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The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort Dearborn

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Title: The Shadow of Victory: A Romance of Fort Dearborn

Author: Myrtle Reed


        
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Language: English

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 [Illustration: "An arrow sang past her, then another just missed her,
  and she leaned forward, close to the horse."
                                                (_page 374_)]


THE SHADOW OF VICTORY

A Romance of Fort Dearborn

by

MYRTLE REED







[Illustration]

G. P. Putnam's Sons
New York and London
The Knickerbocker Press
1903

Copyright, 1903
By
Myrtle Reed

Published, September, 1903

The Knickerbocker Press, New York




CONTENTS

  CHAPTER                             PAGE

     I.--THE PROPHECY                     1
    II.--NEW ACQUAINTANCES               21
   III.--THE SECOND IN COMMAND           37
    IV.--RONALD'S VIEWS OF MARRIAGE      54
     V.--THE FIRST FLOWER OF SPRING      69
    VI.--COUSINS                         85
   VII.--THE ALARM                      102
  VIII.--THOROUGHBREDS                  118
    IX.--ON THE FORT WAYNE TRAIL        134
     X.--A GLEAM AFAR                   150
    XI.--A JUNE DAY                     165
   XII.--IN THE NORTH WOODS             182
  XIII.--GIFTS                          198
   XIV.--HEART'S DESIRE                 216
    XV.--RIVALS                         234
   XVI.--THE WORM TURNS                 251
   XVII.--A COUNCIL OF WAR              268
  XVIII.--"IF I WERE IN COMMAND"        285
    XIX.--SAVED FROM HIMSELF            300
     XX.--RECONCILIATION                318
    XXI.--THE LAST DAY IN THE FORT      336
   XXII.--THE RED DEATH                 359
   XXIII.--RESCUE                       380
    XXIV.--THE REPRIEVE                 397




THE SHADOW OF VICTORY




CHAPTER I

THE PROPHECY


It was a long, low room, with a fireplace, roughly built of limestone,
at one end of it. The blazing logs illuminated one corner and sent
strange shadows into the others, while the winter wind moaned drearily
outside. At the right and left of the fireplace were rude counters,
hewn from logs, resting on stumps of unequal height, and behind
them were shelves, packed with the sordid miscellany of a frontier
trading-post. A closed door on either side seemingly led to other
apartments, but there was no sound save the wind and the crackle of
the flames.

A candle, thrust into the broken neck of a bottle, gave a feeble light
to a little space around one end of the counter on which it stood.
The rafters were low--so low that a tall man, standing on tiptoe,
might easily unhook the smoked hams and sides of bacon that hung
there, swaying back and forth when the wind shook the house.

Walls, ceiling, and floor were of logs, cut into a semblance of
smoothness. The chinks were plastered with a bluish clay, and the
crevices in the floor were filled with a mixture of clay and small
chips. At the left of the chimney was a rude ladder which led to the
loft through an opening in the ceiling. Fingers of sleet tapped at the
glass, swirling phantoms of snow drifted by, pausing for a moment at
the windows, as if to look within, and one of the men moved his chair
closer to the fire.

"You fed the cattle, didn't you, Chan?" The half-breed grunted assent.

It was the eldest of the three who had spoken. His crouching position
in his chair partially concealed his great height, but the firelight
shone full upon his iron-grey hair and the deep lines seamed upon his
kindly face. His hands were rough and knotted, his fingers straight
and square at the tips--hands without beauty, but full of strength.

The hand which rested on the arm of the chair next to him was
entirely different. It was fair and smooth and slender, with tapering
fingers, and with the outer line of the palm delicately curved;
instinct with strength of another sort, yet gentle almost to the point
of femininity. The hand accorded ill with the deep, melodious voice of
the man, when he said:

"Uncle, you don't know how glad I am to be here with you and Aunt
Eleanor. I feel as if I had come home at last, after many wanderings."

"You're welcome, my boy," was the hearty answer. "I'm glad you got
through before this storm came, 'cause travellin' 'cross country isn't
good in February, as a rule. Things will be closed up now till Spring."

"And then--what?" asked the young man.

"Trains of pack-horses from Rock River and the Illinois. Canoes and
a bateau from Milwaukee, in charge of Canadian _engagés_. Then the
vessel from Fort Mackinac with goods for the trade, and Indians from
all over creation. The busy season begins in the Spring."

Chandonnais, the half-breed, was audibly asleep in his warm corner,
and the guest arose to walk nervously about the room. He was clad in
rusty black broadcloth, which had seen all of its best days and some
of its worst, and clung closely to his tall, lank figure, as though
in fear of the ultimate separation. His hair was black and straight,
his eyes deep brown and strangely luminous, his mouth sensitive, and
his face very pale. He was not more than twenty-five or six, and
looked even younger.

John Mackenzie quietly watched him in his uneasy march back and forth.
At last he came to the fire, stopped short, and put a questioning
finger upon the limestone. "Here's some initials," he said. "J. B. P.
D. S.--what does that stand for?"

"Jean Baptiste Pointe de Saible, I reckon," replied Mackenzie. "He
built this cabin. The Indians say that the first white man here was a
negro."

"P. L. M."--continued the young man. "Who was he?"

"Pierre Le Mai, I guess--the French trader I bought the place from."

"You should put yours here, too, Uncle."

"Not I, my boy. I have come to stay--and my children after me."

"That reminds me of my young charge. Shall we begin to-morrow?"

"As you like. The sooner the better, I suppose. You brought books,
didn't you?"

"All that I have; not many, I regret to say."

"Johnny has a spelling-book that came from Mackinac in a chest of
green tea, when the vessel touched here last year. He was very anxious
then to know what was inside of it, but I don't know how he feels now."

"Have you any special instructions for me?"

