The Peace of Roaring River

“Won’t the dogs be dreadfully tired,” she asked, “if you go back so soon?”

“No, leddy,” he asserted. “Twenty-four miles ain’t much of a trip. Dey make tvice dat if need come. And me too, sure t’ing!”

As she looked at him she knew that he spoke the simple truth. Even the people of this country seemed to be built differently. All of them looked sturdy, self-reliant, strong to endure, and, more than anything, ready to share everything either with stranger or with friend. In spite of the weariness she felt after her long journey and of the ache in her bones that was coming from the unusual manner of her travelling, she felt that this was a blessed country, a haven of rest that held promise of wonderful peace. All at once they came in sight of a river, snow-shackled like all the others, except for black patches where the under-running flood so hurried in rapid places that the surface could not freeze. From such air-holes, as they are called, steam arose that was like the smoke of fires.

“What is that river?” she called.

“Dat’s de Roaring Rifer, leddy,” Stefan informed her. “Ve’s only a little vays to go now. Maybe five minute.”

At this moment, as in a flash, all of her vague and carking fears returned to the girl, and her hand went to her breast. It was only a little way now! And it was no dream–no figment of her imagination! The beginning of the real adventure was at hand! Truth flashed upon her. In a few moments she would see for the first time the man she was to marry. She blushed fiery red. Instinctively she looked about her, like some wild thing vainly seeking for a way to escape impending peril. What would he be like? What would he think of her? Oh! She now knew that it had all been a frightful mistake! Her limbs shook with a sudden bitter coldness that had fallen upon her like one of the masses that became displaced from the great trees, and she could not keep her teeth from chattering. Then, in her ears, began to boom a strong continuous sound that was ominous, threatening.

“What’s that?” she stammered, trembling.

“Dat’s de noise of dem big Falls of Roaring River,” answered Stefan.

An instant later, Madge never knew why, the dogs were snarling in a fight. In a moment Stefan was among them, wielding his short-handled and long-lashed whip. A trace was broken. By the time the damage was repaired and the dogs pacified some ten minutes or more had been wasted. The man looked at his watch.

“I ain’t got so much time left,” he said. “I got to hurry back for Mis’ Carew. Lucky ve’re most dere now.”

A few seconds after they had started again they came to an opening, towards which Stefan pointed, and the girl’s heart sank within her.

She saw nothing of the distant falls surrounded by a growth in which every twig scintillated with the frost lavished by the river’s vapor. She never noticed the great circular pool with its deep banks, or the wonderful view, far across country, of mountains washed in pale blues and lavenders, of the sun-flooded bright expanse of open ground, partly fenced in with axe-hewn rails. She could only stare at a little shack, the smallest she had seen in that country, and at the thread of smoke coming from the length of stove-pipe protruding from the ice-covered roof, and to her it looked like the home of misery.

A few yards farther on the team stopped. From here the hut could only be faintly distinguished through a growth of birches and firs.

“You can get off de toboggan now, leddy,” Stefan told her. “I puts off your trunk too. Hugo he come and get it. I call to him.”

She rose to her feet, speechless, amazed, with fear causing a terrible throbbing in her throat. She would have protested but could not find her voice. As soon as Stefan had unlashed the trunk and put it down on the frozen ground he turned his team around.

“Oh! Hugo!” he bellowed. “Oh! Hugo! Here’s de leddy.”

For an instant there was no reply, but while Stefan yelled again she saw, through a small opening in the interlaced branches, that the door opened. A huge dog came out and rolled in the snow, barking. The man waved a hand.

“I can’t vait a moment. Good-by, leddy, I must go. You tell Hugo why I hurry so.”

The man had jumped on the toboggan and he was already being borne away, swiftly, by his team of wild shaggy brutes that seemed never to have known a weary moment in their lives. And she stood there, at the foot of a great blasted pine, terror-stricken, wondering what further torture of mind and body the world had in store for her.

But for that hut the place was a frozen desert, with no other sign of man. And she was alone–alone with him–and the fierce-looking dog was now running towards her. She leaned back against the tree, feeling that without some support she must collapse at its foot.

