Chapter XV To the Rescue
Diomé had no more information to give. “For the love of life, sir,” he entreated, as the brief conference ended, “move off to the other side of the house, or you will be seen by Vanner as he returns. A hunter’s eye, Mr. De Brunier, notices the least change in the shadows. You mean to hide among the orchard trees, but you can’t stand still. You will be frozen to death, and a moving shadow will betray you.”
His cautionary counsels were wasted on a preoccupied mind. De Brunier was examining the fastenings of the door. There was a lock, but the key was with the owners of the hut. There was also a bar which secured it on the inside. Forgill’s basket of tools stood by the chimney.
“How much time have we?” asked Mr. De Brunier.
“A good half-hour, sir,” replied Diomé.
“Time enough for me to transfer this staple to the outside of the doorpost?”
Diomé hesitated before he answered this inquiry. “Well then?” he asked in turn.
“Well then,” repeated Mr. De Brunier, “this Vanner is to meet you here. Don’t go out of the hut to take his horse; beckon him to come inside. Shut the door, as if for caution, and tell him you have seen me watching him from the orchard trees. He will listen to that. Two minutes will be enough for me to bar the door on the outside, and we shall have caged the wild hawk before he has had time to pounce upon his prey. I must shut you in together; but play your part well, and leave the rest to me.”
“Shut me in with Dick Vanner in a rage!” exclaimed Diomé. “He would smell treachery in a moment. Not for me.”
It went hard with Diomé to turn against his old companions. It was clear to Mr. De Brunier the man was afraid of a hand-to-hand encounter. With such half-hearted help the attempt was too hazardous. He changed his tactics.
“I am not in their secrets,” protested Diomé. “I am only here to hold his horse. They don’t trust me.”
“And I,” added Mr. De Brunier, “am intent upon preventing mischief. I’ll walk round once more. Should you hear the house-door open, you will probably find I have gone in.”
Yes, Mr. De Brunier was beginning to regret leaving the house; and yet, if he had not done so, he could not have started Gaspé to intercept the policeman. “Now,” he thought, “the boy will be carried off before they can arrive.” His thoughts were turning to a probable pursuit. He crossed to the back of the house to look for the Cree. No one better than an Indian for work like that.
The light from the windows of the farm-house was reflected from the shining ground, making it bright as day before them, and deepening the gloom of the shadows beyond. A low, deep growl from Yula brought Mr. De Brunier to the opposite corner of the house, where he discovered Maxica lying on the ground, with his ear to the end of one of the largest logs with which the house was built. They recognized each other instantly, but not a word was said. They were at the angle of the building where the logs crossed each other.
Suddenly Mr. De Brunier remembered the capacity in the uncut trunk of a tree for transmitting sound, and following Maxica’s example he too laid his ear to the end of another log, and found himself, as it were, in a whispering gallery. The faintest sound at the other end of the log was distinctly audible. They tried each corner of the house. The music and the dancing from dining-room to kitchen did not detain them long. At the back they could hear the regular breathing of a healthy sleeper and the laboured, painful respiration of the broken-down old man.
The log which crossed the one at which they were now listening ran at the end of the storeroom, and gave back no sound. It was evident both Wilfred and his uncle had fallen asleep, and were therefore off their guard.
To drive up the loose ponies and make them gallop round the house to waken them was a task Yula took off their hands and accomplished so well that Bowkett, listening in the midst of the whirling dancers, believed that Vanner had returned.
Maxica was back at the angle of the logs, moving his ear from one to the other. He raised a warning finger, and laid his ear a little closer to the storeroom side. Mr. De Brunier leaned over him and pressed his own to the tier above. Some one had entered the storeroom.
“Anything here?” asked a low voice.
“What’s that behind the door?” whispered another in reply.
“A woman’s ironing board.”
“A woman’s what?”
“Never mind what it is if it will slide through the window,” interposed a third impatiently, and they were gone.
But the watchers without had heard enough to shape their plan. Maxica was ear, Mr. De Brunier was eye, and so they waited for the first faint echo of the horse-hoofs in the distance or the tinkle of the sledge-bell.