"No," answered Mackenzie, rising. He put his hand on the young
man's shoulder and looked down into his face. "I never had much
book-learning," he said, "'cause I ran away from school, but I want
that my son should have it. Teach him everything you know that he can
learn; it won't hurt him none. Teach him to tell the truth, to be
afraid of nothing but dishonour, and to be kind to women. You look
like your mother, boy."

The door opened suddenly, and the gust of wind that came in with it
put out the candle and filled the room with the odour of burning
tallow. "How!" grunted a stalwart Indian, in general salutation.

"How!" responded Mackenzie. "What is it to-night?"

The savage was more than six feet in height, and looked like the chief
that he was. He was dressed from head to foot in buckskin, cunningly
embroidered and beaded by a squaw. He wore nothing on his head, but a
brilliant blanket was draped over one shoulder. A powder-horn hung at
his side and a hunting-knife gleamed in his belt.

The squaw came in behind her lord and master, and shut the door, three
grey wolf skins falling to the floor as she did so. "Shaw-ne-aw-kee,"
commanded the Indian, pointing to Mackenzie.

The woman obediently laid the skins upon the counter, and Black
Partridge began to bargain for flour and bacon, speaking his own
tongue. An animated conversation ensued, with many gestures on
the part of the Indian. Mackenzie answered quietly, in the harsh
Pottawattomie dialect, and stood his ground. The chief finally
yielded, with a good grace which might or might not have been genuine,
and the transfer was accomplished.

The Indian picked up one of the skins and pointed to a blood stain
near the top of it, then began to talk rapidly. Mackenzie listened
till he had finished speaking, then turned to his nephew.

"Look here, Rob," he said, "this will interest you. He says he had no
trap, so he took his last piece of bacon and his hunting-knife and
went up into the north woods. He sat down under a tree and waited,
with the bacon in his left hand and his knife in his right. Presently
the hungry wolf appeared, and, after due investigation, came near
enough to stab. He says he waited from midnight till almost sunrise. A
white man never could do that."

"Hardly," returned the young man, fingering the skin curiously. "What
monumental patience!"

This speech, with a little additional compliment, was translated
for the benefit of Black Partridge, whose stolid features gleamed
momentarily, then relapsed into impassive bronze.

A cheery whistle was heard outside, then a stamp upon the piazza, a
merry and prolonged tapping, reinforced by a kick, at which the door
burst open, and a young soldier entered.

"Evening!" he shouted to Mackenzie. He pounded the Indian familiarly
on the back, saying, "Hello, Birdie," tweaked the squaw's ear and
tickled her under the chin, and reached the fire before any one else
had time to speak.

"Ronald," said Mackenzie, "this is my nephew, Robert Forsyth, from
Detroit. Mr. Forsyth, Ensign George Ronald, of Fort Dearborn."

Ronald drew his heels together, saluted with mock solemnity, then
wrung Forsyth's slender hand in a grip that made him wince. "Proud to
know you, sir. Third in command, at your service, sir. Have you come
to enlist?"

Chandonnais awoke, muttered an oath, and ran to the door, shutting it
noisily. "Your pardon, sir," continued Ronald. "Wind's from the south
this evening. Thought I'd let a little warm air in. Never appreciated
in this world. Hope I may be in the next. Do I speak to a soldier,
sir?"

"No," laughed Forsyth.

"Who's the lady you have with you, Birdie?" asked the Ensign, turning
to the Indian. "Am I mistaken in supposing it to be Mrs. B. Partridge?"

"Me no spik Ingleesh," answered the chief, with great dignity.

"Neither do I, Birdie, neither do I," continued the soldier, genially.
"Devilish language with all kinds of corners in it to hurt yourself
on. I was pitched into it headlong the day of my arrival, and have
been at sea ever since. Don't fool with it, Birdie. You're getting
on all right with signs and pictures and grunts, and if Mrs. B. P.
doesn't speak it, why, so much the better. Vast resources in the
language known to women only. What, going? Bye-bye!"

Another breeze from the south entered the room as Black Partridge and
the squaw made a stately exit, the woman carrying the provisions for
which the wolf skins had been bartered.

"Ronald," began Mackenzie, drawing another chair from behind the
counter, "I'd advise you to be more careful with the Indians. They're
a treacherous crowd."

"I am careful," answered the Ensign, hurling a very shabby overcoat
across the room, and sinking comfortably into Mackenzie's chair.
"That's why I asked about Mrs. B. P. You see, I was skating on the
river this morning, before this little snow flurry struck us, and I
met this lady. She seemed to want to go, so I took her with me. She
slid along on her moccasins, hanging on behind, and had a fine time
till we struck a snowdrift, just around the bend. The woman tempted
me, and I did throw her into it. Lord, how she squalled! It may have
been ungallant, but it was fun."

Mackenzie laughed, in spite of his well-meant efforts to keep his
face straight, and Forsyth's eyes were bright with new interest.
Chandonnais was asleep again.

"It was quite natural to make inquiries, wasn't it?" resumed Ronald.
"I wouldn't want to throw another man's wife into a snowdrift,
especially when the gentleman in question is a six-foot savage with a
tomahawk, and peculiar ideas about fair play."

"Your manner of speech is not suited to the Indians," said Mackenzie,
soberly.

"There you go again--always criticising, always finding fault.
Criticism irks me. That's why I left the Fort this evening. Fussy lot,
over there."

"What was the matter?" asked Forsyth.

"Nothing at all. Captain and his wife reading last month's papers, and
taking no notice of visitors. Lieutenant and his wife writing letters,
likewise oblivious of visitors. All inhospitable--nobody asked me to
sit down. Barracks asleep. Doc and I played solitaire, because it's
the only game he knows--to see who could get through first, and he
kicked up a devil of a row because I cheated. Hasn't a man a right to
cheat when he's playing solitaire? No law against cheating yourself,
is there?"

