CHAPTER XX.
IN THE ENEMY'S CAMP.
I suppose I should thank Heaven for a thick head. I came back to the world of living men with a most infernal throbbing in it, pain in my eyes, and an evil taste in my mouth. In my ears there was a mumble of voices, and as my head cleared I listened to a jangle of vivid blasphemy.
But the voices were not those of my friends; nor was I behind the rock barricade, but being carried, jolted along on somebody's shoulder as if I had been a sack of flour. The shoulder beneath me was vast, and when I heard a rumbled French execration I knew that Louis Beef was my bearer.
Behind us came two men with something between them which sagged toward the ground. Even in the darkness I could see that it was the body of a man, horribly inert, the arms trailing, the legs forked on either side of the leading bearer. Behind them were other men, stumbling and cursing in the darkness. And by their language, as my scattered wits gathered themselves, I knew that the attack had been a failure.
But in a few minutes we came to their camp, where Nootka's klootch was squatting by the fire, feeding it to a blaze. Louis dumped me down with little ceremony, and turned my face toward the light. But I kept my eyes closed. He ran his thick fingers around my throbbing head, and under them I felt for the first time a very big and long and sore lump.
"Ba gosh," said he, "I guess mebbe I hit dat kid purty hard."
"Not half hard enough," Hayes snarled. "I wish you'd killed him. It was his snoopin' that botched everything."
"Take a look over here at Jordan," said Conover's voice. "He don't seem to be breathin'."
There was a short pause.
"I sh'd say he wasn't breathin'," said Hayes. "He's got his. He's dead."
"Dead!" ejaculated Conover, in tones of awe.
"Well, didn't you never see a dead man before?" sneered Hayes. "He's dead, that's all, same as I'll be some day, and you, and all the rest of us."
"Of course that's so," Conover replied, rather shakily. "Yes, that's so. Still it don't seem possible. Bill Jordan! I wisht we'd kept out of this."
"I wish you had, too," Hayes snarled. "You young fellers ain't got the nerve of fawns. You wish you'd kept out of it, do you? Well, you're in it now, up to your neck. I guess there's one dead man back there to play even for Jordan, and that means, we've got to wipe out the whole bunch. We'd have done it and had it over by now if you fellers hadn't weakened."
"Is dat so?" rumbled Louis, with bitter irony. "What you do so moch yourself, hey? I don't see you on dat front row ce soir, Jackstraws. I guess, ba gosh, you take plentee care of your ol' hide, an' Siwash George, too."
"You're a liar!" snapped Siwash George. "I was right up with the rest of you."
"You were not!" McGregor contradicted him. "At the first shot you lay down."
"What!" roared the old squaw man, in a truly terrifying voice.
"You lay down like a yellow dog!" McGregor stated flatly.
"No man can talk to me like that!" the other blustered.
"And what," asked McGregor coldly, reverting, as he always did when angry, to the idiom and accent of his Gaelic forefathers—"and what will you pe toing about it?"
It was evident that their nerves were raw, quivering with defeat and disappointment; and when I opened my eyes cautiously to peep at them, I saw that physical soreness was added to it.
McGregor had a dirty rag, stained with blood, around his head. Louis' black poll was matted with blood, and a dried trickle of it ran down his cheek. Ballou's left arm was bandaged. And Nootka Charlie stood stripped to the waist, his beautiful torso gleaming in the firelight, while his squaw washed a red furrow along his ribs. Their reception had been warmer than they had anticipated, and luck had gone against them. And so they snarled at each other across the dead man; but, with the exception of Conover, none seemed to give him a second thought. Certainly none of the old-timers did. Being dead, he ceased; it was as if he had never been. But Ballou took a hand.
"You may as well quit damnin' each other," he said. "The main thing is that they made good. They stood us off. Nobody's to blame for it, special. When they throwed that flare, them bein' behind the rocks where we couldn't see them, there wouldn't have been two of us left if we hadn't taken cover. There was no use tryin' it again with them organized the way they were."