Within the house the merriment ran high. Bridal healths were drank with three times three. The stamp of the untiring dancers drowned the galloping of the ponies.
Aunt Miriam paused a moment, leaning on her bridegroom’s arm. “I am dizzy with tiredness,” she said. “I think I have danced with every one. I can surely slip away and speak to Caleb now. What made him fasten his door?”
“To keep those travellers out; and now he won’t undo it: an old man’s crotchet, my dear. I have spoken to him. He is all right, and his cry is, ‘Don’t disturb me, I must sleep,’” answered Bowkett. “You’ll give Batiste his turn? just one more round.”
Wilfred was wakened by his Yula’s bark beneath the window. Kusky, who was sleeping by the stove, sprang up and answered it, and then crept stealthily to Wilfred’s feet.
“That dog will wake the master,” said some one in the kitchen.
The bedroom door was softly opened, a low whistle and a tempting bone lured Kusky away. Wilfred was afraid to attempt to detain him, not venturing to show himself to he knew not whom. There was a noise at the window. He remembered it was a double one. It seemed to him somebody was trying to force open the outer pane.
A cry of “Thieves! thieves!” was raised in the kitchen. Wilfred sprang upright. Uncle Caleb wakened with a groan.
“Look to the door. Guard every window,” shouted Bowkett, rushing into the room, followed by half-a-dozen of his friends, who had seized their guns as they ran.
The outer window was broken. Through the inner, which was not so thickly frozen, Wilfred could see the shadow of a man. He knew that Bowkett was by the side of the bed, but his eyes were fixed on the pane.
At the first smash of the butt end of Vanner’s gun, through shutter and frame, Mr. De Brunier laid a finger on Maxica’s arm. The Cree, who was holding down Yula, suddenly let him go with a growl and a spring. Vanner half turned his head, but Yula’s teeth were in his collar. The thickness of the hunter’s clothing kept the grip from his throat, but he was dragged backwards. Maxica knelt upon him in a moment, with a huge stone upraised, ready to dash his brains out if he ventured to utter a cry. Mr. De Brunier stepped out from the shadow and stood before the window, waiting in Vanner’s stead. For what? He hardly dared to think. The window was raised a finger’s breadth, and the muzzle of a hunter’s gun was pointed at his ear. He drew a little aside and flattened himself against the building. The gun was fired into the air.
“That is a feint,” thought Mr. De Brunier. “They have not seen us yet. When they do, the tug comes. Two against twenty at the very least, unless we hear the sledge-bell first. It is a question of time. The clock is counting life and death for more than one of us. All hinges on my Gaspé. Thank God, I know he will do his very best. There is no mistrust of Gaspé; and if I fall before he comes, if I meet death in endeavouring to rescue this fatherless boy, the God who sees it all, in whose hand these lawless hunters are but as grasshoppers, will never forget my Gaspé.”
The report of Bowkett’s gun roused old Caleb’s latent fire.
“What is it?” he demanded. “Are the Indians upon us? Where is Miriam?”
Wilfred threw the bearskin across his feet over the old man’s back.
“I am here!” cried Bowkett, with an ostentatious air of protection. “I’ll defend the place; but the attack is at this end of the house. First of all, I carry you to Miriam and safety at the other.”
Bowkett, in the full pride of his strength, lifted up the feeble old man as if he were a child and carried him out of the room.
“Wilfred, my boy, keep close to me, keep close,” called Uncle Caleb; but a strong man’s hand seized hold of Wilfred and pulled him back.
“Who are you?” demanded Wilfred, struggling with all his might. “Let me go, I tell you; let me go!”
The door was banged up behind Uncle Caleb and Bowkett. The room was full of men.
Wilfred knew too well the cry of “Thieves” was all humbug—a sham to get him away from his uncle.
“Forgill! Forgill!” he shouted. “Pête! Pête! Help me! help me!”
A pillow was tossed in his face.
