Chapter XXIV: A Sore Hand

“Now we know it was Murray and Kolbach who camped here the night before we came,” said Louis, after the guests were gone. “Then they tried to burn this old cabin so no one else could use it. That is a trick of rival traders to make each other as much trouble as they can.”

“The Northwest Company used to destroy Hudson Bay houses whenever they got a chance,” put in Neil.

“Yes, and the Hudson Bay men did the same to the Northwesters.”

“That was a queer way to try to burn a house though,” Neil remarked, “to begin at the top. Kolbach must have had to clean off the snow before he could set the fire.”

“Perhaps it was Kolbach who cleaned away the snow, but I think the plan to burn the cabin was as much _le Murrai’s_ as Kolbach’s,” Louis asserted. “I believe they tried to start fire in other places as well as the roof. At the back there is a place where a fire has burned close to the wall. The logs are charred and black. They started several fires, I think, but they did not stay to watch them. As _le Murrai_ said, only the roof burned well. What do you think, Walter?”

Walter had scarcely been listening. He was examining his right hand, which still smarted. Raising his head at the question, he replied carelessly, “About the fire? They set it, of course. Lucky for us it didn’t burn better.” He looked again at his stinging palm. “I wonder if Murray ever washes his hands. The dirt came off on mine. It makes this scratch sting.”

“Let me see.” Louis seized his friend’s hand, turned the palm to the firelight and bent over it. “That is no dirt,” he exclaimed. “It is sticky, a gum of some sort. You say it was not there before Murray shook hands with you? And now it hurts?”

“My hands were clean. I washed them before we began to get supper. That scratch certainly does hurt; much more than it did at first.”

“Put some water on the fire, Neil, just a little, to heat quickly. We must do something for this hand.” Louis spoke anxiously. “_Le Murrai_ has tried to poison you, Walter. Perhaps I can suck it out like snake venom.”

Without hesitation he put his lips to the scratch and sucked. He spat in the fire, and wiped his mouth with the end of his neck handkerchief. “The gum is too sticky, and we have nothing to draw the poison out, no salt pork for a poultice.”

“Make the scratch bleed,” suggested Neil. “Open it with your knife.”

“This black stuff must be cleaned off first,” objected Walter.

Cold water made no impression on the sticky substance that smeared Walter’s palm. Louis tried to scrape away the gum, then he sucked the scratch again. But he had to wait for hot water to really dissolve the gummy stuff and cleanse the hand. When every trace of black had been washed off, Louis drew the sharp point of his knife along the scratch, making a clean cut, deep enough to bleed freely.

In those days little was known about antiseptics. All three boys, however, were familiar enough with the treatment of snake bites to understand that poison must be drawn out as speedily as possible, either by sucking the wound or letting it bleed freely. They knew also that a clean wound was apt to heal more readily than a dirty one. Even the Indians recognized that fact, though their ideas of cleanliness were not much like ours. Louis would have torn a strip from his handkerchief to bandage the injury, but Walter felt that a colored and not too clean cloth was not the best dressing. He decided to leave his hand unbandaged, letting it bleed as much as it would and the blood clot naturally.

At first Walter could scarcely believe that Murray had deliberately tried to poison his hand, but Louis had no doubts. “I have heard of such things among the Indians,” he said, “and _le Murrai Noir_ is more Indian than white. He would not be above revenging himself that way or any other. If he is really friendly to us, why did he act as if he had never seen us before? He knew us certainly, though our names were not spoken. As he went towards the door, he put his fingers in his fire bag. I saw him do it, but thought nothing of it. He had seen you get that scratch. You know it is not like Murray to shake anyone by the hand.”

“That surprised me, I admit,” conceded Walter.

“Truly he had a reason. He hated you always after that affair of poor M’sieu Matthieu.”

“Do you suppose he has learned that we reported the loss of the pemmican and told about his bundle of trade goods?” Walter asked thoughtfully.