Nootka Charlie cursed his squaw for some twinge her fingers gave him. "What are we goin' to do about it?" he asked over his shoulder.
"We'll see to-morrow," Ballou replied. Suddenly his eye met mine. "Hello, Bob!" he said. "Foxing again, hey?"
"I can't help being here, can I?" I said.
"Well, no, I guess you can't," he admitted. He eyed me for a moment. "It looks to me like that kid is a hoodoo," he said heavily. "He's got as many lives as a black cat."
"Ba gosh, dat's right!" Louis agreed. "I dunno 'bout dat hoodoo, but for dose life—oui! I bust hees gun over hees head, an' she don' do not'ing but raise leetle lomp."
"And I missed him once back on them lakes," said Nootka, looking at me as one might scan a target, "and I was holdin' right between his shoulders. I'd have bet fifty dollars on the shot."
"I hadn't no better luck last night," Hayes complained. "He got through my smoke. Course that was guesswork, though."
"It was him," said Ballon, "that lifted our canoes. Fothergill told me."
Inwardly I cursed Fothergill. I felt that I was unpopular enough without that; and Hayes' next words confirmed it.
"What are we going to do with him?" he asked. "Are we goin' to pack him around with us? My tumtum is to tie him up and pitch him in the river."
"Mine, too," Nootka agreed, eying me evilly. "After to-night we got to clean up the whole bunch."
Ballou's cold eye rested on me, and in that moment I experienced the sensations of a man charged with a capital offense waiting for sentence.
"Bah!" said Louis. "He's only kid."
"He's as bad as any of 'em," Nootka maintained. "He can talk, can't he? Do you want to be run down by them police and hanged, or get life if you miss that?"
"We'll see," Ballou decided, "and it'll depend a good bit on himself."
They hobbled my feet and tied my hands. And then they gave me a blanket and let me roll myself up as best I could. In spite of my aching head, I slept heavily, not waking till the sunshine struck my face. And even then I was so tired and sore and disgusted that I was reluctant to face realities. But there was a muffled thumping and now and then a sharp clank of metal on stone, and I sat up to see what it was about.
They were burying Bill Jordan. The sounds I had heard were the digging of his grave. They rolled him up in his blanket and dropped him into the shallow excavation. For a moment they stood looking down. Conover's was the only face which expressed any emotion. Jordan had been his chum.
"Well," said Hayes, "fill her up."
They paid no attention to me beyond casting off my ties, but Nootka's klootch cooked my breakfast. The crack on the head had not destroyed my appetite, and while I was eating, the whole crew, with the exception of Nootka, picked up their rifles and disappeared. Later, a couple of shots told me that my friends were still holding the fort.
Presently Nootka tied my elbows behind me and made me fast to a tree with a generous length of picket rope.
"I guess you'll stay put," he said. "I wish you'd try to get loose. I've told the klootch to crack you in the head with an ax if you try it."
"You're taking an awful chance!" I sneered.
"Not a chance," he told me. "You'd better remember your only show to live to grow whiskers is to be mighty careful of what you do from now on."
"You're a skookum-tumtum bunch—not!" I said rashly. "You'd better be careful yourself. Bill Jordan's planted, and some more of you will be. I wish I had a gun and was loose. I'll bet I'd make you hunt your hole."
"You would, hey?" he said, his lips lifting at the corners like a dog's.
"You bet I would!" I cried hotly, entirely forgetting prudence. "I never knew a squaw man that wasn't yellow."
In return for that injudicious jibe he hit me an open-handed swat that drove me reeling against the tree.
"Go ahead!" he invited. "Tell me some more!"
But, though I was nearly bursting with mad fury, I had sense enough to hold my tongue. And, after cursing me, he left me.
By and by I asked the klootch for a drink, and she brought it, holding the cup to my lips. I thanked her for the water.
"S'pose I mamook klatawa," I asked, to see if she would talk, "you stop me?"
She stared at me with her black eyes, and suddenly flashed her teeth in a smile.
"S-u-ure!" she drawled. "But you no klatawa."
"You speak English!" I exclaimed, in surprise.
