Fur Pirates/Chapter 21

the scream of the squaw mingled a whirl of oaths from the aroused sleepers. They fought their blankets wildly to get clear of them, grasping for weapons to repel they knew not what.

A dark form, still half crouching, made for the bush in swift, stealthy bounds which seemed to halt or limp a little, but were yet light as a bobcat's.

Bang! Hayes' gun barked, and Ballou and Siwash George shot into the darkness. But the shots had no effect, as far as I could see. The shadowy form vanished.

Old Siwash George rushed across to where his partner had bedded. He bent and straightened, with a very geyser of blasphemy spouting from his lips.

"Fetch a light!" were his first coherent words. "Somebody's got Charlie and the klootch! Knifed 'em! Who done it, Charlie?"

But Nootka Charlie would never speak again. Strange, horrible, whistling noises issued from his throat, and he writhed and his knees drew up and relaxed.

Siwash George spoke to the squaw in her tongue. Evidently she was asking the same question. But she shook her head and sagged against Louis' supporting arm.

"Ba gosh," said the. latter, "dat klootch she's go mimoluse, too, for sure."

Old George cursed afresh.

"Shut up dat!" Louis told him. "She bring bad luck for swear where dere's dead people."

"Bad luck!" Conover echoed. "What else have we had? There's Charlie and his woman dead, and poor Billy Jordan, too. And what have we got? Not a thing. I'm sick of this! I'm through!"

"Through, are you?" Hayes snarled. "No one's through unless the bunch is. No quitters. Try to quit, and you'll trail up Nootka and Jordan, you hear me! George, who got Nootka? You ought to have some idee."

"Oh, I got an idee, all right," the old squaw man replied. "I s'pose it was her husband."

"Had a husband, had she?" said Ballou.

"Sure. I told Charlie he'd better let her alone, but he seemed stuck on her. I had a notion he killed the buck, but I guess he didn't. Now he's got his. And I ain't sure that the buck ain't out for me, too."

"I wouldn't wonder a durn bit," Hayes agreed. "I'd be plumb careful, if I was you." Siwash George swore. "What's the name of this buck?"

"Ignace Stone—calls himself Ignace Mountain. He belongs over on the Smokey."

"He'll be bad, hey?" Louis queried.

"Bad?" echoed Siwash George. "Oh, no, he ain't bad. This don't look like it, does it? He's plumb gentle—like a crazy wolf! Look at poor old Charlie. He socks that knife to him up to the haft every crack!"

So that was the mission of the lame Indian, ostensibly looking for trapping ground! For months, probably—it was hard to say how long—he had been on the trail of Nootka Charlie and his faithless wife.

Well, he had found them, partly, I reflected, through my agency. But then he would have done so sooner or later, anyway.

"I can tell you one thing," old Siwash George was saying: "I dunno if that buck's out to get me or not, but I'm sure out to get him. I'll play even for Charlie, and feel a lot safer besides."

I had watched and listened, fascinated, forgetting for the moment that I should have seized the opportunity to make my own get-away. But it was not yet too late. They were paying no attention to me, clustered around the dead, their light being the stump of a candle. And so I slid cautiously out of my blankets, got a tree between us in a few seconds, and stole into the gloom.

From the racket I heard before I had gone a hundred yards, I knew that my escape had been discovered. I stayed where I was so as to give no clew to my whereabouts; and presently I heard two or more go by in the general direction I had intended to go. Plainly their intention was to cut me off from my outfit if I had not already rejoined it. With daylight they would hunt for me, a beautiful prospect, considering that I had no weapons. However, I had good legs and eyes and ears. I made up my mind that I would not go far, and await an opportunity to get through. But until I got my bearings with some degree of certainty, it would be folly to attempt to run the blockade which I was quite sure was now established against me. And so I put a half mile between me and the camp I had quitted, and curled up in a hollow and shivered like a dog to keep warm.

At last dawn came, dim, gray, so gradual that it was impossible to say when night merged into day.

