CHAPTER XXIII
CONQUEST
A prayer on his lips, Brochet scrambled down the ladder. A curse on his,Black Ferguson tumbled after. In the impetus of his descent theNor'wester hit the trapdoor over the ladder. It slammed shut, and theplace below was plunged in darkness except for the faint gleam whichfell from above through the other square. The candlelight came down likea golden spray of phosphorescent liquid, bathing and making visible ameager space in the middle of the lower floor. It was only the square oflight in the ceiling enlarged a few diameters, and the rest of the vastroom where boxes, barrels, and bales were piled in rows on the floor andupon shelves on the walls remained black as pitch.
But Ferguson had no chance to go up and bring down the candle withoutwhich he had so thoughtlessly descended. His quarry was too close toescape.
"Do you find her, Father?" he called to the priest whom he could dimlysee searching where the weak light shone.
"No! Nor hear her!" Brochet's voice was bitterly harsh. "If she struckthese boxes, you have murdered her!"
"Aye; and if she struck the fur-bales, she is as lively as ever! Sinceyou don't see her there, she didn't strike the boxes. She's in thiscursed dark somewhere. What's more, she'll be out of it in a minute.Watch the door, Father. I'll stand by the fur-chute. It's down; and it'sdevilishly handy for her to slide into the water!"
Quickly he crossed the space of light and groped for the mouth of thechute. He reached it. The cool, dank river air rising through it puffedin his heated face.
"Wait a moment, Father. Wait till I strike a match!"
"In the name of Heaven, don't!" cried Brochet from the door where hewas secretly trying to loose the bar. "The kegs broke when they fell.The powder's all over the floor."
Black Ferguson chuckled like a fiend. "Faint-hearted, Father? Take alesson from the girl. Powder or no powder, we must have light!"
The sulphur match crackled on the wall. Ferguson shielded the sputteringblue flame with his hands, but even while he shielded it, the match wasstruck from his fingers, and he was locked in a pair of powerful arms.
"Let go, priest!" he commanded laughingly. "Where in the devil did youget such muscles?" He imagined Brochet had gripped him.
But his laugh and his voice died in the strain. He could only choke outa curse and bend to his sudden mad struggle for freedom.
Over by the door Father Brochet heard the sounds of conflict, the hardbreathing, heavy trampling, smashing of boxes and barrels, crashing ofoverturned goods. He thought it was Desiree striving against theNor'wester. He rushed to her aid, but the strong whirl of men's fightingbodies hurled him into a corner. Almost under his feet Desiree gave afrightened cry, and, stooping, the priest groped for her.
He gathered her in his arms. "Are you hurt, daughter? Are you hurt?"
"No, no," she assured him. "I landed on the fur-bales, and they weresoft. But, God of Heaven, what is happening?"
"It must be Dunvegan--and Ferguson. And one will kill the other!"
In the dark they crouched back from the stamping feet. Not a thing wasvisible. They might have been in some medieval dungeon or charnel vaultwhere monsters of old were writhing in death-grapples. Desiree wastrembling all over. She clung to Brochet, her eyes straining for anunrewarded glimpse of the furious antagonists. If she could only see!That was what wracked her. The fear that invisible horror engendersshattered her supersensitive nerves. On the verge of hysteria shelistened, praying for the end.
Then huge as giants in the spray of light she saw two men stagger intothe central space of the floor. She saw one man's body bend as willow inthe other's arms, heard it crack like a broken branch. Sweeter than anysound she had ever heard, Dunvegan's voice rang clearly.
"A candle, Brochet! For Heaven's sake, a candle! It is either his neckor his back. Pray God, his neck!"
The priest's cassock flapped up the ladder and flapped down again.Fearfully he walked with the taper and held it tight; for destructionwas all around them, and the trampled powder lay on the floor like meal.
"Careful, Brochet!" warned the chief trader. "This way--this way. Ah!it's his back."
Horrible to view, with his spine doubled back like the broken blade of ajackknife, Black Ferguson was crumpled over a barrel. He looked as if hecould never move or speak again, and, placing the candle carefully on abox, Father Brochet knelt hastily beside him.
"Help me, my son," he begged Dunvegan. "Raise him up. Surely he will letme shrive him."
Shrive him! They reckoned without the Nor'wester's steel spirit. Hesquirmed in their hands. As he saw Dunvegan's face bent over him hesnarled like a trapped wolf and uttered a demon-howl.