“Don’t cram the little turkey-cock with his own feathers,” said a voice he was almost glad to recognize, for he could not feel that Mathurin would really hurt him. He kicked against his captor, and getting one hand free, he tried to grasp at this possible friend; but the corner of the pillow, crushed into his mouth, choked his shouts. “So it’s Mathurin’s own old babby, is it?” continued the deep, jovial voice. “Didn’t I tell ye he was uncommon handy with his little fists? But he is a regular mammy’s darling for all that. It is Mathurin will put the pappoose in its cradle. Ah! but if it won’t lie still, pat it on its little head; Batiste can show you how.”
In all this nonsense Wilfred comprehended the threat and the caution. His frantic struggles were useless. They only provoked fresh bursts of merriment. Oh, it was hard to know they were useless, and feel the impotency of his rage! He was forced to give in. They bound him in the sheets.
Mathurin was shouting for—
“A rabbit-skin,
To wrap his baby bunting in.
They took the rug from the floor and wrapped it round Wilfred. He was laid on the ironing board.
He felt the strong, firm straps that were binding him to it growing tighter and tighter.
What were they going to do with him? and where was Mr. De Brunier?
The hunters set him up against the wall, like the pappoose in the wigwam of the Blackfoot chief, whilst they opened the window.
Mr. De Brunier stood waiting, his arms uplifted before his face, ready to receive the burden they were to let fall. It was but a little bit of face that was ever visible beneath a Canadian fur cap, such as both the men were wearing. Smoked skin was the only clothing which could resist the climate, therefore the sleeves of one man’s coat were like the sleeves of another. The noisy group in the bedroom, who had been drinking healths all night, saw little but the outstretched arms, and took no notice.
“Young lambs to sell!” shouted Mathurin, heaving up the board.
“What if he takes to blaring?” said one of the others.
“Let him blare as he likes when once he is outside,” retorted a third.
“Lull him off with ‘Yankee-doodle,’” laughed another.
“He’ll just lie quiet like a little angel, and then nothing will hurt him,” continued the incorrigible Mathurin, “till we come to—
“‘Hush-a-bye, baby, on the tree-top,
When the wind blows the cradle will rock;
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall,
Then down goes cradle, and baby, and all.’”
This ridiculous nursery ditty, originated by the sight of the Indian pappooses hung so often on the bough of a tree when their mothers are busy, read to Wilfred his doom.
Would these men really take him out into the darksome forest, and hang him to some giant pine, and leave him there, as Pe-na-Koam was left, to die alone of hunger and cold?
It was an awful moment. The end of the board to which he was bound was resting on the window-sill.
“Gently now,” said one.
“Steady there,” retorted another.
“Now it is going beautifully,” cried a third.
“Ready, Vanner, ready,” they exclaimed in chorus. Caution and prudence had long since gone to the winds with the greater part of them. Mathurin alone kept the control.
Mr. De Brunier nodded, and placed himself between the window and the two men on the snow in deadly silent wrestle, trusting that his own dark shadow might screen them from observation yet a little longer. He saw Wilfred’s feet appear at the window. His hand was up to guide the board in a moment, acting in concert with the men above. They slid it easily to the ground.
Mr. De Brunier’s foot was on a knot in the logs of the wall, and stretching upwards he shut the window from the outside. It was beyond his power to fasten it; but a moment or two were gained. His knife was soon hacking at the straps which bound Wilfred to his impromptu cradle. They looked in each other’s faces; not a word was breathed. Wilfred’s hands were freed. He sat up and drew out his feet from the thick folds of the rug. Mr. De Brunier seized his hand, and they ran, as men run for their lives, straight to Forgill’s hut.
Diomé saw them coming. He was still leading Vanner’s horse. He wheeled it round and covered their retreat, setting it off prancing and curvetting between them and the house.
Through the open door of Forgill’s hut the fire was glowing like a beacon across the snow. It was the darkest hour of all that brilliant night. The moon was sinking low, the stars were fading; the dawning was at hand.