"Me miss'on girl."
She meant that she had been to mission school.
"Where? What mission?"
But she only smiled and shook her head.
"Sia-ah," she replied, meaning that it was some far-off one.
"If you are a mission girl you wouldn't hit me with an ax, would you?"
"Su-u-re!" She nodded. "Challie, him tell me." That seemed to settle the matter in her mind. Anyway, I had no hope of loosening his knots.
"How long have you been married?" I asked, putting it that way out of politeness.
"Tenas ahnkuttie—little while," she replied.
"Any papoose stop?" I asked.
She smiled again, and shook her head.
"You mind your dam biz-ness," she said, but she was not at all offended.
"What is your name?"
"Miss'on name Lucille." She eyed me for a moment. "You kloshe tenas man," she announced, meaning that I was a good-looking boy.
I knew that I was a black, surly-looking young devil, but if she thought otherwise I was not going to contradict her.
"You're a pretty girl," I told her, on general principles, because it always pays to be polite, especially to savage ladies who have instructions to hand it to you with an ax. She smiled at me.
"Hyas kloshe!" she said, and patted my cheek, her face close to mine.
Just then, looking past her, I saw, or thought I saw, something or somebody move deep in the brush which surrounded the camp. I suppose my expression changed, for Lucille turned swiftly.
"What you see?" she demanded.
"Nothing," I answered, for I was really not sure whether it was imagination or not.
But Lucille seemed disturbed. She kept eying me and the bush, as nervous as a doe when the wind blows tainted. My personal appearance ceased to interest her, and she would talk no more.
That day, so far as I could tell, there was no attack on my friends. Nootka and his partners and old Hayes came in; and I think Lucille told the former her trouble, whatever it was, for he laughed and shook his head and patted her on the shoulder. He turned me loose, and I was that much better off, but I knew better than to make a break. Nothing, I think, would have suited Hayes and Nootka better. I noticed that the latter kept his rifle within reach of his hand.
About sunset, the others returned. The breed's shoulder was ripped by a bullet, which seemed to have caught him lengthways as he was lying in cover—at least that was how it looked to me. They were all in bad humor, sore, impatient, snappy with each other. Evidently the siege was not turning out as they expected. After they had eaten, they smoked in surly silence, and finally Hayes said:
"Tom, we ain't goin' at this right. The way they're organized, they can stand us off. They won't waste their ca'tridge, and we're low on ammynition right now. We got to change our system."
"Maybe,"" Ballou admitted.
"We have," the older man insisted. "We ought to put the kid in play agin' them furs."
I stared at him, wondering what he meant.
"I don't like to do that," Ballou replied.
"Maybe you don't," Hayes came back, "but the rest of us have some say in it. And me and George and Nootka think it's the only thing to do."
"How do you mean—'put him in play'?" asked young Conover.
"There's diff'rent ways," the old rascal replied. "We can send 'em word that if they don't give up the furs the kid will have sorter a hard time."
"You couldn't bluff them like that. They wouldn't believe it."
"Who said it was a bluff?" Hayes demanded. "And about believin' it, they would if they found his ear or a couple of joints of a finger settin' in a split stick in front of 'em in the mornin'."
For a moment nobody spoke. The villainous suggestion made my flesh creep, and a cold fear laid hold of my stomach. I looked for a general horrified protest, but such as came was not nearly general enough, nor, except from Conover, was it emphatic.
"I ain't lak dat moch," said Louis. "Mebbe she don' work."
"I won't stand for it!" Conover declared.
"You got so much to say!" sneered Hayes.
"I've got as much as you," Conover retorted. "Mac won't, either, will you, Mac?"
"I would not want to cut off his ears," said McGregor; "but if"
"We wouldn't need to do that," Hayes interrupted. "Nitche done the like once. But if we just sent 'em word and took a hot iron and started the kid to hollerin' where they could hear him, the play would win. Course, if he wanted to howl without bein' hurt it would be all the better for him. If they didn't give up the furs, they'd come out to rescue him, and that would give us a chance at them."