"La Roche!" he screamed loud enough to ring from ground to blockhousetower. "La Roche! To me, comrades! To me----"
The chief trader's palm stopped his mouth, but the mischief was done.There arose a roar of trapper shouts and Cree gutturals. The yardthundered with running feet. Brochet rushed to bar the door. Dunvegangrasped Desiree's arm and sprang to the fur-chute.
"Quick!" he ordered. "Put your feet over the rim. Now sit down. Basilhas the canoe at the other end!"
He looped the rope around the girl's waist and swiftly lowered her likea bale through the wooden spout. Hands below suddenly eased his burden.The rope jerked twice, Dreaulond's signal that the descent was made, andDunvegan pulled the hemp up again with feverish haste. The coils writhedand twisted on the floor behind him; the sweat of his climb and exertionran rivulets on bare arms and forehead.
"You next, Brochet!" he panted.
But there was sacrifice in the priest's eye. Men with torches were allabout the building. In a moment or two they would break in.
"Brochet! You next!"
"No, no, my son. Good-bye, and go. There is no time for both."
"You next, I said," roared Dunvegan. He leaped and seized the priestbodily.
"Leave me, son!" Brochet tried to throw off the rope. "Your place iswith Desiree. They will not harm me."
Dunvegan whipped the cable over the priest's head and took a turn underhis armpits. "Harm you! They would rend you bone from bone. BlackFerguson knows you now for an imposter. Into the chute you go!"
The building shook under the assault of the trappers and Crees. Therafters rang with Ferguson's shouts as he urged the men on. Axe-bladesbit through the barred door.
The chief trader put forth his strength to steady Brochet's descent. Hewas much heavier than Desiree, and the brunt of the drag came just whenhe occupied the mouth of the chute before the rope could be eased overthe pulley. As the priest's head was disappearing, he cast up his eyesand Dunvegan saw spring into them an intense horror.
"Look!" he shrieked. "Look!" and vanished down the pipe.
The chief trader threw a backward glance across his shoulder as handover hand he paid out the rope, and the sight he glimpsed turned icycold the hot sweat on his limbs. Black Ferguson, cripple as he was, hadpossessed himself of the candle and was dragging his broken body alongthe floor toward a heap of the trampled powder. Paralysis gripped theNor'wester's legs so that they trailed helplessly, but by means of histremendous strength of shoulders and arms he was wriggling his way,clutching, pulling, heaving as one in death-throes. He had the candle inhis mouth, and he seemed to Dunvegan like some great, evil,fiery-tongued, crawling monster.
Outside the building all was pandemonium. Inside dwelt awful suspense.It was a moment to drive Dunvegan mad. The rope was not long enough toallow him to back up and kick the candle out of Ferguson's mouth. If helet go he would undoubtedly drown Brochet and capsize the two in thecanoe. He hung on grimly, measuring the Nor'wester's progress byglancing back repeatedly, striving to pay out the cable faster than thedragon-like thing could crawl.
Foot by foot he fed the rope. As it sagged loose, Black Ferguson hadgained his goal. His hand snatched the candle from his teeth and reachedout to lay wick to the granules.
When he saw the Nor'wester's arm go out, Dunvegan dived headforemostdown the chute. Like an otter he sl
id, and cried a warning as he shotdown. Barely in time did Basil catch it. A backward sweep of his paddle,and a whizzing body splashed at his bow.
And simultaneous with the splash the cliffs rocked and thundered. Like avolcano the hill vomited red fire through the pitchy night. In a blotchof flame La Roche flew heavenward. A rain of wreckage fell upon thewater all around the chief trader.
"_Mon Dieu, camarade_, dive!" shouted Dreaulond, backing water.
He dove and came up again in the center of the river. There the courierwhirled the stern of the canoe into his grasp, and, unhurt, Dunveganraised himself over it. The last barrier between them gone, Desireecrouched in his dripping arms.
Yet only an instant might heart beat against heart! Dunvegan thrust hislegs under the stern thwart and caught up a paddle.
"Drive, Basil," he urged. "Drive hard! I don't think there's a livingsoul left, but we can't take any chances."
In dashed the blades, but hardly had they dipped a dozen strokes when astring of lights starred the river round the first bend.
Dreaulond swore softly. "Nor'westers, ba gosh! Some been away!"
"Hug the shore," Dunvegan whispered. "We may slip past them withouttheir seeing us in this fog."
