CHAPTER IV
THE HAND OF THE RED DEATH
On the evening of the third day after his parting with Ick Far and McKeever on the bank of the McQuesten, Connie Morgan inched his way through a thick growth of aspens that fringed a narrow beaver meadow from whence floated the sounds of an Indian village. For an hour he had proceeded cautiously, guided by the sounds, and now, crawling stealthily through the bush, he could see the twinkling lights of many camp-fires. Husky dogs howled in concert, babies cried, and from one of the dark, conical tepees came the monotonous sound of a drum. The boy edged nearer. Forsaking the friendly shelter of the aspen copse for the high lush grass of the open ground, he wriggled snakewise toward the dark shadow of a tepee fifty yards distant.
Behind him the thicket loomed black with its promise of concealment, and in front, fires flared, dogs barked and howled, and now and then the boy caught scraps of hoarse guttural, as blanketed forms moved in and out among the fires.
Connie had seen Indian villages before—had eaten and slept in them, but some way, this camp seemed different. An indefinable something, like an all-pervading spirit of doom, seemed to hover over the village and include the entire valley in its miasmal embrace. Even the mute figures of the squaws humped about the fires spoke absolute dejection and helpless apathy toward the inevitable. Unconsciously Connie shuddered, and little tickley chills crawled up and down his spine. As if to add to the depression and intensify the portent of evil, a weird wraith-like fog, grey and chill and clammy, crept up the valley and settled upon the village of tepees. Again Connie shuddered and drew closer, as the humped figures blurred beside the fires where the flames burned a sickly yellow and glowed weak and hazy through the chill fog-mist.
Suddenly the incessant pom, pom, pom of the drum was stilled, a fire larger than the rest glowed out, and blanketed forms in groups, and twos, and threes emerged from tepees and moved silently toward it. The squaws retired to the outer fires and Connie watched the fog-wraith eddy and swirl in their wake and settle heavily, like molasses poured from a jug.
Creeping cautiously from tepee to tepee, the boy worked his way toward the big fire. Now on hands and knees, now flattened into the trampled grass, as a dark form stalked past within reach of his hand. The fire blazed sullenly before the door of a tepee, the sides of which were thickly hung with caribou hides fantastically painted with ochre of dark red and saffron. Connie flattened himself close against the base of this tepee and watched the stolid, imperturbable faces of the Indians who squatted in a circle about the fire. "A council," he muttered, "I wonder where Rickey is?"
Suddenly, from the interior of the tepee close at his ear, sounded the beating of the drum, and a moment later a strange figure leaped into the circle of the firelight—a figure gaunt and fierce-eyed, and naked save for a gee-string, and several long necklaces of claws and teeth, and the dried bodies of birds. For fully a minute the figure stood motionless—rigid—gazing far into the fog as if to penetrate the secret of its thick, clammy silence. Then, wailing forth the words of a weird chant, he began slowly to dance, lifting each bare foot in turn and bringing it down with a peculiar thud. Faster came the words of the chant, and faster thudded the feet upon the ground, while the man's long black hair switched about the grease-glistening shoulders like a black banner of death. The words of the chant died down, the dancing ceased and, with a weird and solitary incantation, before the fire, the medicine man opened a small buckskin pouch and, passing from one to another of the assembled Indians, touched each upon the forehead with an eagle's feather which he had produced from his medicine bag. This ceremony over, he grunted an order and four young bucks arose and passed into the tent, from which they emerged a few moments later bearing between them the form of a man trussed hand and foot with caribou-skin thongs. They deposited their burden at the feet of the medicine man and Connie caught the malevolent gleam of the glittering black eyes as the naked savage peered into the upturned face that returned the stare with a white man's laughing sneer. The man was Corporal Rickey, and for a moment Connie could scarcely restrain the impulse to dash into the circle and free his bound comrade. But the boy bided his time, and with clenched fists awaited the next move. The medicine man was haranguing the Indians in their own language, not a word of which the boy could understand, yet he knew from the gestures that the words boded no good for the future of Corporal Rickey. Eagerly Connie scanned the faces of the squatting Indians and, with a thrill of hope, read disapproval upon the faces of many of the older men. The medicine man had evidently reached the climax of his argument, for he ceased speaking and, stooping swiftly, caught a blazing brand from the fire. Slowly—very slowly he advanced to the bound feet of the captive. Then, for the first time, Connie saw that the feet were bare—saw, also, that which caused the hot blood to rush to his head in a red surge of rage—the medicine man in the act of applying the flaming brand to the naked soles of Corporal Rickey's feet.