"That's a mooted question," Forsyth answered.

"Maybe so, maybe so. I mooted it awhile with the Doc, and then quit.
Coming over, I managed to get into the hole I broke in the river for
this morning's bath, but it was all slush and ice--no harm done."

His garments were steaming in the generous warmth of the fire, and
perspiration beaded his forehead. He stood a little over six feet in
his stockings, and his superb muscle was evident in every line of his
body. His thick, yellow hair was so long that he occasionally shook it
back, like a mane. He had the face of a Viking--blue eyes, straight
nose, red and white complexion, and a mouth and chin that in some way
suggested steel. One felt the dynamic force of the man, his power of
instant and permanent decision, and the ability to put that decision
into immediate action.

"Sorry you're not going to be a soldier, Mr. Forsyth," he continued.
"I knew you weren't, as soon as I saw you--you're altogether too
young. The barracks are full of old ladies with the rheumatism. The
parade ground is bloody with red flannel when the troops limp out,
which is seldom, by the way, the Captain having a tender heart. Me and
the other officers are the only ones under the age limit, if there is
any age limit. When a man gets too old to be of use in the army, the
President says: 'Don't discharge the poor cuss--send him out to Fort
Dearborn, where all his old friends are. He'll be well taken care of,
and won't have anything to do.' When you see an old man in a tattered
uniform, bent and wrinkled and gummy-eyed, who puts his hand up to his
ear and says, 'Hey!' when you speak to him, don't step on him--he's a
soldier, stationed at the Fort.

"Had a wrestling match with one of the most sprightly, this very
morning, and took the skin off the poor, tender old devil in several
places. Doc made a surpassingly fine seam at one of the places
afterward--Doc's pretty good with a needle and thread. The patient
is in his bunk now, being rubbed with hot things by one of the
rheumatics. I've tried to get the Doc to prescribe a plunge in the
river every morning for the barracks, and I've urged the Captain to
order it, but it's no use."

"Peculiar treatment for rheumatism," smiled Mackenzie.

"It's the only thing they haven't tried, and I'm inclined to think it
would work a change."

There was a brief silence, during which Forsyth studied the young
officer attentively, but Ronald was never still very long.

"What are you going to be, if not a soldier?" he asked, curiously.
"You're--you're not a missionary, are you?"

"Do I look like one?"

"Can't say--missionaries are deceiving; but I hope not. The
Pottawattomies tomahawked the last one and fried the remains. They're
not yet ready for the soothing influences of religion."

"I have come to teach my young cousins," said Forsyth, slowly, "and
to help my uncle as I can. I graduated from college last year, and
went to Detroit to teach, but I--I didn't do very well." His pale face
reddened as he made his confession. "Uncle John and Aunt Eleanor have
kindly offered me a home with them," he went on. "They're the only
relatives I have."

"They are relatives enough," remarked the Ensign. "Mrs. Mackenzie is
the kindest woman and the best cook that ever lived, isn't she, Chan?"

The sleeper made no reply, so Ronald strode over to him and shook him
roughly. "Wake up!" he bellowed. "Is Mrs. Mackenzie a good cook, or
isn't she? Answer!"

The half-breed was frightened for a moment, but quickly realised the
situation. "What?" he asked.

The question was repeated, with sundry shakes for emphasis. "Yes,"
grunted Chandonnais, sheepishly, "she good cook."

"Sit up straight, then, and look your prettiest. You can't sleep all
day and all night, too." The restless visitor made a rapid tour around
the counters, carefully examining the goods upon the shelves. "Nothing
here I can use," he announced, returning to the fire.

"What was that silver thing the Indian had on?" asked Forsyth. "It
looked like a coin of some kind."

"That was his precious medal. Captain Wells gave it to him, and he
prizes it more than he does the hair of his lordly top piece. When
Birdie dies, you'll find that sacred medal nailed to him, and if it
doesn't accompany him to the happy hunting-grounds, his ghost will
haunt the miserable mortal who has it. Don't mind a plain ghost
myself, but a ghost with a tomahawk might be pretty bad."

"I make silver things for the Indians, sometimes," Mackenzie said.
"They call me 'Shaw-ne-aw-kee,' meaning 'The Silver Man.'"

A face appeared at the window for an instant, and peered furtively
within. It was so silent and so white, in the midst of the swirling
snow, that it might have been a phantom of the storm. Then the door
opened slowly, creaking ever so little on its hinges, and was softly
closed. They felt, rather than heard, a presence in the room.

Forsyth, turning, saw a wisp of a woman, bent and old, in a faded blue
calico dress which came scarcely to her ankles. Her shoes were much
too large for her, and badly worn. A ragged shawl, of uncertain colour
and pattern, was her only protection from the cold.

It slipped off as she came toward the fire, moving noiselessly, and
Forsyth saw that her hair was snow white and her face finely traced
with wrinkles. Mackenzie looked also.

"Mad Margaret," he whispered to Forsyth, in a swift aside. "Don't say
anything."

The half-breed's eyes had a wolfish glitter which no one saw. Forsyth
rose, bowed politely, and offered her his chair.

If she saw him, she made no sign. Coming closer to the fire she
crouched on her knees before it and stretched her frail, delicate
hands toward the grateful warmth. Ronald's flood of high spirits
instantly receded.

For a long time they sat there in silence. Mackenzie and the Ensign
were looking into the fire, thinking, perhaps, of things a thousand
miles away, while Forsyth and Chandonnais narrowly watched the woman.

Unmistakable madness, of the dumb, pathetic kind, was written on her
face. Her unseeing eyes were faded blue, her cheeks were sunken, and
her chin delicately pointed. Solitude went with her always. She might
have been alone, in the primeval forest, before a fire some unknown
hand had kindled, among wild beasts of whom she was not afraid.
Some eerie influence was upon her, for, after a little, she moved
nervously, and peered into the flames, muttering to herself.