CHAPTER V

When Gunpowder Speaks

Hugo Ennis, a man well under thirty, tall and spare of form, with the lithe and active limbs that are capable of hard and prolonged action, had stood for a time by the tough door of his little shack. It was a single-roomed affair, quite large enough for a lone man, which he had carefully built of peeled logs. Within it there was a bunk fixed against the wall, upon which his heavy blankets had been folded in a neat pile, for he was a man of some order. Near the other end there was a stove, a good one that could keep the place warm and amply sufficed for his simple cookery. The table was of axe-hewn cedar planks and the two chairs had been rustically designed of the same material. Between the logs forming the walls the spaces had been chinked with moss, covered with blue clay taken from the river-bank, above the falls. Strong pegs had been driven into the heavy wood and from them hung traps and a couple of guns, with spare snowshoes and odd pieces of apparel. In a corner of the room there were steel hand-drills, heavy hammers, a pick and a shovel. Against the walls he had built strong shelves that held perhaps a score of books and a varied assortment of groceries. More of these latter articles had been placed on a swinging board hung from the roof, out of reach of thieving rodents.

He had been looking down, over the great rocky ledge at one side of his shack, into the big pool of the Roaring River, which at this time was but a wild jam of huge slabs of ice insecurely soldered together by snow and the spray from the falls. Beneath that jumbled mass he knew that the water was straining and groaning and swirling until it found under the thick ice the outlet that would lead it towards the big lake to the eastward. Although the middle of March was at hand there was not the slightest sign of any breaking up. He knew that it would take a long time yet before the snows began to melt, the ice to become thinner on the lakes and the waters to rise, brown and turbid with the earth torn from the banks and the sand ever ground up in the rough play of turbulent waters with rolling boulders.

Yet the coming of spring was not so very far off now and the days were growing longer. It would take but a few weeks before the first great wedges of flying geese would pass high above him in their journey to the shallows of the Hudson’s Bay, where they nested in myriads. And then other birds would follow until the smallest arrived, chirping with the joy of the slumbering earth’s awakening.

It was a glorious country, he truly believed. The winter had been long but the hunting and trapping had kept him busy enough. The days had seemed too short to become dreary and he had slept long during the nights, seldom awakening at the rumblings of the maddened pent-up waters or the sharp explosions of great trees cracking in the fierce cold. But he was glad of the prospect of renewed hard work upon his claim, of promising toil to expose further the great silver-bearing veins of calcite that wound their way through the harder rock. He knew that his find was of the sort that had flooded the Nipissing and the Gowganda countries with eager searchers and delvers, and created villages and even towns in a wilderness where formerly the moose wandered in the great hardwood swamps and the deer were often chased by ravening packs of baying wolves.

His attention had reverted to the great sharp-muzzled dog that had been crouching at his feet, and he bent down and began to pull out small porcupine quills that had become fastened in the animal’s nose and lips.

“Maybe some day you’ll learn enough to let those varmints alone, Maigan, old boy,” he said, having become accustomed to long conversations with his companion. “I expect you’re pretty nearly as silly as a man. Experience teaches you mighty little. Dogs and men have been stung since the beginning of the world, I expect, and keep on making the same old mistakes. Hold hard, old fellow! I know it hurts like the deuce but these things have just got to come out.”

Maigan is the name of the wolf, in some of the Indian dialects, and Hugo’s friend seemed but little removed from a wolfish ancestry. He evidently did his best to bear the punishment bravely, for he never whimpered. At times, however, he sought hard to pull his muzzle away. Finally, to his great relief, the last serrated quill was pulled out and he jumped up, placing his paws on the man’s shoulders, perhaps to show he held no grudge. After his master had petted him, an excitable red squirrel required his immediate attention and, as usual, led him to a fruitless chase. He returned soon, scratching at the boards, and his master let him in and closed the door. A moment later the animal’s sharp ears pricked up; the wiry hair on his back rose and he uttered a low growl.

“Keep still, Maigan!” ordered his master. “Wonder who’s coming? Maybe one of Papineau’s young ones.”