Paddling in silence, they worked their craft close against the rockywall of the farther shore. Prey to mingled hope and fear, the fourcrouched low in the gunwales. The lights were still coming in file, andin a moment the hiding ones could see a fleet of canoes with torches inthe bows. Swiftly the birch-barks skimmed the bloody streaks the torchescast on the black water. They changed their course slightly, and theleading one forged along within a few yards of Dunvegan's craft.
Discovery seemed certain. The chief trader whispered to Basil and feltfor his weapons in the canoe bottom. Voices of the oncoming men strucksharp and clear through the moist air.
"It seemed like an earthquake!" someone was saying.
Instantly Dunvegan knew the voice--the Factor's! He dropped his weapons.
"Earthquake it sure was," a voice replied. "And the fort was on top ofit. Your men have saved you the trouble of a siege, Macleod. They suregot to the powder!"
The pulses of the four leaped gladly. Now in the nebulous torch-glarethey could make out the faces and figures in the foremost craft. Therein the bow was Wahbiscaw, and behind him Malcolm Macleod. AmidshipsDunvegan saw Granger, the sandy-haired deputy he had met on Lake Lemeauand again at Kabeke Bluffs. Aft was his swarthy, black-beardedcompanion, Garfield. In his place as steersman squatted wise old Maskwa.
The keen-visaged Granger was casting piercing looks on all sides as theyplunged on. He timed his paddle strokes with an oft-repeated phrase.
"They got to the powder; they sure did!"
And Garfield's white teeth split his black beard. "Yes, and where inthunder are they now?"
"Here," laughed Dunvegan, and from the gloom drove alongside them."Here. Keep down those guns!"
Granger, ever quick to defend, lowered his arms. "By the hinges ofhell!" he exclaimed. "You sneaked? You got to it and sneaked? Oh, what ajolt! Oh, Lord, what a jolt!"
All around the other canoes glided up. The chief trader looked on thefaces of the Oxford House and Brondel men. The haggard, strained look intheir eyes told of paddling night and day from Fort Brondel. And theyhad nearly made it! Dunvegan thanked God they hadn't.
As for the Hudson's Bay forces, they stared at the four in the canoe asat people escaped from the Pit. But the Factor stirred them fromimmobility.
"Ashore!" he ordered. "Ashore! Search the hill!"
"I'm afraid there's nothing to be found," observed Dunvegan, "exceptperhaps a few wretches to be put out of their misery. I guess there weretons of powder."
"How'd it happen?" Macleod demanded, as side by side their two canoesnosed in to shore through the channel where the watergate was blown toatoms.
"Ask Brochet. He was there from the first. He can tell you more than I."
So between Macleod and Granger, as they climbed the twisting path cutthrough rock to the landing by the watergate, the priest walked,outlining what had taken place. Behind them, with Dunvegan and Garfield,toiled Desiree. She would not be left alone below. Maskwa and Wahbiscawhad gone ahead with the rest of the Hudson's Bay men.
As they reached the top, Brochet finished his brief account of theaffair in the fur-house.
The Factor took it in silence. Not so Granger!
"The game old devil!" he cried. "He sure kept his nerve to the last.But he has made himself thunderin' hard to identify. Eh, Macleod? Iguess you can't swear to his identity now!"
"You should have arrested him as soon as you placed him at La Roche,"the Factor answered. "And found me afterwards."
"Don't talk nonsense! We'd look fine playing a single-handed game likethat, wouldn't we? It had to be worked a different way. You both hadassumed names. We didn't know which was which. So we had to nail ourplan in the middle and let it swing at both ends. You see how it swung?If we had to take you, the Northwest Company would fight for us. If wehad to take Ferguson, the Hudson's Bay Company sure was at our backs!Good Lord--what's here? A quarry?"
A quarry indeed it looked, a huge, black cave amid the rocks, the heartof the granite headland blown out by a titanic blast. They stood on theedge of the slope, gazing at the torches of the Hudson's Bay men as theyswarmed like gnomes in the bowels of the pit. They clustered and spreadand crawled here and there, round the sides of the chasm, up over itslips, where ghostly as bale-fires little heaps of wreckage smoldered andflamed.
Then the reluctant lights came back one by one, and the tale of thebearers ran the same.
"Nothing!"
"Not a body!"
"Not a limb!"
Like a funeral bell Brochet's voice broke the grim silence. "Gone? Allgone? And unshriven! God rest their souls." He knelt on the rocks.
While he muttered a prayer, Maskwa strode out of the dark. He had notorch, but he held something in his hands. Startled, the others cranedand peered. A dozen torches flashed over the Ojibway, and in his armsthe crimson light played upon a crumpled form.