"Oh, Lord," groaned Mackenzie, "she's goin' to have one of her spells!"

How often the poor, crazed creature had sought him, when the tempests
swept her soul, only he could tell. He leaned forward and took hold of
her hand. "Margaret," he said; "Margaret."

The touch and the voice seemed to quiet her, but she still looked
searchingly into the flames. Chandonnais rose, reached up to the
chimney-shelf, and took down a violin. With the first touch of the bow
upon the strings, she left Mackenzie and went to him, kneeling at his
feet, with her eyes fixed hungrily upon his face.

Strains of wild music filled the room--music which no man had ever
heard before. A tender, half-hushed whisper, the tinkle of a brook, a
twilight subtleness of shadow, then a low, crooning note, as if the
brook had gone to sleep. Strange sounds of swaying branches came from
the violin, with murmurs of a mighty wind, then, of a sudden, there
seemed to be dawn. The tinkle of the brook began again, with a bird
note here and there, at the beginning of a great crescendo which swept
on and on, as the music of the river was woven in. Question, prayer,
and mating call, from a thousand silvery throats, rioted through
the tapestry of sound, then merged into a deep, passionate tone of
infinite sweetness, as if the river had found the sea, or a man's
tortured soul had come face to face with its ultimate peace.

"Play," said Mad Margaret, brokenly, "play more."

Once again the bow swept the strings, bringing forth a melody which
breathed rest. It was quiet and hushed, like the woods at twilight,
or the shore of a sea that knows no storm. Through it ran a haunting
cadence, with the rhythm of a lullaby, and Margaret rocked her frail
body back and forth, unconsciously keeping time. When it was finished,
she sat quite still, but on her face was the rapt look of the seer.

"I see blood," she said, very distinctly. "Much blood, then fire, and
afterward peace."

It was the old, old prophecy, which she had made a thousand times.
"Much blood," she repeated, shaking her head sadly.

"Where, Peggy?" asked Ronald, suddenly.

"Here," she answered, making a wide circle with her arms.

"What else do you see?" he asked again, looking at her intently.

She drew her hand wearily across her forehead and closed her eyes for
an instant, then went to him, and put her hands on his knees.

"I see you," she said, meaningly.

"Where, Peggy?" His voice was low and very gentle, as if he were
speaking to a child.

"Here, with the blood. You shall have many sorrows, but never your
heart's desire."

"Never my heart's desire?"

"No. Many sorrows, at the time of the blood, but not that."

"What is my heart's desire?"

"It has not come, but you will know it soon." She looked at him keenly
for an instant, then laughed mockingly, and almost before they knew
it, she had darted out into the night like the wild thing that she was.

No one spoke until after Chandonnais had put the violin in its place
on the chimney-shelf and clambered up the ladder which led to the
loft.

"Who is she, Uncle?"

"Nobody knows," sighed Mackenzie. "She appeared, unexpectedly, the
very day we came here. Sometimes months go by without a glimpse of
her, then, for a time, she will come every day."

"How does she live?"

Mackenzie shrugged his shoulders. "We give her things," he said, "and
so do the Indians and the people at the Fort. Black Partridge says he
has seen her catch a gull on the lake shore, strangle it, and eat it
raw. At the full of the moon, when her rages come on her, she speaks
very good English. At other times, she mutters something no one can
understand, or else she does not speak at all. She is harmless, I
believe. She is only one of the strange things one finds in a new
country."

"How did you come to settle here, Uncle?"

"I hardly know. It's a good place for trading, and the Fort is near
by. I like the new places, where a few make their own laws, and I like
the prairie. I can breathe here, but the hills choke me."

"Never my heart's desire," mused the Ensign. He was sitting with his
elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, gazing into the fire.
He did not know that he had spoken aloud.

"Do any of us ever find it?" asked Forsyth.

"Not often, I guess," answered Mackenzie. "When we do, we are
disappointed and begin to seek for something else."

From across the river, muffled by the storm, came the deep, sonorous
notes of a bell. "Taps," said Ronald. He hurried into his overcoat,
without a word of farewell, and bolted.

Forsyth followed, to close the door after him, and then went to the
window to look at the dark, floundering figure silhouetted dimly
against the snow.

"Breezy young man," commented Mackenzie.

"Yes," answered Forsyth, after a moment's silence, "I like him."




CHAPTER II

NEW ACQUAINTANCES


The next morning was cold and clear. The sun shone brilliantly,
revealing unsuspected diamonds set in the snow. Forsyth woke late,
wondered sleepily where he was, and then remembered.

His room was at the western end of the house, which faced the south,
and from his window he could see the Fort and the Agency on the other
side of the river. A savoury suggestion of frying bacon, penetrating
the rough log partition, impelled him to dress hurriedly. As he broke
the ice in his water pitcher, he wondered whether the Ensign had taken
his regular plunge, and shivered at the thought.

When he reached the large room which served as kitchen, dining-room,
and parlour, he found the family already assembled. Chandonnais was
just leaving the table, and Mrs. Mackenzie sat at the head, pouring
coffee from a quaint and battered silver pot which had been her
grandmother's.

"Good-morning," she said cheerily, "I thought most likely you were
beat out from travelling, and I told John to let you sleep."

She was a large, fair woman, matronly in every line, and her face
was delicately pink. Her abundant hair was ashen blonde, escaping in
little curls at her temples, and at the second glance one saw that
it was rapidly turning grey. She had a wholesome air of cleanliness,
and her blue eyes mirrored the kindness in the depths of her motherly
heart.

Her brood was gathered around her, and every face had been scrubbed
until it shone. The baby sat at her right and pounded the table madly
with his pewter spoon, to the evident delight of his father. Maria
Indiana was sipping warm milk daintily, like the four-year-old lady
that she was, and Ellen and Johnny conducted themselves with more
dignity than is common to people of seven and nine.

