CHAPTER XIV
THE IRON TRAIL
Pluff! Pluff! The crunching of Maskwa's snowshoes sounded back throughthe bitter starlight of the dawn. Taking advantage with his skilfulheel-spring of the resilience of the taut shoe webbing and theelasticity of the curved frames, Maskwa ran easily in a long, lurchingstride. The shifting of his whole weight from one foot to the other sankhis raquettes in the snow with uniform pressure. The ankle's side-swingcame with unfailing precision. The Ojibway traveled like a machine,perfectly poised and full of potential strength. Thus he could run ifneed be from sun to sun.
Behind him in the broken trail galloped the first of the six dog teamsthat carried the outfits. Five halfbreed track beaters packed the snowin front of the other sledges. Six Indians drove. At intervals thepositions were shifted, each team taking its turn at the lead where laythe heaviest toil.
"Mush! Mush!" cried the Indian dog drivers. Crack! Crack! snapped thewhips in weird staccato. These sounds with the noises of travel were theonly ones to echo through the white stillness. For the rest the Hudson'sBay men went in silence because the cold was that awful cold thatstrangles the northern world before sunrise. Its frigid hands seemed tocatch their chests and clamp their lungs tight. A gauntlet removed toallow the fastening of a moccasin lace, the adjustment of the parkahood, or the clearing of iced eyelashes left the bare fingers numbed bythe cruel frost which bit through the flesh and lacerated the tensenerves beneath. Through many a dawn-hour had these northmen fought thisfreezing horror. On countless trails had they come face to face withthis death masked ice spirit. Well they knew their capabilities.Closely they guarded their energies. With all his relentless power andsubtlety the frost fiend might not take them unawares!
Steadily moved the long line of men across the wind-packed surface ofOxford Lake, their bodies leaning forward at identical angles, theirlimbs swinging with machine-like regularity. Shoulders heaving at theircollars, the dog teams ran in their own peculiar fashion, heads down,tongues lolling between steaming jaws. So exactly alike the outfitsseemed that the hindmost ones might have been the oft-repeated shadow ofthe foremost brushing back across the snows, indistinct, vague beneaththe waning starlight.
Quitting Oxford Lake at Kowasin Inlet, the trains ascended Kabeke Ridgethat they might make the descent on the other side to the smooth ice ofBlazing Pine River which would afford them easy progress for many miles.Among the trees of the crest the cavalcade lost definition. The men weremerely shadows on the snow, flicking ghost-like between the silhouettedtree trunks. The dogs were wolfish things sneaking low to the ground.The utter silence of the morning was ethereal in its intangibility.Sharp detonations of frost-split trees brought contrasts that ripped thescreen of silence with weird, unearthly noises. A phosphorescent glimmersmeared the crust. Little shadowy shapes began to dance before the men'ssnow-stung eyes. A suggestion of mirages drifted here and there,mocking, oppressive, supernatural, phantasmagoric.
Where the course of march led from the elevated ridge to the low riversurface the incline fell so sharply that extreme care was necessary tomake the descent in safety. The Indian dog drivers whipped up theirteams to force them in a direct line, while some clung to the sledgesthat they might not break away wildly and over-run the rushing _giddes_.The plunge beat up a cloud of foaming snow particles. Sled after sledshot down. The men half coasted, half ran with amazing speed on thefeathery slope. An immense groove in the white covering of the mountainside showed after them. They turned down Blazing Pine, on the banks ofwhich was the Indian encampment that Father Brochet had gone to visit inhis mission of administering to the sick.
Maskwa, the tireless, still broke the trail. Dunvegan sent forward BlackFox, a sinewy Salteaux Indian, to relieve him for a space, but theOjibway smiled a little and refused.
"Strong Father," protested Black Fox, dropping back, "this Maskwa theswift one will not listen. Nor will he give me the task. His legs are ofiron, and his lungs are spirit's lungs--they breathe forever! StrongFather, there is none like him from Wenipak to the Big Waters."
"That's true, Black Fox," commented the leader of the expedition, "buthe should take some rest."
Dunvegan sped forward till he was running side by side with the Ojibway.
"Maskwa, my brother," he urged, "take the easy place for an hour. It isnot well to punish yourself!"
The fort runner smiled again. He had ideal features for an Indian, andthe stamp of noble lineage was set upon the bold curve of brow, nose,and chin.
"Strong Father," he replied, "it is not hard for me. I will keep on, forI would have my own eyes search the trail ahead. There are spies about.Let Strong Father mark how the fur trains were sought out and set upon!Mark how the French Hearts took council to surprise Oxford House! Wehave need to keep the clear eye. We must go swiftly but craftily.Therefore, Strong Father, let Maskwa have the lead. His sight will notfail you."
The Ojibway's dark face glowed earnestly in the golden haze of lightwhich heralded the near appearance of the sun. He was running as easilyand breathing as quietly as he had done in the first mile theytraversed.
"As you will," conceded Dunvegan. "You have my trust!"
The chief trader dropped back in turn with the main body. Maskwa spurtedfar ahead, performing the duty of scout as well as that of trackbeater. Before the Nor'westers could compass another surprise they wouldhave to reckon with the cunning Ojibway.