"He breathes, Strong Father!"
Dunvegan sprang to one side of the burden, Granger to his other. As theyplaced the mangled figure on the ground the head came by chance uponthe priest's knees.
"Ferguson!" Brochet whispered, awed. For though limbs and body werecrushed and torn, the face remained unmarred.
"Aye, and a job for you," murmured Dunvegan.
But Granger had leaped at the name, dragging Macleod by the arm.
"Look!" he urged. "Look! Will you swear to him?"
The red glare bathed the white face. The Factor's eyes focused on thefeatures and grew full of terrible light and would not come away.
"It's--it's--Funster," he choked.
Dunvegan saw his right hand clench and clutch the air. He held animaginary weapon. The old scar was ripped from his heart. He was theprimeval man, red with rage, thirsting for revenge, and baited blindbecause vengeance had been torn from his grasp.
And as if under the electric prick of his tense words the Nor'westerstirred. He muttered once and opened his eyelids. Straight up intoMacleod's awful face he stared, and his eyes suddenly gleamed withrecognition.
"My son--my boy?" demanded the Factor hoarsely.
The Nor'wester's lips strove a little and parted.
"Gaspard!" he groaned with his last breath.
THE END
* * * * *
NOVELS OF FRONTIER LIFE BY
WILLIAM MacLEOD RAINE
_MAVERICKS._
A tale of the western frontier, where the "rustler," whose depredationsare so keenly resented by the early settlers of the range, abounds. Oneof the sweetest love stories ever told.
_A TEXAS RANGER._
How a member of the most dauntless border police force carried law intothe mesquite, saved the life of an innocent man after a series ofthrilling adventures, followed a fugitive to Wyoming, and then passedthrough deadl
y peril to ultimate happiness.
_WYOMING._
In this vivid story of the outdoor West the author has captured thebreezy charm of "cattleland," and brings out the turbid life of thefrontier with all its engaging dash and vigor.
_RIDGWAY OF MONTANA._
The scene is laid in the mining centers of Montana, where politics andmining industries are the religion of the country. The politicalcontest, the love scene, and the fine character drawing give this storygreat strength and charm.
_BUCKY O'CONNOR._
Every chapter teems with wholesome, stirring adventures, replete withthe dashing spirit of the border, told with dramatic dash and absorbingfascination of style and plot.
_CROOKED TRAILS AND STRAIGHT._
A story of Arizona; of swift-riding men and daring outlaws; of a bitterfeud between cattle-men and sheep-herders. The heroine is a most unusualwoman and her love story reaches a culmination that is fittinglycharacteristic of the great free West.
_BRAND BLOTTERS._
A story of the Cattle Range. This story brings out the turbid life ofthe frontier, with all its engaging dash and vigor, with a charming loveinterest running through its 320 pages.
* * * * *
STORIES OF RARE CHARM BY
GENE STRATTON-PORTER
_LADDIE._ Illustrated by Herman Pfeifer.
This is a bright, cheery tale with the scenes laid in Indiana. The storyis told by Little Sister, the youngest member of a large family, but itis concerned not so much with childish doings as with the love affairsof older members of the family. Chief among them is that of Laddie, theolder brother whom Little Sister adores, and the Princess, an Englishgirl who has come to live in the neighborhood and about whose familythere hangs a mystery. There is a wedding midway in the book and adouble wedding at the close.
_THE HARVESTER._ Illustrated by W. L. Jacobs.
"The Harvester," David Langston, is a man of the woods and fields, whodraws his living from the prodigal hand of Mother Nature herself. If thebook had nothing in it but the splendid figure of this man it would benotable. But when the Girl comes to his "Medicine Woods," and theHarvester's whole being realizes that this is the highest point of lifewhich has come to him--there begins a romance of the rarest idyllicquality.
_FRECKLES._ Decorations by E. Stetson Crawford.
Freckles is a nameless waif when the tale opens, but the way in which hetakes hold of life; the nature friendships he forms in the greatLimberlost Swamp; the manner in which everyone who meets him succumbs tothe charm of his engaging personality; and his love-story with "TheAngel" are full of real sentiment.
_A GIRL OF THE LIMBERLOST._ Illustrated by Wladyslaw T. Brenda.
The story of a girl of the Michigan woods; a buoyant, lovable type ofthe self-reliant American. Her philosophy is one of love and kindnesstowards all things; her hope is never dimmed. And by the sheer beauty ofher soul, and the purity of her vision, she wins from barren andunpromising surroundings those rewards of high courage.