A squirrel on a limb just above my head suddenly exploded in a chattering frenzy, abusing me frightfully in his own tongue, his whole body and stiffly upright brush jerking violently with each vocal spasm. Another, a hundred yards away, seemed to take his remarks as personal, and replied. A flicker began to tap, and a few little, black-headed juncos and an occasional modest-coated wren hopped in the bushes. Crows passed noisily overhead. With faint, underfoot rustlings, an old cock grouse appeared from nowhere a few feet away, and, suddenly glimpsing me, stood like a statue for some minutes before, with stealthy steps, he got a bush between him and danger and vanished thankfully about his business.

With the daylight, I started on a reconnaissance, and at last I got to a place from which I could see the rocks which protected my friends. Of the latter I could see nothing. But there was smoke, so that I knew all was well with them, and I longed for a share of the breakfast which they were no doubt eating.

At first I could see nothing of the besiegers, but I was not to be fooled by that. And presently I located one of them in a tangle of bushes in front of me. That settled it. It would be impossible to run the gantlet by day. Therefore there was no use lingering there.

I went back in the direction from which I had come, to seek some place where I could lie up safely. If possible, I wished to find some spot like the butte on which Ignace Mountain and I had lain on that afternoon back at the lakes, from which I could see without being seen. I wondered if the Indian's vengeance was complete, or if he was after Siwash George also. The latter had declared himself after the Indian, but I did not see how he was going about it, and regarded it as a bluff.

And then suddenly I saw the old squaw man himself, through the brush, less than two hundred yards away. He was moving very slowly, very quietly, on a course converging with my own. He had a rifle tucked under his arm, and was plainly still-hunting for somebody. If he had glanced my way, he must have seen me as plainly as I saw him, but he was looking principally at the ground, as though it gave him information.

Twenty feet away lay a huge spruce, snapped off near the root by some gale, and this afforded concealment if I could make it. With my eyes on the old squaw man, I backed toward it swiftly, put my hand on it, and vaulted for cover. But, instead of alighting on the ground, I came down on•a living body.

My first thought was that I had jumped on a bear; but the next instant I knew it was a man. My instinctive, startled yell was shut off in my throat by a grip that made my mouth open and my eyes bulge; an arm like a wire hawser wrapped itself around the small of my back with a jerking constriction that seemed to yank the stiffening clean out of my spine; I was whirled over on my back, the binding arm released me, and I looked up helplessly past the blade of a nine-inch buffalo knife into the fierce, twisted face and blazing eyes of Ignace Mountain.

I just shut my own eyes after that first glance and waited, absolutely sure that the next instant would bring me what Nootka Charlie had got. I expected to feel that big, raw-gray blade driving through my breast, and unconsciously I stiffened to meet the shock of it.

But it did not come, and I opened my eyes. The Indian was peering over the top of the log, and then he ducked his head down and the pressure on my windpipe relaxed.

"Halo noise!" he whispered, and the knife menaced me. "S'pose you mamook holla you go mimoluse!"

Since noise, or to "holler," was the last thing I wanted, even without the knife argument, I lay very still. And presently, after a long look over the log, he lowered the knife, though he still knelt astride me.

"What you mamook?" he demanded.

"Nika ipsoot—I was trying to hide," I explained.

"Him nanitch for you?" he asked, nodding after Siwash George.

"For you, maybe. I guess he'd shoot either of us."

The Indian smiled grimly and got off my body.

"S'pose him no find, no shoot," he said, and leaned back against the log with a sigh, as if he were glad to do it.

When I sat up, I saw that a blood-soaked cloth was tied around his left thigh. Evidently one bullet had found him. He had tied up the wound, tearing off his shirt sleeve for a bandage, but he must have lost a great deal of blood. Perhaps Siwash George had seen bloodstains on the ground and was looking for more, which would account for his not seeing me.

"You got hurt," I said, stating the obvious for want of a more original idea.

"Yas, little bit," he replied, and eyed me as if making up his mind whether to tell me more or not. "You savvy plenty," he decided, nodding at me. "Nootka Charlie, him go mimoluse. You savvy why me kill him?"

"Yes; they said the woman was your wife."

"My 'ooman," he said somberly. "They kopswalla klatawa—run away together. So me kill um." He seemed to consider this explanation quite sufficient, and I suppose it was. Many white men have done the same thing.

"Siwash George is afraid you will kill him, too."

"Ah-hah!" he said noncommittally, and let it go at that.

