  The cabin of Raoul Testawich, which stood in a sheltering grove of spruce a few miles back from Bad Heart river, loomed up through the darkness several hours later as Toma, Raoul and Dick, with the team of huskies in the lead, crossed a narrow coulee about thirty yards away from the house and plunged on through heavy drifts to the narrow, cleared space immediately in front of the door. Wrapped in blankets, Sandy still lay on the hastily improvised sled. As his three comrades gathered about him, a heavy door squeaked open and a sleepy voice, in Cree, called out a welcome. In an incredibly short time they had lifted Sandy from the sled and had carried him within, gently placing him in a bunk at one end of the room. A young Indian girl, whom Dick judged to be Raoul’s wife or sister, closed the door after them and advanced swiftly to the mud fireplace where, over crackling spruce logs, a heavy iron pot sent forth the pleasant aroma of steaming moose meat. Close by, with growing interest and enthusiasm, Dick beheld a small table laden with food. “We eat this time for sure,” grinned Toma, nudging Dick’s arm. “Mebbe you no want eat now.” “Like fun, I don’t,” laughed the other. “There are two things I want—food and sleep. I’m so blamed tired that Raoul will have to wait until sometime tomorrow before I buy his dog team. I believe I could sleep for three days.” “You sleep long you like,” conceded Toma, as Raoul left the room to look after the dogs. “Him, Raoul, my very good friend. Fine fella. Like ’em sister, too. Mebbe some day marry girl.” The far away expression in the young half-breed’s eyes drew a laugh from Dick. “I’m glad to hear that,” he said, “and I want to congratulate you. When do you expect to get married?” “Four—five—six years,” he answered, counting laboriously on his fingers. “Father Girard he tell ’em me at mission too young yet. No marry till get older. Get older very slow,” he concluded, casting woebegone eyes in the direction of the young lady of his choice. The re-entrance of Raoul cut short any further reference to the subject of Toma’s tender affair of the heart. It was well, too, for the face of the owner of the huskies wore a look of concern as he strode forward and commenced to remove his outer garments, still thickly encrusted with ice and snow. As he fumbled with the buttons of his moose-hide coat, he broke forth excitedly in Cree, pausing now and again to make quick, explanatory gestures with his hands. “What’s the trouble?” demanded Dick, who though not understanding one word that had been spoken, could tell from the Indian’s expression that something out of the ordinary had taken place. “What did he say, Toma?” “He say,” interrupted the guide, “that he no like way huskies act. Huskies tired but no want to lie down and make bed in snowdrift. Huskies afraid of something, very much afraid.” “That not all,” Toma continued as a relieved expression brightened Dick’s eyes. “Raoul him not sure, but see track mebbe made by snowshoe. Look like snowshoe track only wind blow snow over it. Raoul think Govereau’s men come here tonight and look for us. What you think? Mebbe camped not far away.” For a brief moment, a look of apprehension, of fear, swept through Dick. The supposition was not entirely impossible. Experience had taught him that Govereau was both an experienced woodsman and an implacable enemy, a man who had the disconcerting habit of putting in an appearance at times when one least expected him. On the other hand, Dick could not help but believe that the hated French half-breed had not yet succeeded in catching up with them. The incident at the river when he, Sandy and Toma had crossed through the ice floe successfully, must have delayed him considerably. “I don’t think he has had time to overtake us yet,” said Dick. “If any one has been here today, it must be someone else.” Toma shook his head. “Mebbe you right. I like think so. All same Govereau make you surprise once in a while. Fool ever’body.” “That’s true,” rejoined Dick, “but if Govereau really is here, he’s here and that’s an end to it. There’s nothing that we can do except to fight him and take our own risks. I think that you and Raoul had better get into some dry clothes as quickly as possible. A good supper and a sound sleep afterwards are the first things to be considered. I wonder if I’d better wake Sandy?” “Him better sleep long time an’ wake up himself. Him be all right then.” Dick heeded this advice from Toma and a few minutes later sat down to one of the most enjoyable meals he had