“That may be. He did not go up the Assiniboin, he was at Pembina too soon. At Fort Douglas or at the Forks they may have asked him about that pemmican. Even if they did not say we told them, he might lay it to us. He never was fond of either of us. The Black Murray is an evil man. He likes to do evil I think. He takes pleasure in it.”

In spite of the prompt treatment, Walter’s hand pained him all night and kept him restless. He was not the only one of the three that was wakeful. Louis and Neil, too, were uneasy. They were uncertain of Murray’s intentions. He and his companion had gone away, with sled and dogs, but how far had they gone? Had they really set out for Pembina, or had they made camp as soon as they were out of sight and hearing? The Black Murray’s keen eyes had not failed to take note of every pelt in the cabin. He had even offered to trade pemmican for the furs. Louis had declined, but did that settle the matter? Would Murray try in some other way to get possession of the catch? That he was not scrupulous in his methods was proved by his assault and robbery of the Ojibwa at the Red River.

The boys were sure that Murray would not have hesitated to take everything, if they had been away from the cabin when he arrived. They did not doubt that he would have been ready to use violence against any one of them. But he had found Louis and Walter quite prepared for him. Numbers had been equal and the boys’ guns within reach. Before Murray could discover an opening for strategy, Neil had arrived. With three alert lads watching him, the free trader had no chance. They were not at all sure, however, that he might not return and attempt a surprise. So Neil and Walter slept little, and Louis scarcely at all. Many times during the night, the Canadian boy slipped out to look and listen. Though he had turned the dogs loose, he did not dare to trust entirely to them.

The night passed without an alarm, but the boys were far from sure that they had seen the last of the Black Murray. Before they dared go about their ordinary work, they had to be certain that he was not anywhere in the vicinity. Louis decided to follow his trail, while the others remained at the cabin, alert and prepared for a second visit.

Walter’s hand worried both himself and his comrades. It was inflamed, swollen, and very sore. No one knew what to do for it, except to open up the cut and make it bleed again, a painful operation which Walter bore without flinching.

Louis was away early. He returned late in the day with the encouraging news that Murray had left the hills. His track, distinct and easy to follow, ran straight across the prairie in the direction of the Red River. “I followed several miles over the plain,” said Louis, “and could see the trail going on in the distance. Yet I feared he might have turned farther on somewhere, so I went north a long way, looking for a return trail. Then I came back, crossed his track, and went on to the south. I found nothing. Certainly _le Murrai_ has gone, unless he made a very wide circle to return. I think he would not give himself the trouble to do that. He had no reason to think we would doubt his story. Yes, I am as sure he is gone as I can be without following him clear to the Red River.”

Reassured, the boys took up their daily tasks of visiting the traps and deadfalls, fishing through the ice, and hunting. One of them, however, always remained at home, his gun loaded and within reach.

For several days Walter’s hand was very sore and painful. He was more than a little anxious about it. He feared serious blood poisoning that might mean the loss of hand, arm, and even life. But the inflammation did not spread. The prompt sucking of the scratch, the cleansing and free bleeding, and the healthy condition of Walter’s blood saved him. Within a week the soreness was almost gone and the cut healing properly.

In the meantime another misfortune had befallen the boys. The dogs were taken sick. Askimé was the first one to show the disease. One morning Louis found the husky with a badly swollen neck. He took the dog into the cabin and tended him anxiously, but the swelling increased until Askimé could no longer eat. He was scarcely able to swallow a little water. Walter proposed piercing the lumps, and performed the operation with an awl used in sewing skins. The swellings discharged freely, and Askimé, able to swallow, began to improve.

The other dogs had already shown signs of the same trouble. Gray Wolf had only a slight attack, but the brown animal was very sick. Lancing the lumps on his neck did no lasting good, and in spite of the boys’ efforts to save him, the poor beast died. Luckily Askimé and Gray Wolf recovered completely. How the dogs got the disease was a mystery. Murray had had no opportunity to poison them. Possibly the wolf-like animal that had broken loose and attacked Askimé had given the infection to him, or the husky and his fellows might have caught it from some wild beast they had killed and eaten.