Chapter XIX: Preparing for Danger

As soon as Moale rode away Loseis, Conacher and Mary-Lou held a council. The sense of common danger drew them very close together; their hearts were soft towards each other. The whites treated the Indian girl exactly as one of themselves. But poor Mary-Lou was not of much help to them. Terror had her in its grip again.

The sunshine drew them outside the door of the Women’s House. Loseis cast her eyes about the scene. “Ah! how beautiful the world is!” she murmured. “Only men spoil it!”

“Cheer up!” said Conacher stoutly. “They haven’t got us yet!”

“I do not mind danger!” said Loseis quickly. “But such wickedness hurts my breast. It spoils life!”

“I know,” said Conacher. “You cannot believe in it.”

“Well, never mind our feelings,” said Loseis with a shake of her black mane. “What have we got to expect now?”

“We’ve got the time it will take Moale to ride to his master and report,” said Conacher.

“But he’s waiting close by, of course,” said Loseis. “He may even be watching us from the top of the hill.”

“The simplest thing would be for Gault to ride down and break in the door with an ax,” said Conacher. “If he does, I’ll blow the top of his head off,” he added grimly.

Loseis shook her head. “Gault never does the simple thing.”

“He may lose his head.”

“Moale is there to remind him to be cautious. . . . No! Gault will never attack us in the open. Not while we stick together. I feel that from the inside. He doesn’t care what you would think; but he is too conceited to let me _see_ what a beast he can be.”

“When it came to the final point,” said Conacher, “I don’t believe he could harm you.”

“He’s _got_ to kill me now,” said Loseis simply. “I know too much.”

Conacher walked around the Women’s House, studying it. When he returned he said: “I think we had better make this our fortress. There are no windows in the back; it will be the easiest building to defend. And more comfortable for you girls. I’ll bring over my bed and bunk in the kitchen. You two take the inner room. . . . That is, if you agree.”

“You are the captain,” said Loseis with a warm glance.

“Well, we won’t quarrel over who’s the boss,” said Conacher. “Our first job must be to stock up with food, water, ammunition and firewood.”

They scattered to these tasks, glad to have something to occupy their hands. Expecting momentarily to be interrupted, they worked hard and swiftly, always keeping their ears sharpened for hoof-beats on the trail. But there were no alarms. Midday came; they finished their work; and Blackburn’s Post still basked undisturbed in the sunshine.

While Mary-Lou cooked the dinner, Conacher took stock of their supplies. There was ample food, firewood and ammunition—they had taken care to transfer the entire stock of ammunition from the store; but the water supply gave him cause for anxiety. The entire stock of vessels capable of holding water consisted of three small kegs, half a dozen pails and some small pots. The Slavis carried water in birch-bark receptacles.

“Barely a week’s supply,” said Conacher ruefully.

“If the worst comes to the worst we’ll have to cut out washing,” said Loseis smiling. “The Slavis get along without washing.”

After dinner they lounged in front of the house again. This was the hardest time to put in. The uncertainty of what to expect kept them keyed up to a painful pitch. Conacher wished to creep up to the top of the hill to reconnoiter; but Loseis would not hear of it.

“Would you take me with you?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“No, of course not!” said Loseis. “You know very well we might walk smack into a trap.”

They endlessly discussed their chances.

“If Tatateecha makes thirty miles again to-day,” said Conacher; “that will complete one-fifth of the whole distance. . . .”

“Better not count too much on Tatateecha,” warned Loseis. “He is as reliable as water.”

“I know,” said Conacher. “But there’s no harm in figuring. . . . Say he makes the warehouse in eight more days. If Gruber started back instantly—and of course he would on getting my letter; he could make the return journey in five days, or even four if he had plenty of horses. In twelve days then, we may begin to look for relief. After all twelve days is not so much. . . .”

“But Gault will be counting those twelve days, too,” said Loseis in a low tone. “He will not let them pass without acting.”

Seeing how the Indian girl’s head was hanging down, and her face twitching, Loseis said kindly: “Mary-Lou, why don’t you take a horse, and ride to the Slavi village? You can stay with the other Marys. You would be quite safe there. And you can’t do us any good by staying here.”

Mary-Lou, without looking up, slowly shook her head. “I not like live in tepee,” she murmured. “Please, I want stay with you.”

Loseis gave her a hug. “Surely!” she said. “But I hate to see you so broken up.”

“I all right,” said Mary-Lou in a strangled voice. She hastened into the house.

Conacher and Loseis came together. They walked in the grass with linked arms.

“Sweetheart,” murmured Conacher; “you hide it well, but you are suffering too!”

“You mustn’t feel sorry for me,” said Loseis, “or I’ll feel sorry for myself then. . . . It’s only not knowing what to expect! When I see what I have to do, I’ll be all right.”

“If I could only get you away from it all!”