Forsyth had made friends with the children the evening before, and, of
his own accord, had extended the schooling to all but the baby.

"It's going to be a sight of comfort to me," said Mrs. Mackenzie, "to
have the young ones out from under foot half the time. The baby don't
bother much. I tie him in his chair, give him something to play with,
and he's all right."

"Where am I to teach, Aunt Eleanor?"

"In the next room, I guess. There's a fireplace in there, and you can
have it all to yourselves. Just wait till the breakfast things are out
of the way and I'll see to it."

At this juncture the Ensign appeared, smiling and debonair. "Morning!
Am I too late for coffee?"

"You've had some already this morning, haven't you?" asked Mackenzie.

"Well, now, that depends on what coffee really is. Of course they
called it that, but it isn't to be mentioned in the same breath with
Mrs. Mackenzie's." Robert noted that there was an extra cup on the
table, and surmised that the delicate hint was not infrequent.

"Thank you," continued the visitor in a grateful tone; "you've saved
my life."

"I wish I had a dollar for every time I've saved your life," laughed
Mrs. Mackenzie.

"So do I, for you are a good and beautiful woman, and you deserve a
fortune, if anybody ever did."

"Go away, you flatterer. You remind me of a big, motherless chicken."

"Gaunt and chicken-like I may be, but never motherless while you live.
A little bread and butter, please, to go with the coffee."

"Wouldn't you like some bacon?" asked Mackenzie, hospitably.

"Well, perhaps--a little. Mrs. Mackenzie cooks it beautifully."

"Ellen," said her mother, "get another plate."

"You're so good to me," murmured the Ensign, drawing his chair closer
to his hostess. "Are those doughnuts?"

"They are."

"I remember once, when you gave me a doughnut, just after drill. I can
taste it yet."

"Is that so? I'd forgotten it."

"Now that I think of it, you didn't, but you said you would, some
time."

She laughed and pushed the plate toward him.

"Ye gods!" he exclaimed, sinking his white teeth into a doughnut,
"what cooking! What a woman!"

"I think I'll ask to be excused," said Mackenzie, rising and pushing
back his chair.

"Certainly," responded the soldier, with a gesture of elaborate
unconcern. "Don't stay on my account, I beg of you. Think of real
cream in your coffee!" he sighed, scraping the pitcher with a spoon.
"I could drink cream."

"You're not going to," put in Mrs. Mackenzie, pointedly.

"I know it," he answered sadly; "I only wish I were."

When the last scrap of food had disappeared from the table, he stopped
eating, but not before.

"That makes a man feel better," he announced, "especially a suffering
and dying invalid like me. Come on, Forsyth, I'm going to take you
over to the Fort for a bit."

It did not occur to Robert to question the mandates of this lordly
being. "All right, wait till I get my coat and hat. I'll be back in a
few minutes, Aunt Eleanor, to open school."

"The devil you will," observed Ronald, as they left the house. "What a
liar you are!"

The path which led to the gate was well trodden, early morning though
it was. "Indian tracks," said the Ensign, pointing to a narrow line
on the snow; "you can always tell 'em. They keep their feet in single
file--no company front about their walking."

An unpainted fence surrounded the Mackenzie premises, and at the
right and left of the gate were four tall Lombardy poplars, two on
each side. Brown sparrows chattered and fought in the bare branches,
scorning to fly away at their approach. The house had been built on
a point of land which projected into the river and turned it sharply
from its course. Between the patches of snow the ice glittered in the
sun.

"Salubrious spot," commented George, as they struck the frozen surface
of the stream. "Don't get too near that hole. It's my bath-tub and
it's weak around the edges."

Near the middle of the river was a large, jagged space in the ice and
on the snow around it were finger-marks and footprints.

"Rather looked for you out this morning," Ronald continued. "Was
disappointed."

Robert shrugged his shoulders, but made no reply.

"That happy architectural combination which we now approach," his
guide went on, professionally, "is Fort Dearborn. Intoxicated party
drew the plans and other intoxicated parties followed 'em. I could
improve it in several places, but I'm obliged to make the best of it.
The flag-pole, in the middle of the parade-ground, is seventy-five
feet high, though you wouldn't suspect it, on account of the
heroic proportions of the other buildings, and it interferes most
beautifully with everything.

"Regular fort, though. Officers' quarters, barracks, offices,
guard-house, magazine, and other modern inventions. Commanding officer
has a palatial residence to himself. The Lieutenant is supposed to
live in half of it, but he doesn't. Those warts at the south-east and
north-west corners are block-houses, made after a Chinese diagram. The
upper story overhangs to give a down range for musketry and keep the
enemy from setting fire to the Fort. The double stockade is where the
genius comes in, however. See how it slants and balances to corners.
Makes the thing look like a quilt pattern. Would wear on the mind of a
sensitive person.

"Hello, Charley! Here's where we get in. You see there's a sunken
road to the river and there's a subterranean passage also, with a
well in it, which insures the water-supply in case of a siege. We've
got three pieces of light artillery--six-pounders--and our muskets,
bayonets, and pistols. That's the Agency House outside. Your uncle is
Government Indian Agent and sutler for the garrison and trader on his
own account. This is where the Captain lives."

He pounded merrily at the door, then entered unceremoniously, and
Robert followed him, awkwardly, into the room where the Captain and
his wife sat at breakfast.

Captain Franklin was a grave, silent man on the sunny side of forty,
who never spoke without cause, and his wife was a pretty little woman,
with dark, laughing eyes. She brightened visibly when Robert was
presented to her, for guests did not often appear at the Fort.