Steadily on went the file of dog trains. The men were feeling the coldless. By this time extreme exertion had infused a warm glow in eachman's frame. Every part of the human anatomy responded to the strongblood coursing in the veins. An excess of virile strength permeated themuscles. An effervescence of buoyancy toned up the nerves.
Eyes gleaming brighter for the fringe of filmed ice above, lips blowingcloud-breaths, clothes frost rimmed from over-activity, these Hudson'sBay giants held on their way. Soon they came to the branching of theBlazing Pine River and continued down the tributary which curved by theIndian village lying three hours' journey below the junction point.
At last the belated sun rose over the spruce trees, glaring with a sortof amazed, fiery wrath upon these travelers who had taken advantage ofhis slumber to win so many miles of their hard march. But the wrathsubsided, lost in the rosy day dreams that wrapped earth and sky in abrilliant winter mist. Radiating beams created the impression ofcheerful heat. The whole range of imaginable colors, multiplied bytinting and blending, wove and shifted in a vast web of living fireacross the opal clouds. A stupendous panorama lay the wilderness world,exhaling color, displaying jewels, wrapping itself in beauteousnecromancy!
In the late forenoon Maskwa sighted the Indian village in the middledistance. Dunvegan decided to make mid-day camp there. He gave the orderto his men, an order that was received with great alacrity.
"_Chac! Chac! Chac!_" yelled the drivers to the _giddes_, enforcing theorder with splitting reports from the long lashes of their dog whips.
Gleefully and dutifully the sledge animals turned toward the Cree tepeespitched permanently in the warm shelter of a pine forest to the left ofthe river. At the thought of rest, a good meal, and a smoke the Hudson'sBay men dashed forward jauntily, eager to make the bivouac. But anIndian, running out of the winter wigwams, stopped Maskwa from enteringthe village by a peculiar motion of his crossed hands. The others sawthe fort runner halt in his tracks and draw away, while a momentaryconference in the native dialect took place.
The Ojibway beckoned to Dunvegan who ran up hastily.
"Strong Father," spoke Maskwa quickly, "an Indian has come to thisvillage and he has fever. We cannot enter. Else will the fever spiritdestroy our own men."
"Where's Father Brochet?" Bruce demanded, speaking in Cree. "Where's thepriest--the praying man. Bid him come forth!"
On the summons Father Brochet appeared. His greetings were none the lesscheerful for the distance that intervened between the friends.
"It wouldn't be wise to come in," the priest called, "and risk exposureto infe
ction. This case isn't so bad, but you know the dangers. TheIndian came from the tribe on Loon Lake, and some of his fellows upthere are sick with the same thing. When I get him in shape so that theIndian women can bring him through, I am going up to see after theothers."
"Loon Lake!" exclaimed Dunvegan. "That's up beyond Fort Brondel. You'dbetter be careful when you are in the Nor'west haunts."
"The Nor'westers don't trouble the men of God," returned Brochet simply."I have no fear of them! We are indispensable to both Hudson's Bayservants and Nor'westers!" He smiled grimly at the significance of hisplain words.
"But lately men on our side have died unshriven," the chief traderobserved bitterly. "There is a chance that the same may happen to theenemy."
"You are heading for Brondel?"
"With all haste! The sack of the Wokattiwagan train will be speedilyand thoroughly avenged."
"And the Factor has set out to raze Dumarge as he planned?"
"Yes. We both have hoped to surprise the Nor'west forts for, failingthat, we must sit down to a long siege."
Brochet shivered a little even in the sheltered place where he stood.
"It is ill weather for a siege," he commented, "and the Nor'westers areas cunning as wolves. You know, I suppose, about--about Glyndon?"
Dunvegan's face was hard as a mask. By this time he had curbed hisemotion tightly.
"I know--that is, I heard," he answered slowly. "Tell me all about thatmarriage, Brochet!"
The priest raised his hand in a deprecating fashion and shook his headout of sad pity for his friend's disappointment.
"There is nothing to tell," was his low response. "It was a swift, eagerwooing--a sort of autumn dream! The golden woods and the white moonswere theirs for an uninterrupted, rapturous space. The fascination wasintense. Its durability I cannot judge. The climax compelled theirmarriage. My hope is that Glyndon may prove worthy!"
"Amen," Dunvegan breathed. He seemed desirous of hearing no more, andsignaled for the trains to move on.
"If on your return from Loon Lake the Company's banner flaps over FortBrondel, give me a call," was his parting word to Father Brochet.
"Indeed, yes," the kindly priest promised. "And watch carefully, my son!Guard your person against the enemy, and guard your passions as well.Remember that he who conquers himself is greater than the lord of allthe Hudson's Bay districts."
Three miles farther the cavalcade wound with the frozen river. Dunvegan,brooding within himself as had been his custom of late, took little noteof its progress. The leadership had devolved for the moment upon Maskwa.Presently the tall Ojibway answered the call of his stomach. He stoppedbeneath a jutting headland and looked once at the sun. Then with hisnative stoicism and abruptness he twisted his heels from the loops ofhis snowshoes.
"Camp here!" he decided.