The fire was getting low and he put a couple of sticks of yellow birch in the stove. A few seconds later he heard a shout that came from behind the saplings which, in some places, concealed the old tote-road from his view. No one but Big Stefan could bellow out so powerfully, to be sure. He opened the door and Maigan leaped out. In more leisurely fashion he followed and stopped, in astonishment, as he caught sight of the dog-team flying back towards Carcajou.

“That’s a queer start!” he commented. “First time I ever knew him not to stop for a cup of tea and a talk.”

He thought he saw something like a black box through the branches and went up. It must be something Stefan had left for him. He walked up the path in leisurely fashion. There was evidently no hurry. He was feeling a little disappointment, for he had become fond of Stefan during his long prospecting trip and would have been glad of a chat to the invariable accompaniment of the hospitable tea-kettle. He had just made some pretty good biscuits, too. It was a pity the Swede wouldn’t share them with him. He reached the black box which, to his surprise, turned out to be a small corded trunk lying on the hard dry snow, with a cheap leather bag on top of it. He looked about him in wonder and stopped, suddenly, staring in astonishment at the form of a woman, shapeless in great ill-fitting garments too big for her. She was leaning back against the great bare trunk of the old blasted pine and the dog was skulking around her, curiously. Then he hurried towards her, calling out a word of warning to Maigan, who seemed to realize that this was no enemy. And as he came the woman, deathly pale, seemed to look upon him as if he had been some terrifying ghost. She put out her hands, just a little, as if seeking to protect herself from him.

“Are–are you Hugo Ennis?” she faltered.

“That’s my name,” he said. “Every one knows me around here. What–what can I do for you?”

“My–my name is Madge Nelson,” she Stammered. “I–I’m Madge Nelson from–from New York.”

“How do you do, Miss Nelson?” he said, quietly, touching his fur cap. “You–I’m afraid you’ve had a mighty cold ride. What’s happened to Stefan to make him go back? Lost something on the road, has he?”

“I–I’m afraid I’m the only lost thing around here,” she said, seeking to hold back the tears that were beginning to well up in her eyes. “Oh! I think–I think I’m becoming mad!” she suddenly cried out, bitterly. “Is–is that your–your house, the–the residence you spoke of?”

“The–the residence!” he repeated. “And I spoke of it, did I? Well, I suppose that anything with a roof on it is a residence, if you come to that. Yes, that’s it, the little shack among the birches, and you’d better come in till Stefan gets back, for it’s mighty cold here and–and if you’re from New York you’re not used to this sort of thing. It’s the best I can offer you, but I really never thought it worth talking about. It’s the slight improvement on a dog-kennel that we folks have to be contented with, in these parts. Come right in; you look half frozen.”

“And–and that is the sort of place you’ve brought me to?” she cried, her eyes now flashing at him in anger.

“Well, it seems to me that it’s Stefan that brought you,” he replied, rather abashed.

“That–that’s only a mean quibble,” she retorted, hotly. “And–and where’s the town–or the village–and the other people, the friends who were to greet me?”

The young man was beginning to feel rather provoked at her questions.

“The nearest settlers are a short mile away,–the Papineaus, very decent French Canadians. Tom Carew’s shack you must have passed on your way here. The only village, of course, is Carcajou, and that’s twelve long miles away. But Mrs. Papineau is a real good old soul, if that’s where you expect to stop. A dozen kids about the place but they’re jolly little beggars. Her husband’s trapping now, I believe, but of course I’ll take you up there.”

At this she seemed to feel somewhat relieved. It was evident that she was in no great peril. Yet she looked again at his shack, with her lower lip in the bite of her teeth.

“You–you didn’t really believe I’d come,” she said, her mouth quivering. “You–you were just making fun of me, I see, with–with that residence and–and the ladies who were ready to welcome me. Where are they?”

Ennis was scratching his head, or the cap over it, as he stared again at her. He realized that some amazing, terrible mistake must have been made, as he thought–or that this girl must be the victim of some dreadful misunderstanding, if not of a foul plot. He began to pity her. She looked so weak, so helpless, in spite of the anger she had shown.

“There–there are no ladies,” he said, lamely, “except Mrs. Papineau and Mrs. Carew. They’re first-rate women, both of ’em. And of course Mrs. Papineau is your only resource till to-morrow, unless Stefan is coming back for you.”

