The Promise Read online

  CHAPTER XIII

  ON THE TOTE-ROAD

  Very early in the morning on the day of the storm which had beenwelcomed by the lumber-jacks of the Blood River camp, old Wabishkestarted over his trap-line.

  The air was heavy with the promise of snow, and one by one the Indiantook up his traps and hung them in saplings that they might not beburied.

  After the storm, with the Northland lying silent under its mantle ofwhite, and the comings and goings of the fur-bearers recorded inpatterns of curious tracery, Wabishke would again fare forth upon thetrap-line.

  With wise eyes and the cunning of long practice, he would read the signin the snow, and by means of craftily concealed iron jaws and innocentappearing deadfalls, renew with increased confidence in his "winterset," the world-old battle of skill against instinct.

  On the crest of a low ridge at the edge of the old chopping whereMoncrossen's new Blood River tote-road made a narrow lane in theforest, the Indian paused.

  In the stump-dotted clearing, indistinct in the sullen dimness of theovercast dawn, rotted the buildings of the abandoned log-camp. From oneof these smoke rose. Wabishke decided to investigate, for in theNorthland no smallest detail may pass unaccounted for. Swiftly hedescended the ridge and, gliding silently into the aftergrowth ofspindling saplings that reared their sickly heads among the stumps,gained the rear of the shack. Noiselessly he advanced, and, peeringbetween the unchinked logs, surveyed the interior.

  A man sat upon the floor near the stove and laboriously appliedbandages to his blistered feet. Near by was a new pack-sack againstwhich leaned a pair of new high-laced boots toward which the man shotwrathful glances as he worked.

  "_Chechako_," muttered the Indian, and passed around to the door.

  A popular-fiction Indian would have glided stealthily into the shackand, with becoming dignity, have remarked "How."

  But Wabishke was just a common Indian--one of the everyday kind, thatmay be seen any time hanging about the trading-posts of theNorth-country--unimaginative, undignified--dirty. So he knocked loudlyupon the door and waited.

  "Come in!" called Carmody, and gazed in surprise at the newcomer, whostared back at him without speaking. Wabishke advanced to the stove,and, fumbling in the pocket of his disreputable mackinaw, produced avery old and black cob-pipe, which he gravely extended toward theother.

  "No, thanks!" said Bill hastily. "Got one of my own."

  He eyed with disfavor the short, thick stem, about the end of which waswound a bit of filthy rag, which served as a mouthpiece for the grip ofthe yellow fangs which angled crookedly at the place where a portion ofthe lip had been torn away in some long-forgotten combat of the wilds.

  "T'bacco," grunted the visitor, with a greasy distortion of thefeatures which passed for a smile.

  "Oh, that's it? Well, here you are."

  Carmody produced a bright-colored tin box, which he handed to theIndian, who squatted upon his heels and regarded its exterior inthoughtful silence for many minutes, turning it over and over in hishand and subjecting every mark and detail of its lettered surface to aminute scrutiny.

  Finally with a grunt he raised the lid and contemplated the tobacco,which was packed evenly in thin slices.

  He stared long and curiously at his own distorted image, which wasreflected from the unpainted tin of the inside of the cover, feltcautiously of the paraffined paper, and, raising the box to his nose,sniffed noisily at the contents.

  Apparently satisfied, he removed a dozen or more of the slices andground them slowly between the palms of his hands. This done, he rammedpossibly one-tenth of the mass into the bowl of his ancient pipe andcarefully conveyed the remainder to his pocket.

  "Match?" he asked. And Bill passed over his monogrammed silvermatch-box, which received its share of careful examination, evidently,however, not meeting the approval accorded the gaudy tobacco-box.

  The Indian abstracted about one-half of the matches, which hetransferred to the pocket containing the tobacco. Then, calmlyselecting a dry twig from the pile of firewood, thrust the end througha hole in the broken stove, and after much noisy puffing at lengthsucceeded in igniting the tightly tamped tobacco in his pipe-bowl.

  "Thank you," said Bill, contemplating his few remaining matches."You're a bashful soul, aren't you? Did you ever serve a term in theLegislature?"

  The Indian's command of English did not include a word Bill haduttered; nevertheless, his mangled lip writhed about the pipe-stem ingrotesque grin.

  "Boots!" he grunted, eying the bandaged feet. "No good!" and hecomplacently wriggled the toes in his own soft moccasins. Bill notedthe movement, and a sudden desire obsessed him to possess at any costthose same soft moccasins.

  Wabishke, like most Indians, was a born trader, and he was quick tonote the covetous glance that the white _chechako_ cast toward hisfootgear.

  "Will you sell those?" asked Bill, pointing toward the moccasins. TheIndian regarded them thoughtfully, and again the toes wriggledcomfortably beneath the pliable moose-skin covering. Bill tried again.

  "How much?" he asked, touching the moccasins with his finger.