I saw it then, of course. If I would deceive my friends, well and good. If not, I might expect the hot iron. And then, if I could not stand the gaff, I knew that Hayes' forecast would come true.
"That sounds all right," said Ballou. "That way it's up to Bob mostly. We might do that, hey, Louis?"
"Sure, dat's all right," Louis agreed. "If he's holler plentee, he don' get hurt; if he ain't holler, why den we mak' heem, dat's all. Oui! Bon! What you t'ink, Bob, hey?"
I suppose it would have been heroic to have defied them, but I did not feel heroic and I was learning wisdom in a hard school.
"I don't want to get hurt," I said sulkily, and Hayes grinned.
"Mighty few people do. What did I tell you?"
The klootch Lucille sat apart from the men, as usual. She had no theories of equality, no idea of obtruding herself. I do not think she understood all the conversation, but she got at least part of it. I caught her eye, and the glance seemed to carry some meaning. She moved her head slightly to one side. In a moment she did so again. I wondered what it could mean, if, indeed, it meant anything. Suddenly it flashed upon me that she wanted me to change my position. So I got up, moved a little farther from the fire, and sat down.
I watched the squaw. Presently she rose and came toward me. As she passed, she opened her hand. A small penknife lay in the palm. Her fingers closed again on it. She gathered an armful of wood somewhere behind me and came back with it. Close beside me she let half a dozen sticks fall, and stooped to pick them up. As she did so, something struck my moccasin.
"You mamook cut rope to-night," she whispered. "You klatawa!"
When she had recovered her wood, I got the little knife. The men were turning in. They set no guard on their own camp, but one of them—McGregor it was—went to watch ours, which served the purpose just as well. Nootka hobbled my feet, and, having permitted me to roll up in the blanket, tied my hands in front of me and then took a turn of the rope around my body, which made it quite impossible for me to untie anything.
Having made me secure, as he thought, he went to his own blankets beside the klootch, a little distance away on the other side of the fire.
I had a long wait before everybody slept. One or another seemed restless, though I do not suppose conscience had anything to do with it. At last all was quiet, and I got the little knife from beneath me in the blankets, where I had dropped it before my hands were tied, and set to work. Though the little blade was edged like a razor, I had a hard job freeing my hands. But when that was done, I slashed through my hobbles in short order.
Being loose, I raised myself cautiously to look around and listen before making a break for freedom.
The fire was down to coals, but the night was clear and the stars bright. Everybody seemed asleep. In the stillness I could catch the different notes of breathing. I slid halfway out of my blanket, and then I paused.
Over near Nootka Charlie and Lucille was a black shape which I did not remember. I was sure that there was neither log, stump, nor bush there. As I looked, it moved soundlessly closer to the two sleepers. Something or somebody was crawling, belly down, like a mountain lion, upon them. But it could not be a lion or any other animal, for none—except, perhaps, an idiotic porky—would venture into camp; and the father of all porcupines was not as big as this dark intruder. Could it be Toft or Pack taking a long chance to see what had become of me? If so, I could not signal without the danger of waking somebody. I could only wait. I sank lower in my blanket.
But now the night prowler had reached the sleepers. It crouched beside them, hanging over them like a spirit of evil omen, squat, minatory, sinister, bending low as if to catch the sound of their breathing.
At that moment the coals of the lire settled, and a brief flame shot up, casting a swift flare. By it I could see that the intruder was a man. A shadowy arm swung up, and the firelight gleamed on something in his hand. Then the arm swept down, and immediately the night silence of the sleeping camp was gone.
I could hear the deep, animal grunt of the man as he struck, the sodden chuck of the knife as it went home through the blanket, driven with all the power of that shadowy arm, and the screaming cry of the victim as the steel reft the fibers of him, plucking him momentarily from sleep but to hurl him into a deeper and longer one.
Grunt! Chuck! Death cry!
Again they came, as the murderer swung his arm and stabbed and stabbed, and with them mingled a woman's scream of terror, changing swiftly to a shriek of pain and despair.