Possibly I should, have felt horror and repulsion in the presence of a double murderer. But as a matter of fact, I felt none at all. I knew the Indian code of reprisal which permits any way of playing even. Ignace had done merely what by the custom and tradition of his people he had a perfect right to do—what, in fact, it was his duty to do—and Nootka and the woman had been quite aware of that. I was sorry about the woman, but not about Nootka. Anyway, they were dead, and here was their slayer lying wounded like a stricken animal which crawls away to lick its hurts.

"Can you walk?" I asked.

"Some. Halo skookum now. Bimeby all right. What you do?"

I told him my intentions, learning his in return. His canoe was cached several miles downstream. When night came, he would go to it and get food. Until then he would rest. He accepted conditions quietly, adapting himself to them. Looking around, I could not see his rifle.

"No more rifle stop," he replied to my question. "Hiyu no good. Him mamook bust."

As it turned out, the mainspring had broken and he had nothing to make another. His sole weapon was his knife. This no doubt had delayed his vengeance. I marveled at the nerve which had made him stick to his errand in spite of this misfortune.

But suddenly he seemed to stiffen like a dog on a point, and made a warning gesture. He raised his head cautiously above the fallen tree, and I followed his example.

Siwash George was coming back. This time he was much nearer to us. He walked bent-kneed, after the fashion of the old woodsman, stepping softly, his rifle loosely under his arm so that a twitch of the muscles would throw it into position, and his course would bring him almost upon us.

I did not know what to do. Against that old wolf with his rifle we seemed quite powerless. He would certainly shoot the Indian, and possibly me. If I had been alone, I would have made a run for it and trusted to dodging the lead that I knew would follow. The Indian seemed to interpret my thoughts.

"Halo run!" he whispered, shaking his head. "Him too good shot."

"He'll kill you sure," I returned.

He nodded, frowning. He accepted that fact, as he did others. But instead of panic his mind was concentrated on avoiding that outcome.

"Mebbe fool him," he said swiftly. "S'pose him see us, you stand up. You say me near dead, you savvy. You say you find me. You say me bleed bad. S'pose you get chance you catch him gun. You savvy?"

"Yes," I said.

He leaned against the log and let his head droop forward wearily. His mouth partially opened, his lower lip hung loose, and his eyes, half closed, lackluster, stared straight ahead. It was a consummate mimicry of utter exhaustion, helplessness, and despair. But the haft of the big knife lay in the palm of his right hand, and the blade was concealed behind his sinewy forearm.

"You look," he instructed. "S'pose him come anyway, you stand up and holla."

I peeped over the log. Siwash George was very near. As I looked, he hesitated, turned, and came directly toward the log. I stood up. As if my action had found a reflex in his muscles, his rifle covered me instantly.

"Got ye!" he said. "Don't make a move, young feller, or I'll sure drill ye."

"I'm not making any," I replied. "I saw you coming, and I could have got away if I had wanted to. Come on! I've got the Indian here!"

"What!" he cried. "No monkey business, young feller!"

"He was shot making his get-away," I said. "He's been bleeding badly. I guess he's about all in."

He stepped forward cautiously, his rifle ready, and came around the end of the log. As he saw the Indian, he grinned in unholy satisfaction.

"I guess that's right. If he ain't all in, he will be."

"He's been bleeding like a stuck buck," I told him. "I guess the bullet cut an artery."

I stooped over the Indian, and he came close, but with his rifle still ready for business.

"So, you bloody Siwash," he said, "you'd knife Charlie in his blankets, would you! I got a notion to burn you alive. Oh, you can hear me, all right!" And he poured a swift flood of some tribal tongue at him.

Ignace's eyelids flickered, and the lax mouth quivered weakly. "Hyas sick!" he muttered, and his head dropped farther.

In a sudden, frightful gust of rage, old Siwash George forgot prudence. He stepped forward and kicked the Indian in the face.

"Sick, are ye?" he roared. "Kill my partner, would ye? You'll go to hell knowin' who sent ye!"

Just for an instant the rifle hung at the length of his right arm, his hand forward of the trigger. I flung myself at it like a starving wolf at a caribou's hamstrings. As my hands closed on barrel and stock with a desperate grip, Ignace Mountain came alive. His limp body whipped forward with the quickness of a striking snake, and the big knife drove straight at Siwash George's stomach.