eaten in weeks. Then he and the young Indian guide tumbled into the bunk above Sandy and were almost instantly fast asleep, their weary limbs stretching out in the luxurious softness of a white rabbit sleeping-bag. They woke on the following afternoon and clambered down from their perch. To his amazement, Dick beheld Sandy, somewhat pale but otherwise quite his usual self, sitting at the table, opposite their host. He was eating gruel from a bowl and conversing in low tones to Raoul. “Why, Sandy!” exclaimed Dick, unable to conceal his delight. “What has happened?” “What do you mean?” “You’re up.” “Sure I’m up,” the voice of the young Scotchman rose in jovial good humor as he glanced across at his two friends, who were dressing hurriedly. “Didn’t expect me to lie in bed all night and all day too, did you?” “Yes, but how do you feel?” Sandy put down his spoon and swung round to meet Dick’s inquiring gaze. “A little shaky, I guess, but otherwise about the same as usual. By the way, Dick, what happened yesterday? When I woke up this morning, I couldn’t imagine where I was. And funny thing—I can’t remember very much of what took place on the trail. Did I get hurt?” “Didn’t Raoul tell you?” “Not yet.” Dick picked up his moccasins and began absently to turn them in his hands. For Sandy’s benefit, it had occurred to him to gloss over the events of the previous day, to give his friend as little information as possible. It was not that Sandy’s breakdown was anything to be ashamed of, considering what he had been through. It was not that, Dick told himself. It was the possible effect the news might have on him. For Sandy was proud, and the knowledge of even a temporary weakness on his part would be sure to cause him a good deal of humiliation. “You played out on the trail, Sandy,” Dick stated evenly. “I was all in myself. I hope we never again have so many obstacles and difficulties to contend with. I can’t imagine what would have happened to us if Toma hadn’t gone for help. We have Toma and Raoul to thank for getting through safely yesterday.” “Toma is always doing remarkable things,” said Sandy. “I can’t help but admire the way he broke trail through that storm. Wish I had half his endurance.” “You no talk about me so much,” Toma broke forth, pretending to be angry, but grinning in spite of himself. “Me no like ’em all big words. Mebbe make fun of me.” “You hurry up dress,” interposed Raoul. “My sister wait in next room to bring something to eat. Pretty soon we have breakfast middle of the night.” “All right,” laughed Dick, “we’ll hurry. I’ll be ready as soon as I put on these moccasins.” He was looking at Raoul as he spoke, but was hardly prepared for what suddenly ensued. The young Indian was abruptly on his feet and had dashed forward to one side of the room, where he caught up a rifle, which had been leaning there against the wall. Amazed at first, Dick quickly caught the significance of Raoul’s actions, as there came to his ears the dull tromping of feet outside, followed quickly by a loud thumping at the door. A moment later, a towering, heavy form broke into the room and stood blinking across at them. “What you want!” demanded Raoul, flourishing his rifle. The intruder closed the door behind him, his shifting eyes regarding each of them in turn. He was a big man, clothed almost entirely in fur, a parka concealing the lower part of his face. As the four other occupants of the room stood or sat watching him, he shook off his heavy mitts, kicked the snow from his feet and removed his parka. His general appearance, Dick observed, was far from prepossessing. “What you want!” repeated Raoul. “You don’t need to be afeered o’ me,” finally grumbled their unexpected guest, rubbing one burly hand against his bearded cheek. “Put down yer gun, brother, I ain’t gonna hurt nobody. I jes’ came in to get warm an’ ask fer something to eat. Been hoofing it all the way from Twin Brothers Creek, near the Big Smokey. Left there this morning. Stranger in these parts. My name’s Bill Watson. Guess you don’t know me.” Dick was conscious of a feeling of relief to learn something of the intruder’s identity. At least, he was not one of Govereau’s men. Then Dick felt Toma’s face brushing close to his own. “No like him,” breathed the guide in a scarcely audible whisper. “Ever’body watch out. See him one time before with Govereau. He come to find out if you and Sandy here.” Toma drew back quickly as the stranger’s gaze turned again in their direction. |
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