"Coffee?" remarked Ronald, with a rising inflection. "You're a lucky
man, Captain, to have such coffee as Mrs. Franklin makes, every
blessed morning of your life. I only wish I were as fortunate," he
added impersonally.

Robert bit his lips to keep from smiling as the Ensign's wants were
promptly supplied. "Won't you have some too, Mr. Forsyth?"

"No, thank you, Mrs. Franklin. I've been to breakfast."

The emphasis on the personal pronoun caused George to look at him
meaningly, as he asked if he might have a bit of toast and an apple.
While he ate, Mrs. Franklin talked with Forsyth and the Captain
listened in silence.

"Are you going to stay?" she inquired.

"Yes, I hope so. I am going to teach my young cousins and help my
uncle in any way I can. I graduated from Yale last year and went from
there to Detroit, but as soon as I heard that Aunt Eleanor was willing
to take me in, I started and got here yesterday, just before the
storm."

"Did you have a pleasant journey?"

"Yes, fairly so. I came by way of Fort Wayne, with Indian guides and
relays of horses."

"Any news?" asked the Captain.

"No, only the usual symptoms of discontent among the Indians. The
officers in Detroit think there may be another outbreak soon."

"I don't--there's no earthly reason for it."

"Indians aren't particular about reasons," put in Ronald. "Come along,
Robert, we're going over to the Lieutenant's."

When they entered, Mrs. Howard was clearing away the breakfast dishes,
and after the introductions were over, Ronald did not hesitate to
express his disappointment.

"Get that starving kid some coffee, Kit," said the Lieutenant, and
Ronald gladly accepted the steaming cup, with polite regret at the
trouble he was causing and with profuse praise of the beverage itself.

"Sugar?" asked Mrs. Howard.

"No, thank you--just put your dainty finger in for a moment, if you
will be so kind. Your hand would sweeten the bitterest cup man is
called upon to drink. Seems to me I smell pancakes."

He grinned appreciatively at Forsyth as Mrs. Howard went to the iron
griddle that swung in the open fireplace. "Not many," he called to
her, "six will do very nicely. I don't want to be a pig."

"You are, though," Forsyth assured him in an undertone.

"Shut up!" he replied concisely.

Acting upon the suggestion, Robert turned his attention to his host,
and they talked until the pangs of hunger were somewhat satisfied. The
Lieutenant and his wife followed them to the door.

"Tell my mother I'm coming over to see her this afternoon," said Mrs.
Howard.

"All right," answered Robert. "Who's 'mother'?" he asked, when they
got outside.

"Mrs. Mackenzie, of course. Don't you know your own relations when
you see 'em? Mrs. Howard is your aunt's daughter and your uncle's
step-daughter, so she's your cousin."

"Cousin-in-law, I guess," said Robert. "My father was Uncle John's
half-brother, so we're not very closely related. She's nice, though. I
wish she were my cousin."

"Coffee doesn't come up to her mother's," soliloquised George, "but
it's pretty good. Hello, Doc!" he shouted, to a man on the opposite
side of the parade-ground. "Had your breakfast?"

"Good Heavens!" ejaculated Forsyth, "you aren't going to eat again,
are you?"

The Ensign turned upon him a look of reproach. "My rations aren't
meant for full-grown men," he explained. "If I couldn't get a bite
outside occasionally, I'd dry up and blow away. There's a squaw down
in the hollow who cooks a pretty good mess, and you can get a bowl of
it for a fist of beads. It isn't overly clean, and it's my private
opinion it's yellow dog, stewed, or perhaps I should say, curried, but
a starving man can't afford to be particular."

"Take me some time," Forsyth suggested carelessly; "I've never eaten
dog."

"All right," was the jovial answer, "we'll go. Come on over and meet
the Doc."

Robert was duly presented to Doctor Norton, whom the soldier
characterised as "the pill roller of the garrison," and soon seized an
opportunity to ask him the exact capacity of the human stomach.

"It varies," answered the Doctor, wrinkling his brows in deep thought.
"Some people"----

"We must go," George interrupted. "It's time for school."

They parted on the bank of the river, Robert studiously avoiding an
opportunity to shake hands. When he entered the house, his pupils were
waiting for him.

The room set aside for educational purposes was just off the
living-room and a bright fire was burning on the hearth. He found it
difficult to teach three grades at once, and soon arranged alternate
study and recitation for each, dismissing Maria Indiana in an hour
with the first three letters of the alphabet well learned.

The window, like the others in the house, commanded a view of the
river and the Fort, and gave a glimpse of the boundless plains beyond.
Soldiers went in and out of the stockade, apparently at pleasure, and
one or two of them came across, but he looked in vain for the stalwart
young officer whom he was proud to call his friend.

At dinner-time he inquired about the neighbours.

"Neighbours?" repeated Mrs. Mackenzie, laughing; "why, we haven't any,
except at the Fort."

"Are you and Uncle John really the only people here?" he asked,
seriously.

"No, not that. There are a few houses here. Mr. and Mrs. Burns live
in one--they are our nearest neighbours--and away up beyond is Lee's
place. They don't have anything to do with us, nor we with them. Two
or three men and a boy live there, I believe, but we don't see much of
them. They're part French and part Indian. Chandonnais used to live
with them, and when we came here, he came to us. I guess that's one
reason why they don't like us, for Chan's a good boy."

"And Margaret?"

Mrs. Mackenzie's face changed. "Poor old thing," she said sadly,
"no one knows where or how she lives. We are not afraid of her,
but the Indians are. They wouldn't touch a crazy person under any
circumstances."

"Is there a regular Indian settlement here?"

"Yes, there are wigwams all along the river. They are all
Pottawattomies and very friendly. The Chippewa and Winnebago tribes
are farther north. John has a gift for dealing with the Indians. He
has learned their language and their ways, and they treat him as if he
were one of them. Did George show you the Fort this morning?"