  The Indian pondered the question through many puffs of his short pipe.He pointed to the new boots, and when Bill handed them to him hecarefully studied every stitch and nail of each. Finally he laid themaside and pointed to the tobacco-box, which he again scrutinized andlaid with the boots.

  "Match," he said.

  "Get a light from the fire like you did before, you old fraud! I onlyhave a few left."

  "Match," repeated the Indian, and Bill passed over his match-box, whichwas placed with the other items. Wabishke pointed toward the pack-sack.

  "Look here, you red Yankee!" exclaimed Bill. "Do you want my wholeoutfit for those things?"

  The other merely shrugged and pointed first at the bandaged feet, andthen at the boots. One by one, a can of salmon, a sheath-knife, and ablue flannel shirt were added to the pile, and still Wabishke seemedunsatisfied.

  While the Indian pawed over the various articles of his pack, Billfound time to put the finished touches on his bandages, and, reachingunder the table, drew forth the whisky bottle and poured part of itscontents upon the strips of cloth.

  At the sight of the bottle the Indian's eyes brightened, and he reachedfor it quickly. Bill shook his head and set the bottle well out of hisreach.

  "Me drink," the other insisted, and again Bill shook his head. TheIndian seemed puzzled.

  "No like?" he asked.

  "No like," repeated Bill, and smiled grimly.

  Wabishke regarded him in wondering silence. In his life he had seenmany strange things, but never a thing like this--a white man who ofhis own choice drank spring-water from a fish-can and poured goodwhisky upon his feet!

  The Indian's eyes wandered from the pile of goods to the bottle, inwhich about one-fourth of the contents remained, and realized that hewas at a disadvantage, for he knew by experience that a white man andhis whisky are hard to part.

  Selecting the can of salmon from the pile, he shoved it toward the man,who again shook his head. Then followed the match-box, thesheath-knife, and the shirt, until only the tobacco-box and the bootsremained, and still the man shook his head.

  Slowly the tobacco-box was handed back, and the Indian was eying theboots. Bill laughed.

  "No. You'll need those. Just hand over the moccasins, and you arewelcome to the boots and the booze."

  The Indian hastily untied the thongs, and the white man thrust hisbandaged feet into the soft comfort of the mooseskin moccasins. A fewminutes later he took the trail, following the windings of Moncrossen'snew tote-road into the North.

  The air was filled with a light, feathery snow, and, in spite of theache of his stiffened muscles, he laughed.

  "The first bottle of whisky _I_ ever entered on the right side of theledger," he said aloud--and again he laughed.

  He was in the big timber now. The tall, straight pines of the Appletonholdings stretched away for a hundred miles, and formed a
high wall oneither side of the tote-road, which bent to the contour of ridge andswamp and crossed small creeks on rough log bridges or corduroycauseways.

  Gradually the stiffness left him, and his aching muscles limbered totheir work. His moccasins sank noiselessly into the soft snow as mileafter mile he traversed the broad ribbon of white.

  At noon he camped, and over a tiny fire thawed out his bread and warmedhis salmon, which he washed down with copious drafts of snow-water.Then he filled his pipe and blew great lungfuls of fragrant smoke intothe air as he rested with his back against a giant pine and watched thefall of the snow.

  During the last hour the character of the storm had changed. Cold, drypellets, hissing earthward had replaced the aimless dance of thefeathery flakes, and he could make out but dimly the opposite wall ofthe rod-wide tote-road.

  He returned the remains of his luncheon to his pack, eying with disgustthe heel of the loaf of hard bread and the soggy, red mass of sock-eyethat remained in the can.

  "The first man that mentions canned salmon to me," he growled, "isgoing to get _hurt_!"

  The snow was ankle-deep when he again took the trail and lowered hishead to the sting of the wind-driven particles. On and on he plodded,lifting his feet higher as the snow deepened. As yet, in his ignoranceof woodcraft, no thought of danger entered his mind. "It is harderwork, that is all," he thought; but, had he known it, his was asituation that no woodsman wise in the ways of the winter trails wouldhave cared to face.

  During the morning he had covered but fifteen of the forty miles whichlay between the old shack and Moncrossen's camp. Each minute added tothe difficulties of the journey, which, in the words of Daddy Dunniganwas "a fine two walks for a good man," and, with the added hardship ofa heavy snowfall, would have been a man's-sized job for the best ofthem equipped, as they would have been, with good grub and snowshoes.

  Bill was forced to rest frequently. Not only were his softened musclesfeeling the strain--it was getting his wind, this steady bucking thesnow--but each time he again faced the storm and plowed doggedlynorthward.

  Darkness found him struggling knee-deep in the cold whiteness, and, ashe paused to rest in the shelter of a pile of tops left by the axe-men,the foremost of the gray shadows that for the last two hours had doggedhis footsteps, phantom-like, resolved itself into a very tangible pairof wicked eyes which smoldered in greenish points of hate above a verysharp, fang-studded muzzle, from which a long, red tongue lickedsuggestively at back-curled lips.