With no thought for consequences, the boy threw caution to the wind, sprang into the firelight, and with one kick hurled the blazing torch full into the face of the stooping medicine man. Instantly the air was filled with red sparks and the frenzied shrieks of the naked savage, as, with hair ablaze, he clawed and slapped wildly at the glowing sparks that clung close and bit deep into his grease-smeared flesh.
"With one kick Connie hurled the blazing torch full into the face of the stooping medicine man."
"Good work!" yelled Rickey. "Well, Jumpin' Jerushelam, if it ain't the kid!"
The Indians were on their feet, now. Some springing to the assistance of the discomfited medicine man, and others advancing threateningly upon the diminutive figure that had leaped so suddenly out of the fog.
"Look alive, kid! Where's the others?" The voice of Rickey was low and tense, and Connie whispered quickly:
"I'm alone. Can they talk English?"
"Some of 'em—a little. They trade on the Mackenzie."
Without answering, the boy faced the Indians who were closing about him, urged on by the frantic medicine man. He held up a small hand and, for an instant, the red men hesitated. The boyish voice cut clear, in tones of authority: "Stop! The first man that moves, dies!" The Service gun flashed from its holster and the firelight glinted ominously on its blue-black barrel as the hesitating Indians glanced uncertainly from one to the other.
"You can't get away with it, kid!" warned Rickey. "It's the old dervish, yonder. He's got 'em all gloomed up to die anyhow." His words were drowned in a flood of unintelligible vituperation, as the medicine man urged the Indians on. But, either the bucks knew they had plenty of time, or none cared to hasten his forthcoming journey to the Happy Hunting Ground, for despite the medicine man's raving, the Indians evinced a noticeable reluctance to obey. Pressing his momentary advantage, Connie again addressed them, his voice unconsciously falling into the oratorical swing he had heard at council fires beyond the Yukon.
"I am the medicine man of the white men. From beyond the mountains I come to conquer the Red Death." Slipping the revolver into its holster, he advanced until he faced the medicine man, and in his voice was no tremor of fear: "Your lips speak lies. Your heart is bad. Your medicine is no good. My medicine is strong. The Yellow Knives shall live. I have spoken."
At the words of the boy, the naked savage forgot for a moment the pain of his many burns and, drawing himself erect, addressed the Indians:
"The white men have come to the land of the Yellow Knives. They have seen that the land is good. The lakes and the rivers are full of fish. The forest is full of game. There is much fur. They would take the land for their own. Death! Death to the Yellow Knives! The white men's medicine is strong. They call upon the Evil Spirits that dwell in the caves at the home of the South Wind. The Evil Spirits journey to the land of the Yellow Knives, and behold the hand of the Red Death is upon us—and we die! Our women and little children die also—and none shall be left alive. Only when the medicine of the red men is stronger than the medicine of the white men shall the Yellow Knives be freed from the hand of the Red Death. Only when the bodies of the white men are burned with fire will the Evil Spirits flee in fear from the land of the Yellow Knives, and the Red Death depart from our lodges. I, Spotted Dog, have spoken."
Connie was quick to see that the man's words had carried weight with the Indians, and once more his young voice rang clear as he glanced fearlessly into the circle of scowling faces:
"Yellow Knives, you have heard the great lie from the lips of your medicine man. His heart is black, and he speaks with a forked tongue when he says only when the bodies of the white men are burned will the Red Death depart from your lodges. Hear me, now—and you shall live, and your women and children shall live, and the Red Death shall depart from your lodges forever."
He reached into his pocket and produced the package of vaccination points, which he held aloft. "See! The little medicine arrows of the white men! Whoever is wounded upon the arm by the little arrow fears not the Red Death. A little wound like the scratch of a twig—in a few days a small sickness—and never more can the Red Death harm him. If my lips have spoken a lie, then shall you burn me, and my brother, also." Swiftly he rolled back the sleeve of his coat and of his shirt and bared his arm upon which, still red from recent vaccination, a scar showed plainly in the flare of the firelight. "See, it is the sign of the medicine arrow! The Red Death cannot harm me!"
Suddenly he whirled upon the medicine man: "Come, we shall see who speaks with the forked tongue! It shall be the test. Together we will go into a lodge of the Red Death. We shall pick out the man most festered, upon whom the hand of the Red Death lies heaviest, and we shall touch with our hands his sores, and shall breathe his breath, and stay in his lodge for an hour. Then shall we wait eight sleeps—and these shall be the judges. Before the eighth sleep, you shall be stricken, and the hand of the Red Death shall be upon you, and I shall be unharmed. If my words are true, then all shall be wounded upon the arm, for I have arrows for all—and they shall live."