_AT THE FOOT OF THE RAINBOW._ Illustrations in colors by Oliver Kemp.
The scene of this charming love story is laid in Central Indiana. Thestory is one of devoted friendship, and tender self-sacrificing love.The novel is brimful of the most beautiful word painting of nature, andits pathos and tender sentiment will endear it to all.
* * * * *
JOHN FOX, JR'S.
STORIES OF THE KENTUCKY MOUNTAINS
_THE TRAIL OF THE LONESOME PINE._
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
The "lonesome pine" from which the story takes its name was a tall treethat stood in solitary splendor on a mountain top. The fame of the pinelured a young engineer through Kentucky to catch the trail, and when hefinally climbed to its shelter he found not only the pine but the_foot-prints of a girl_. And the girl proved to be lovely, piquant, andthe trail of these girlish foot-prints led the young engineer a madderchase than "the trail of the lonesome pine."
_THE LITTLE SHEPHERD OF KINGDOM COME._
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
This is a story of Kentucky, in a settlement known as "Kingdom Come." Itis a life rude, semi-barbarous; but natural and honest, from which oftensprings the flower of civilization.
"Chad." the "little shepherd" did not know who he was nor whence hecame--he had just wandered from door to door since early childhood,seeking shelter with kindly mountaineers who gladly fathered andmothered this waif about whom there was such a mystery--a charming waif,by the way, who could play the banjo better that anyone else in themountains.
_A KNIGHT OF THE CUMBERLAND._
Illustrated by F. C. Yohn.
The scenes are laid along the waters of the Cumberland, the lair ofmoonshiner and feudsman. The knight is a moonshiner's son, and theheroine a beautiful girl perversely christened "The Blight." Twoimpetuous young Southerners' fall under the spell of "The Blight's"charms and she learns what a large part jealousy and pistols have in thelove making of the mountaineers.
Included in this volume is "Hell fer-Sartain" and other stories, some ofMr. Fox's most entertaining Cumberland valley narratives.
* * * * *
JACK LONDON'S NOVELS
_JOHN BARLEYCORN._ Illustrated by H. T. Dunn.
This remarkable book is a record of the author's own amazingexperiences. This big, brawny world rover, who has been acquainted withalcohol from boyhood, comes out boldly against John Barleycorn. It is astring of exciting adventures, yet it forcefully conveys an unforgetableidea and makes a typical Jack London book.
_THE VALLEY OF THE MOON._ Frontispiece by George Harper.
The story opens in the city slums where Billy Roberts, teamster andex-prize fighter, and Saxon Brown, laundry worker, meet and love andmarry. They tramp from one end of California to the other, and in theValley of the Moon find the farm paradise that is to be their salvation.
_BURNING DAYLIGHT._ Four illustrations.
The story of an adventurer who went to Alaska and laid the foundationsof his fortune before the gold hunters arrived. Bringing his fortunes tothe States he is cheated out of it by a crowd of money kings, andrecovers it only at the muzzle of his gun. He then starts out as amerciless exploiter on his own account. Finally he takes to drinking andbecomes a picture of degeneration. About this time he falls in love withhis stenographer and wins her heart but not her hand and then--but readthe story!
_A SON OF THE SUN._ Illustrated by A. O. Fischer and C. W. Ashley.
David Grief was once a light-haired, blue-eyed youth who came fromEngland to the South Seas in search of adventure. Tanned like a nativeand as lithe as a tiger, he became a real son of the sun. The lifeappealed to him and he remained and became very wealthy.
_THE CALL OF THE WILD._ Illustrations by Philip R. Goodwin and CharlesLivingston Bull. Decorations by Charles E. Hooper.
A book of dog adventures as exciting as any man's exploits could be.Here is excitement to stir the blood and here is picturesque color totransport the reader to primitive scenes.
_THE SEA WOLF._ Illustrated by W. J. Aylward.
Told by a man whom Fate suddenly swings from his fastidious life intothe power of the brutal captain of a sealing schooner. A novel ofadventure warmed by a beautiful love episode that every reader will hailwith delight.
_WHITE FANG._ Illustrated by Charles Livingston Bull.
"White Fang" is part dog, part wolf and all brute, living in the frozennorth; he gradually comes under the spell of man's companionship, andsurrenders all at the last in a fight with a bull dog. Thereafter he isman's loving slave.
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