“I have been through it alone,” said Loseis. “Now I have you!”

Later in the afternoon Conacher was sitting by himself at the door, still revolving their chances of receiving help from the outside, when suddenly he perceived a bark canoe with two figures in it coming down the river.

“By God! here’s something to break the suspense!” he cried, leaping up.

Loseis ran to the door. But when she saw the canoe her face showed no relief nor gladness. She suspected who was in it.

And when the canoe landed in the creek mouth, presently an all-too-familiar little rotund figure rose over the top of the bank.

“Tatateecha,” said Loseis in a listless voice.

Conacher’s face fell like a child’s. He groaned aloud in his anger and disappointment. “Oh, the miserable cur!” he cried.

“What would you expect of a Slavi?” said Loseis, shrugging.

They waited for him in a bitter silence. Tatateecha came plodding up the grassy rise with the air of a guilty schoolboy. His companion remained in the canoe. Reaching the top, Tatateecha, with an absurd pretense of not seeing Conacher and Loseis, headed straight across towards the store. Loseis summoned him peremptorily. He came like a dog to get his whipping, twisting his body, and grinning in sickening fear. Still trying to make out that nothing was the matter, he said something to Loseis that caused her to laugh a single bitter note.

“What is it?” demanded Conacher.

“He is out of tobacco,” said Loseis.

“Oh, my God!” cried Conacher. “Tobacco! When we were counting on him to bring us help!”

Loseis held up a restraining hand. “You will only frighten him stupid,” she said. “Let me find out what happened.”

The miserable Tatateecha told his story to Loseis, who translated it for Conacher. “He says, early this morning when they were packing up for the start, Gault, and his three big men suddenly rode into their camp, and the Slavis jumped on horses and spread in every direction. Gault, when he found you were gone, turned right back, but Tatateecha couldn’t round up the Slavis by himself, he says. One by one they gained the trail and galloped home; and there was nothing for it but for him to come home too. . . . It may be true. It has the sound of truth.”

“Leaving all the fur and the pack-horses where they were, I suppose,” said Conacher.

Loseis shrugged. “I expect that was bound to be lost,” she said.

“And he calls himself their head man . . . !”

Loseis concealed her bitter disappointment under a mask of indifference. “He isn’t worth swearing at,” she said. “Give him a plug of tobacco, and let him go.”

Tatateecha began to argue for two plugs of tobacco; Conacher with a threatening gesture, sent him flying down the hill.

Supper time was approaching when all further uncertainty was put to an end by the sound of many hoofs pounding down the trail above the Post. Loseis and Conacher prudently retired within the house, and barring the door, each took up a position at one of the little windows looking out on the square. Mary-Lou declined to come to the window. Conacher was in the kitchen; Loseis in her room, and the door open between. Conacher opened his window. Between his feet rested the butt of his express rifle; and he grasped the barrel in one hand.

Presently a numerous cavalcade rode into the grassy square. It seemed to the watchers as if they would never stop coming. Besides Gault and Moale they counted sixteen well-mounted Indians; big, able-looking fellows; mostly having a claim to a distant white ancestor in all probability. There were also several laden horses, and a number of spare ones.

“He’s brought his army against us!” said Conacher with scornful laughter.

“They don’t know what they’re going to be used for,” answered Loseis.

“Might be a good thing for me to tell them,” suggested Conacher.

“Useless,” said Loseis. “There’s never been any police stationed at Fort Good Hope, and they can conceive of no authority higher than Gault’s.”

Reining in, Gault pointed down to the river flat where the Slavi village had lately stood. The Indians rode on down the grassy rise with their pack-horses and spares; and began forthwith to make camp. Gault and Moale were left sitting their horses side by side. Gault, well aware that he was being watched, never looked towards the Women’s House. To all appearances he was as ever, the elegant gentleman; perfectly turned out; his face smooth and bland. He had allowed the rein to fall on his horse’s neck. One hand rested on his hip; and with the other he gesticulated gracefully towards the camp below, as he issued his instructions to the deferential Moale.

“Quite the beau ideal,” said Loseis dryly at her little window.

“So that’s my would-be murderer!” said Conacher at his. “Gives you a funny feeling to set eyes on him when you know.”

Moale dismounted and went to the door of the Men’s House, where he knocked.

“Feeling his way,” said Conacher.

“It will be amusing to hear what excuse he gives for coming back here,” said Loseis.

Conacher raised his gun. “Loseis,” he said soberly, “the quickest way to end this matter would be for me to shoot him off his horse as he sits there.”

Loseis ran to his side. “No, Paul, no!” she cried agitatedly.

“It would be the best way,” he insisted. “He means to kill us if he can. Suppose he gets one of us and the other is left. I’m a pretty good shot. I could get him easily now. It would end it. These other men have nothing against us.”