The hut was gained at last. The door was shut behind the fugitives, and instantly barred. Every atom of furniture the hut contained was piled against it, and then they listened for the return of the sledge. Whether daylight would increase their danger or diminish it, Mr. De Brunier hardly knew. But with the dreaded daylight came the faint tinkle of a distant bell and the jingling of a chain bridle.
The Canadian police in the Dominion of the far North-West are an experienced troop of cavalry. Trooper and charger are alike fitted for the difficult task of maintaining law and order among the scattered, lawless population sprinkling its vast plains and forest wilds. No bronco can outride the splendid war-horse, and the mere sight of his scarlet-coated rider produces an effect which we in England little imagine. For he is the representative of the strong and even hand of British justice, which makes itself felt wherever it touches, ruling all alike with firmness and mercy, exerting a moral force to which even the Blackfoot in his moya yields.
Mr. De Brunier pulled down his barricade almost before it was finished, for the sledge came shooting down the clearing with the policeman behind it.
Wilfred clasped his hands together at the joyful sight. “They come! they come!” he cried.
Out ran Mr. De Brunier, waving his arms in the air to attract attention, and direct the policeman to the back of the farm-house, where he had left Dick Vanner writhing under Maxica’s grasp on the frozen ground.
When the window was so suddenly closed from the outside, the hunters, supposing Vanner had shut it, let it alone for a few minutes, until wonder prompted Mathurin to open it just a crack for a peep-hole.
At the sight of Vanner held down by his Indian antagonist he threw it to its widest. Gun after gun was raised and pointed at Maxica’s head; but none of them dared to fire, for the ball would have struck Vanner also. Mathurin was leaping out of the window to his assistance, when Yula relaxed his hold of Vanner’s collar, and sprang at Mathurin, seizing him by the leg, and keeping him half in half out of the window, so that no one else could get out over him or release him from the inside.
There was a general rush to the porch; but the house-door had been locked and barred by Bowkett’s orders, and the key was in his pocket.
He did it to prevent any of the Aclands’ old servants going out of the house to interfere with Vanner. It was equally successful in keeping in the friends who would have gone to his help.
“The key! the key!” roared Batiste.
Another seized on old Pête and shook him because he would not open the door. In vain Pête protested the key was missing. They were getting furious. “The key! the key!” was reiterated in an ever-increasing crescendo.
They seized on Pête and shook him again. They would have the key.
Mathurin’s yell for help grew more desperate. With one hand holding on to the window-frame, he could not beat off the dog. The blows he aimed at him with the other were uncertain and feeble.
“Who let the brute out?” demanded Batiste.
He had seen Yula lying by the kitchen fire when he first arrived, and of course knew him again. Ah! and the dog had recognized him also, for he had saluted him with a low, deep growl. It had watched its chance. It was paying back old scores. Batiste knew that well.
Another howl of pain from Mathurin.
The heel of an English boot might have given such a kick under the lock that it would have sent the spring back with a jerk; but they were all wearing the soft, glove-like moccasin, and knew no more about the mechanism of a lock than a baby. Their life had been passed in the open; when they left the saddle for the hut in the winter camp, their ideas of door-fastening never rose beyond the latch and the bar. A dozen gun-stocks battered on the door. It was tough and strong, and never stirred.
Pête was searching everywhere for the key. He would have let them out gladly, only too thankful to rid the house of such a noisy crew, and leave them to fight the thieves outside; but no key was to be found.
“We always hang it on this nail,” he protested, groping about the floor.
Patience could hold out no longer. There was a shout for Bowkett.
“Don’t leave me,” Miriam had entreated, when Bowkett brought her brother into the dining-room and set him in the arm-chair by the fire; for she thought the old man’s life would go every moment, and Forgill shared her fears.
“There are enough to defend the place,” he said, “without me;” and he gave all his care to his master.
“The boy! Wilfred!” gasped Caleb Acland, making vain attempts to return to find him. His sister and Forgill thought he was wandering, and trusted in Bowkett’s strong arm to hold him back.
How could Bowkett leave his bride? He was keeping his hands clean. There were plenty to do his dirty work. He himself was to have nothing to do with it, according to Vanner’s programme. He would not go.