But the old squaw man jumped back just beyond the thrust, dragging me with him, wrenching furiously to break my hold on the weapon, to which I clung like a puppy to a root. He swung me between himself and the Indian. Ignace struck at him over my shoulder, but again he saved himself, though the blade ripped his shirt diagonally across his chest. In avoiding it, he let go with one hand. Before he could get a grip again, I worked the old stick-twisting trick on him, bearing down with one hand and levering up with the other with my shoulder beneath it, and as my arms crossed his hold broke. Somehow he must have touched the trigger, and of course the weapon was cocked. It exploded, muzzle to the sky, and the next instant the Indian was past me and at him with the knife.

Dinny Pack maintains still that the old squaw man was yellow at bottom; but I did not see any sign of it then. Of course he was fighting for his life, and even a mouse will do that. He had neither knife nor six-shooter, and he met the Indian with his bare fists. I don't think he would have lasted five seconds if Ignace had been himself, but the latter had lost much blood and his leg bothered him. Old George dodged and hit, and hit and dodged, trying to keep out of range of the big blade that licked out venomously for his life; and he might have succeeded if he had not partially tripped over a bush. As it was, he caught Ignace's knife hand, and then they locked and wrestled in a whirl of smashing bushes and flying leaves until they went down, with the white man on top.

Meantime I had levered a cartridge into the chamber of the rifle. But they were turning and twisting so fast that I could not shoot without a chance of hitting the wrong man. Anyway, I had a natural disinclination to kill a man by shooting him in the back. And so, when they fell, and Siwash George came on top, I just cracked him back of the ear with the heavy, octagon barrel. I put plenty of power into the swing, and he toppled over like a sack of oats. Ignace raised himself on one arm and poised his knife for an instant.

"Hold on!" I cried. "Don't kill him!"

"Hiyu kill him!" he gasped. "Him try to kill me, mebbe kill you."

"No, no!" I insisted. "Don't! Maybe he's dead now. I hit him hard enough."

"Mamook make sure!" he replied grimly. "Kill Nootka Challie, kill him, make um job—mamook kopet—all same clean-up! S'pose him go mimoluse, then no more trouble stop."

But I got in between him and the unconscious man, and finally, grumbling that I was a fool, he put up his knife. I went through Siwash George and found only a dozen cartridges. But as I was congratulating myself on capturing his artillery, Ignace caught me by the arm.

"Look!" he said. "Tenas hiyu man come!"

I looked. As he had said, several men were coming. I could see them indistinctly through the screen of the brush. Then, as one of them showed more plainly for an instant, I recognized Hayes. Of course they had heard the shot, and were looking for the shooter. Likely they knew that old Siwash George was somewhere in the vicinity. Anyway, it was no place for us.

"We hyak klatawa," I said. "Get out of here quick, before they see us."

"Kill him first," he said.

"No, no; don't kill him! No time now."

"All right," he acquiesced reluctantly. '"Kill him some time. Now we klatawa."

Crouching low, taking advantage of every bit of cover, we retreated as swiftly as we could; but, unfortunately, just as we were close to good concealment in the form of thick cottonwoods, we were seen. There was a yell behind us.

"Mamook run!" said Ignace.

We dived into the cottonwoods. Looking back, we could see three men, spreading out as they came after us. There was no opportunity to double or to throw them off. We had the choice of going straight ahead or facing the music. So we went ahead at our best speed, which, of course, was regulated by Ignace's wounded leg.

What surprised me was that our pursuers gained very little. Nor did they shoot at us, though they must have had opportunity. They chased us noisily, yelling to each other, to keep in touch, I supposed. I knew then about what a deer must feel when the wolves are after it in the deep of the winter snows.

At the end of half a mile, Ignace began to give out. His leg was bleeding again, his breath came in gasps, and he staggered a little.

"Halo skookum, me!" he panted. "You go—you hyak cooley!"

But I would not leave him like that. I helped him as well as I could. And suddenly the trees thinned out in front of us. There, in plain view, was the rocky hill where Jim Dunleath and the others should be holding the fort. If we could only make that! If only there was a run left in the Indian!

But as I hurried him along, with his weight growing heavier and heavier upon me, the shouts from behind were answered from in front. And then, and not till then, I realized that we had been driven very neatly into a trap.