Connie ceased, and Corporal Rickey, who had listened to the words, saw that the Indians were divided among themselves. With a great effort he wriggled to a sitting posture and called loudly: White Eagle!" At the sound, an old Indian advanced a step and remained motionless, while Rickey spoke in a loud voice: "You, and not yonder lying fool are Chief of the Yellow Knives. Speak, now. You have heard the words of truth from the lips of my brother. You have been to the posts. You are very wise, and you know the white men of the rivers—the factors, and the traders of fur. Have they not dealt fairly with you? And is not the plan of my brother a fair one? We still remain in your power. If my brother has lied, you may burn us."
The chief glanced over the faces of his people and his eye fell upon the face of the medicine man, who seemed in no wise anxious to accept Connie's challenge. And then he spoke, slowly, and with much wisdom:
"You have listened, oh, Yellow Knives, to the words of Spotted Dog, the medicine man. You have listened, also, to the words of the small white man. Spotted Dog says death shall overtake all the Yellow Knives, and our wives, and our children. The white man says the Yellow Knives shall live. Is death better than life?"
Slowly he rolled back the sleeve of his heavy Hudson's Bay Company shirt. "We must all die—Spotted Dog has spoken. If we be wounded with the little medicine arrows, we shall live—the small white man has spoken. If we must die, one small wound upon the arm is nothing. If, by one small wound, and one small sickness, we shall live—what is one small wound? Life is better than death, and we can do no worse than die—and Spotted Dog says we shall die anyway."
He extended his arm toward Connie. "Come, we shall be wounded upon our arms, and we shall bring in our squaws and papooses." A volley of protest surged from the lips of Spotted Dog—but the star of the medicine man had set—White Eagle silenced him with a gesture, and, motioning to the young men, ordered them to bind him and throw him into his lodge.
"We weary of your howling," spoke the chief. "Not one life has it saved in the village. When the white man has finished with us, you shall go with him to the tepee of Long Raven, who is covered with the sores of the Red Death, and you shall touch him with your hands, and we shall see whose medicine is strong." The young men bound Spotted Dog and carried him howling to his lodge and pitched him into its blackness.
One by one, following the lead of their chief, the braves of the Yellow Knives bared their arms and allowed Connie to scratch the skin with the tiny vaccination points. Then the squaws and papooses were herded to the fire and it was long past midnight when Connie scratched the last arm and returned the remaining points to his pocket. Then he turned to White Eagle and extended his hand:
"Your words are words of wisdom. The Red Death will depart from your lodges. Only those already sick shall die. Loose, now, my brother. We shall remain among you until the danger is past. We shall carry food to the sick, and bury those who die, that the Yellow Knives need not visit the lodges of the Red Death."
And White Eagle himself stooped and cut the thongs and, as Rickey rose stiffly, he spoke:
"You are free to move about the village, only do not seek to escape. My young men will watch you, and if you leave the village, you shall surely die. If at the end of eight sleeps none of those who are wounded have been stricken with the Red Death, then will the Yellow Knives swear a great friendship for the white men, and you may return to the land of your people. But, if these are stricken, then shall you both be burned. Come, we shall take Spotted Dog and the small white man to the lodge of Long Raven." But when they entered the lodge of Spotted Dog, they found it empty—and Spotted Dog was nowhere to be found.
"I always said it!" exclaimed Sergeant McKeever, as he lay propped on his elbow upon a couch in the barracks at Dawson, and listened to Corporal Rickey's account of what happened that night at the council fire of the Yellow Knives, "Brains an' nerve is worth more than beef, anyways you take it."
"Sure are!" assented Rickey, chuckling with laughter. "You should of seen that medicine man dancin' around with his hair all a-fire, howlin' bloody murder, an' a-clawin' at the sparks that settled over his greasy hide like a swarm of red-hot mosquitoes." And his laughter was echoed by a dozen or more officers who had listened to the tale, until Connie felt his face redden under their approving glances. And then, from the doorway, where he had stood a silent and an unseen listener, the Superintendent himself stepped into the room and laid a kindly hand on Connie's shoulder:
"Great work, son. We are proud of you, in the Mounted." Which was a very long speech of approbation for the Superintendent to make' And, later, when the long envelope went southward in the mail, bearing his official report to general headquarters in far-off Regina, the name of Special Constable Connie Morgan was mentioned for extraordinary bravery in the rescue of Corporal Rickey from the Yellow Knife Indians.