“He isn’t,” she declared. “I said nothing about going back.”

“That’s awkward,” he admitted. “You’ll tell me all about this thing later on, won’t you, because I might be able to help you out. But you’ll be all right for a while, anyway. I’ll take you there.”

“Please start at once,” she cried, desperately. “I–I can’t stay here for another instant.”

“I can be ready in a very few minutes,” he told her, quietly. “But won’t you please come over to the shack. I’m sure you’re beginning to feel the cold. You–you’re shivering and–and I’m afraid you look rather ill.”

She had insisted on Stefan’s taking back some of the things she had borrowed from his wife, and had been standing there in rather inadequate clothing. Ennis pulled off his heavy mackinaw jacket.

“You must put this on at once,” he told her, gently enough, “and come right over there with me.”

Madge shrank from him, as if she feared to be touched by him, and yet there was something in the frank way in which he addressed her, perhaps also in the clear and unembarrassed look of his eyes, that was gradually allaying her fears and the fierce repulsion of the first few moments. Finally, chilled as she was to the very marrow of her bones, she consented to accept his offer and submitted to his helping her on with the coat.

“There’s a good fire in the shack just now,” he told her. “It’s absolutely necessary for you to get thoroughly warmed up before you start off again. A cup of hot tea would do you a lot of good, too, after that long ride on Stefan’s toboggan. It’s no joke of an undertaking for a–a young lady who isn’t used to such things.”

Madge was still hesitating. The suffering look that had come into her eyes moved the young man to greater pity for her.

“I–I give you my word you have absolutely nothing to fear,” he assured her, whereupon she followed him meekly, feeling very faint now. She half feared that she might have to clutch at his sleeve, if her footsteps failed her, for she felt that at any moment she might stagger and fall. She gasped again as she looked at the shack they were nearing, but, as she beheld the scenery of the great pool, something in it that was very grand and beautiful appealed to her for an instant. Yet she felt crushed by it, as if she had been some infinitesimal insect beside that stupendous crashing of waters, before the great ledges whose tops were hirsute with gnarled firs and twisted jack-pines. She stopped for a moment, perhaps owing to her weakness, or possibly because of awe at the majesty of the scene.

“I just love it,” said the man. “It grows more utterly splendid every time one looks at it. See that mass of rubbish on the top of that great hemlock. It is the nest of a pair of ospreys. They come every year, I’ve been told. Last summer I saw them circling high up in the heavens, at times, and they would utter shrill cries as if they had been the guardians of the falls and warned me off. But we had better hurry in, Miss–Miss Nelson.”

For an instant she had listened, wondering. This man did not speak like a common toiler of city or country. His manner, somewhat distant, in no way reminded her of the coarse familiarity she had often been subjected to in shop and factory. But a moment later such thoughts passed off and she followed him, resentfully, feeling that she was to some extent forced to submit to his will. As Ennis pulled the door open and held it for her to walk in, he looked at her keenly. He had suddenly remembered hearing that exposure to intense cold had sometimes actually disturbed the brains of people; that it had brought on some form of insanity. He wondered whether, perhaps, this had been the case with her? It was with greater concern and sympathy that he felt he must treat her. The vagaries of her language, the reproaches she seemed to think he deserved, were doubtless things she was not responsible for. And then she looked so weary, so overcome, so ready to collapse with faintness!

Madge entered the shack. It had been swept, neatly enough, and everything was arranged in orderly fashion, except some loose things piled up in one corner, out of the way. The little stove was glowing, and the draft was purring softly. The girl pulled off her mitts and held her reddened hands to it while Hugo brought her one of his rough chairs. Then, without a word, he placed a kettle on the fire, after which he brought out a white enameled cup and a small pan containing some of his biscuits. After cogitating for a moment he also placed on the table a tin of sardines.

