smiled the scoundrel. "My men are all about, and there is no danger of your two or three eager friends inflicting any more damage. I do not quite understand how you got in here, unless you were hunting—no, that could not be either."
He fell to musing, staring at me, whereat I laughed harshly.
"It was no hand of man led us here, Gib o' Clarclach, make sure of that."
"Then we will even ascribe it to the foul fiend," and he got to his feet. "Good-even for the last time, mistress!"
When he had gone we sat silent, all three. Presently the Cree woman fell asleep in her corner and the fire slowly died down to a dim red glow, while Ruth and I sat hand in hand. On the morrow, it seemed like, I would go forth and bargain for my worthless skin, leaving her in the hands of our enemies. Bitterly I cursed myself for a faint-heart, though I knew full well that ere long Uchichak and his warriors would turn the tide of affairs.
The long hours passed, and still I sat sleepless, Ruth having fallen half into slumber, her head resting against my shoulder. I was staring at the skin wall of the lodge, where it was lashed into the brush beyond, and was dreaming again of that terrible voyage and of its ending, when I started suddenly. The glow of the embers had seemed to strike a spark from the wall—a tiny point of light that moved across the skin!
In a moment I knew it was a knife-blade slitting the tough hide, whereat I brought Ruth wide awake. The skin seemed to fall apart in silence, and through it glared a horrible painted mask and staring eyes. Ruth clutched my arm, in fright, but a whisper came from the darkness.
"Brave Eyes! Come swiftly!" And I knew it for the voice of The Keeper.