"Most of it," smiled Forsyth. "We called on the commissioned officers
and that young giant ate a hearty breakfast at each place."

"He is the life of the settlement, and I don't know what we'd do
without him. I never saw anybody with such an inexhaustible fund of
good spirits. Nothing is so bad that George can't get a joke out of it
and make us laugh in spite of our trouble. Did you see Doctor Norton?"

"Yes, but only for a moment."

"He's jolly too, and very good to all of us."

"I forgot to tell you when I first came in," said Robert, "but I met
Mrs. Howard and she asked me to tell you that she was coming over to
see you this afternoon."

"Bless her heart," said Mrs. Mackenzie, tenderly, "she never forgets
her old mother."

"You'll never be old, Aunt Eleanor. I believe you have found the
fountain of eternal youth."

"What, another flatterer?" she asked, but the heightened colour in her
cheeks showed that she was pleased.

During the afternoon, while Johnny struggled manfully with digits and
addition, Robert saw Mrs. Howard coming across the river. She was a
fair, tall woman, very blonde, with eyes like her mother's. The Doctor
stood at the entrance of the stockade, watching her, with something
akin to wistfulness in his attitude.

"Poor soul," thought Robert, "I expect he's lonesome."

The afternoon sun stole into the room, marking out patches of light
upon the rag carpet which covered the floor, and touched the rude logs
kindly as if to gild, rather than to reveal. In the next room women's
voices sounded, indistinct, but pleasant, with here and there a low,
musical laugh, and the teacher fell to dreaming.

"How many are two and two, Cousin Rob?" Johnny asked, for the third
time.

"Four--don't you remember? You learned that this morning."

"Can I go now? I want to see my sister."

"Yes, run along."

The patter of feet died away in the distance, but Robert still looked
out upon the river with a smile upon his face. Presently he saw Mrs.
Howard going toward the Fort, with two of the children capering along
beside her. Something stirred in the dreamer's pulses, indefinite,
but none the less real. What man can place it, or knows it when it
comes--that first vague longing for a home of his own?

The minutes went by and the light faded until the blood-red sunset
fired the Fort and stained the snowy reaches beyond. A door opened, a
kettle sang, and some one came in.

"Asleep, dear?"

"No, Aunt Eleanor." He went to her, put his arm around her, and
touched her cheek lightly with his lips. "I was only thinking that my
lines have fallen in pleasant places."




CHAPTER III

THE SECOND IN COMMAND


"Kit," said the Lieutenant, pacing back and forth moodily, "I wish I
were in command."

"I wish so, too, dear," responded Mrs. Howard, dutifully.

"Anybody with half an eye can see what is going to happen here, if
there isn't a change."

"What change do you mean, Ralph?"

"Any kind of a change," he snapped angrily. "We've got a figure-head
for a Captain and the men haven't the faintest idea of military
training. There's no reason for postponing drill on account of bad
weather--the men haven't been out for over a week now, just because
it's cold. The Captain sits by his fire, studying tactics and making
out imaginary reports, while his men are suffering for discipline--and
clothes," he added as an afterthought.

"What can Captain Franklin do about their clothes?"

"What can he do? Nothing, it seems; but I could. I'd send a man to
President Madison himself, if there was no other way. Look at us! We
look like Washington's army at Valley Forge!"

The Lieutenant brushed away an imaginary speck on a very shabby
uniform. "I'm sorry I entered the army," he went on. "Look at this
post, on the edge of nowhere, with about forty men to defend it. I
doubt if we have more than thirty in good fighting trim--the rest
are worse than useless. All around us are hordes of hostile savages,
ready to attack any or all of us on the slightest provocation, and we
cannot make even a display of force! No target practice, for fear of
wasting ammunition; no drill, because the Captain is lazy; clothes
like beggars--idleness, inaction, sloth! Three six-pounders and thirty
men, against thousands of bloodthirsty beasts! Things were different
at Fort Wayne!"

"Ralph," said Mrs. Howard, quickly, "please don't say that to me
again. I have told you twenty times how sorry I am that I asked you
to arrange to be transferred. I tell you once more that we will go
wherever and whenever you please, to Fort Wayne, Detroit, or even
Fort Mackinac. If there is an army post in the United States where
things are run to suit you, please get a transfer to it. You will hear
no complaints from me. I wanted to be near my mother--that was all."

"Was that all?" he sneered. "I have thought otherwise. You talk like a
fool, Kit. You seem to think it's the simplest thing in the world to
get a transfer. Do you expect to see a messenger ride in at the gate,
with an order from the War Department, or shall I go over and tell the
Captain that we leave for Fort Wayne this evening?"

Mrs. Howard moved her lips as if to speak, then thought better of it
and remained silent. He stood at the window for a long time, with his
back to her.

"You don't seem very sociable," he said at length, "so I guess I'll go
out for a bit, especially as I see your friend coming. I never like
to intrude." With this parting fling, he left the house, carefully
avoiding Doctor Norton, who was crossing the parade-ground.

From where she sat, Mrs. Howard could see her husband, erect and
soldierly, making his way to the offices. During the first two years
of their married life, she had been very happy, but since they came
to live at Fort Dearborn, he had been subject to occasional outbursts
of temper which distressed her greatly.

Her face, always expressive, was white and troubled when she opened
the door for the Doctor. He understood--he always did. He was one of
the few men who are not dense in their comprehension of womankind.

They talked commonplaces for a little while, then he leaned forward
and took her cold hand in his.

"Something has bothered you," he said kindly. "Tell me and let me help
you."

"You couldn't help me," she answered sadly; "nobody can."

Doctor Norton was not more than thirty-five, but his hair was
prematurely grey, and this, together with his kindly manner, often
impelled his patients to make unprofessional confidences. Like many
another woman, too, Mrs. Howard was strong in the face of opposition,
but weak at the touch of sympathy.