Madge had dropped upon the chair, and began to feel more unutterably weary than ever. The heat, close to the stove, became too great for her and she moved her chair to the table, a couple of feet away, and placed her arms upon it. Her head fell forward on them, and when, a few moments later, Hugo spoke to her and she lifted up her face he was dismayed as he saw the tears that were running down her cheeks. The man could only bite his lips. What consolation or comfort could he proffer? It was perhaps better to appear to take no notice of her distress. But the weeping of genuine suffering and unhappiness is a hard thing for a youth to see. The impulse had come to him to cry out for information, to beg her to explain, to question her, to get at the bottom of all this mystery. He was held from this by the renewed thought that her mind was probably affected. He might further irritate her or cause her still deeper chagrin. Even if he erred in this idea the moment was probably ill-chosen. It would be better for her to tell her tale before others also. He would wait until after he had taken her over to Papineau’s. She looked so harmless and weak that the idea that she might prove dangerous never entered his head.

The kettle began to sing and a moment later the water was boiling hard.

“I can’t offer you much of a meal, Miss Nelson,” he said, seeking to make his voice as pleasant as possible. “You’ve probably never tried sour-dough biscuits. Mrs. Papineau’s are better, but you may be able to manage one or two of these. That good woman’s a mighty good cook, as cooking goes in these parts. Here’s a can of condensed milk; won’t you help yourself? You must really try to eat something. Do you think you could try a little cold corned beef? I have some canned stuff that’s not half bad. Or it would take but a moment to broil you a partridge I got yesterday. But I’ll open these sardines first.”

He went to work with a large jack-knife, but she thanked him, briefly, in a low voice, and refused to accept anything but the tea and a bit of the biscuit. She wondered why he didn’t also sit down to eat. It bothered her to see him hovering over her like some sort of waiter. He was probably staring at her, when her head was turned, and enjoying his dastardly jest. When she thought of those letters she had received and of all they contained of lies, of unimaginable falsehoods, the man began again to repel her like some venomous reptile. She could have shrieked out as he came near. What an actor he was! What control he held over voice and face as he pretended to know nothing about her. His effort had been evident, from the very first instant they had met, to disclaim the slightest knowledge of her or of the reasons for her coming! She felt utterly bewildered. He answered to that name of Hugo Ennis and had admitted that this was Roaring River, as Stefan had also told her. Moreover, the big Swede knew perfectly well that she was coming and expected. In word, in action, in every move of his, this man was lying, stupidly, coarsely, with features indifferent or pretending concern. It was unbearable.

She turned and looked at him again, swiftly but haggardly. She would never have conceived the possibility of a man dissembling so, in letters first and lying again in every move and every tone of his voice. How could he keep it so tranquil and unmoved? Yet when he came near her again, insisting on filling her cup once more, she seemed for an instant to forget the rough clothes, the mean little shack, the strange conspiracy of which she was the victim and which had aroused her passionate protests. Over the first mouthfuls of hot tea she had nearly choked, but she had found the warm brew welcome and its odor grateful and pleasant. It mingled in some way with the scent of the balsam boughs with which the bunk was covered and over which the blankets reposed. She had experienced something like this feeling in the hospital, the first time she had been an inmate of it. It was as if again she had been very ill and awakened in an unfamiliar and bewildering place. The great weakness she experienced was something like that which she had felt in the great ward, where the rows of beds stretched before her and at either side. Some were screened, she remembered, and held the poor creatures for whom there was no longer any hope. It was as if now a turn of her head could have revealed a white-capped nurse moving silently, deftly bringing comfort. Her hands had become quite warm again; she passed one of them over her brow as if this motion might have dispelled some strange vision.

The big dog, Maigan, came to her and laid his sharp head and pointed cold muzzle on her lap, and she stroked it, mechanically. This, at any rate, was something genuine and friendly that had come to her. Again and again she passed her hand over the rough neck and head. At this, however, something within her broke again and her head fell once more on her arms as she sobbed,–sobbed as if her heart would break.

“I–I’m afraid you must have gone through a good deal of–of unhappiness,” faltered the man, anxiously. “It–it’s really too bad and I’d give anything if I could…”

But the girl lifted up her hand, as if to check his words. What right had a man who was guilty of such conduct to begin proffering a repentance that was unavailing, nay, contemptible? Did he think that a few halting words could atone for his cruelty, could dispel the evil he had wrought?