“No! No! No!” she cried. “Not until he attacks us! I couldn’t bear it!”

Conacher allowed the butt of his gun to thump on the floor again. “Very well,” he said a little sullenly. “Still, I think it would be the best way.”

Receiving no answer at the door of the men’s house, Moale faced about, and came towards them. Conacher and Loseis watched him with heads close together. Moale’s comely olive face was, as always, perfectly expressionless.

“What sort of man is this?” asked Conacher grimly.

“Who can tell?” said Loseis. “He is neither white nor red.”

They opened the door, and stood side by side within the frame to receive him, Conacher with his gun across his arm. At sight of the gun Moale’s eyes narrowed, but he made no reference to it in speech. Bowing to Loseis, he said in his gentle voice:

“Mr. Gault wishes to know if he may speak with you?”

“But why not?” said Loseis coolly. “Speech is free.”

“If he comes unarmed,” added Conacher grimly.

Moale stabbed him with a lightning glance of his strange eyes, but did not speak. Bowing to Loseis again, he turned and went back to Gault.

Loseis and Conacher remained standing in the doorway. The girl said earnestly:

“Paul dear, when he comes, you must hold your anger in.”

“I’m not going to truckle to him,” said Conacher, angry already.

“Of course not! If we showed fear we would be lost. But if we become angry they will use it as an excuse to attack us, and we will be lost, too. We must show neither fear nor anger, but only coldness. My heart tells me that.”

“Oh, you’re right, of course,” groaned Conacher; “but you’re asking almost too much of flesh and blood!”

After a brief colloquy with Moale, Gault dismounted, and came striding towards them with measured steps. He had retained the lordly air of the old-time trader. His self-control was marvelous; he kept his head up, and looked from Loseis to Conacher with brazen coolness. But there was a sort of glassy guard over his eyes. You could not see into them.

“He has his nerve with him,” grumbled Conacher in unwilling admiration. “Marching up to the gun like this, with empty hands.”

“He may have a pistol,” suggested Loseis.

“He’d have to draw it,” said Conacher coolly. “And my gun is in my hands.”

As he drew close, Gault’s eyes flickered once. It must have been like a knife in his breast to see Conacher and Loseis pressed together companionably in the door of their house like a little family. But this was the only sign of feeling he gave.

“Good evening,” he said to Loseis.

“Good evening,” returned Loseis.

Gault went on: “I was somewhat surprised to learn from Moale, when he returned to me to-day, that Conacher was with you.”

“Were you?” said Loseis dryly.

“You told me that he had gone with the fur.”

This was too much for Conacher’s honest simplicity. “You know damned well what brought me back!” he cried.

Loseis laid a restraining hand on his arm. Gault continued to look at Loseis as if Conacher had not spoken. There was a silence which seemed to bristle with pointing knives.

“Of course it was clear to me that the Slavis would never be able to carry through alone,” Gault resumed. “And as I happened to meet the men I had sent for from Fort Good Hope just then, I turned around and brought them back with me, to offer them to you to take out your fur. They are experienced and intelligent men, and can travel anywhere.”

Loseis took thought before answering. Why does he trouble to give me all this palaver when he knows he has only to go and get the fur? It occurred to her that candor on her part would be the best means of disconcerting him. She said coolly:

“The Slavis have already returned. The fur has been abandoned at the spot about thirty miles from here, where you saw it early this morning. . . .”

Gault changed color slightly. He could not guess how she had learned this so soon.

“Well, there it lies,” Loseis went on. “I do not mean to give you permission to go and get it. On the other hand I cannot prevent you from doing so.”

Gault appeared to be debating the question with himself. He finally said: “It is clearly my duty to save this valuable property. I shall therefore send the Crees after it to-morrow.”

“As you will,” said Loseis.

Gault made to go; and then turned back as if struck by a new thought. “I shall be returning to my own post,” he said. “My first thought was to send Moale out with the fur; but your situation cannot be very comfortable here. If you and Conacher would like to accompany the fur train, Moale may remain here to guard your property until you return.”

Loseis smiled coldly. So this was what he had been leading up to!

Conacher’s blue eyes widened with indignation. “Well, I’ll be damned!” he cried. “If this doesn’t. . . .”

Loseis touched him warningly. “I thank you,” she said to Gault with hard sweetness. “Mr. Conacher and I both thank you. We offer you all the thanks that is due to your most generous offer. But _under the circumstances_, we prefer to remain here.”

Gault’s face was like a wall. He bowed to Loseis, and left them.

“By God . . . !” began Conacher.

“Hush!” said Loseis. “Anger just gives him an opening to get angry too. But coldness mixes him all up.”

“What a fool he must be to think . . .”

“He is not a fool,” interrupted Loseis. “He knew exactly what he was doing. You see he was not sure if we knew that he meant murder. His object was to find that out. Well, he did find out.”