"It's nothing," she said. "Ralph is cross nearly all the time, though
I don't believe he means to be. He has been that way ever since--ever
since the baby died."

She turned her face away, for the little grave in the hollow pulled
piteously at the mother's heartstrings when the world went wrong.

"He has always blamed me for that," she went on. "One of the reasons
why I wanted to live here, instead of at Fort Wayne, was that I might
have my mother to help me take care of the baby. She knew more than I
did; was wiser and more experienced in every way, and I thought the
little lad would have a better chance. Instead, as you know, he took
cold on the way here and did not get well, so his father has never
forgiven me."

The tears came fast and her white lips quivered. "Don't, Katherine,"
he said. It was the first time he had called her by name, and she
noted it, vaguely, in the midst of her suffering.

"Don't, Katherine," he repeated. "All we can do in this world is the
thing that seems to us the best. We have no concern with the results,
except as a guide for the future, and sometimes, years afterward, we
see that what seemed like a bitter loss in reality was gain. Some day
you may be glad that you lost your boy."

"Glad? Glad I have lost my only child? Doctor, what are you thinking
of!"

"Of you. Whatever troubles you troubles me, also. You know that, don't
you?"

For an instant she was frightened, but his calm friendliness
reassured her. "Thank you," she returned, "you have always been good
to me."

"I shall always try to be. Nothing that comes to you is without
meaning for me, and you will always have at least one friend." There
was an eloquent silence, then the tension of the moment snapped, and
he released her hand.

"I'm silly," she laughed hysterically, wiping her eyes. "Have you any
medicine for silliness?"

"If I had, I should keep it for those who need it worse than you do. I
wish you would go outdoors more. Walk on the parade-ground and across
to your mother's,--those two places are certainly safe,--and when you
get tired of that, go over to Mrs. Franklin's. She's a nice little
woman and she needs cheering up, too. I have a suspicion, Mrs. Howard,
that the temperament which urges a man to be a soldier is very seldom
elastic enough to include the domestic hearth."

Katherine's face brightened, for she had not thought of that, and
the suggestion that others had the same trouble was not without its
dubious consolation.

For an hour or more he talked to her, telling her bits of news from
the barracks which he thought would interest her, and offering
fragments of philosophy as the occasion permitted.

"You're a tonic," she said lightly, as he rose to go; "the blues are
all gone."

"I'm glad of that. Now remember, when anything goes wrong, tell me.
Perhaps I can help you--at least I can try."

Half-way across the parade-ground he turned back to smile at her as
she stood at the window, and she waved a friendly hand in response.
It was at this unlucky moment that the Lieutenant left the offices,
having had high words with the Captain about the condition of the
garrison and the possibility of a war with England.

She was vaguely uneasy when he went out of his way to meet the Doctor,
but, though he spoke to him, he paused for scarcely an instant in his
rapid stride. He was pleasant enough when he came into the house, and
she thought that all was well.

He made no reference to their earlier conversation, but talked easily
and indifferently, with a mild desire to please, as is the way of a
man who is ashamed of himself.

"Wouldn't you like to go across the river?" he asked.

"Why, yes," she replied wonderingly, "I don't mind."

"Come on, then."

His dark, handsome face was still pale, and the lines of weakness were
distinct around his mouth, but Katherine's heart, leaping to meet its
desire, turned newly toward him, as a flower lifts its face to the sun.

"Poor boy," she said affectionately, putting her hand on his arm, "you
have lots of things to bother you, don't you?"

"That I do, Kit. I suppose you think I'm a brute sometimes."

"No, indeed," she answered, generously.

"You've been hard to get on with lately," he observed.

"Have I, dear?" She was surprised and conscience-stricken; the more so
because the possibility had not occurred to her. "I'm sorry," she said
after a little. "I'll try to do better."

"I don't think it's altogether your fault," he rejoined. "I've noticed
that you get cranky after Norton has been to the house, and I think he
has a bad influence over you." The Lieutenant tried to speak jauntily,
and failed.

"So, naturally," he continued, clearing his throat, "I've done as any
other man in my position would do. I've told him not to come unless
he's asked in his professional capacity, and to make those visits when
I'm at home."

"Ralph!" It was the cry of a hurt child, and every vestige of colour
fled from Katherine's face. She pressed her hands to her breast and
leaned against the stockade at the entrance to the Fort.

"Well?" he asked ironically, "have I broken your heart?"

"To think," she said slowly, "that you could be so discourteous to any
one, and especially to a friend who has been so kind to us as Doctor
Norton. I'm ashamed of you."

"Your actions, Katherine, only prove that I have taken the right
course. If I had any doubt before, I am certain now. You will oblige
me by avoiding him as much as possible."

He never called her "Katherine" unless he was very much displeased
with her, and they crossed the river without speaking. Howard hummed a
popular air to himself, with apparent unconcern.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Mackenzies', all was bustle and confusion. Indians hurried in and
out of the house, talking and gesticulating excitedly. The snow on
the path was worn as smooth as ice and Chandonnais was running to the
Agency building on the other side of the river.

"What is it?" asked Katherine.

"Dunno," said the Lieutenant, laconically.

When they entered, John Mackenzie was, as he expressed it, "pretty
nigh beat out." Robert had dismissed school, and was helping him as
best he could, though he was heavily handicapped at the start by his
ignorance of values and of the Indian tongue.

The space behind the counters was heaped high with furs. Deer hide and
moose leather, grey wolf, red and silver fox, muskrat, beaver and bear
skins were stacked waist deep around Forsyth and Mackenzie. Unwonted
activity was in the air, and the place was full of odorous Indians.

Black Partridge came in, bringing the skin of a gigantic black bear,
and a murmur ran through the room. Members of other tribes fingered it
enviously, and the Pottawattomie squaws openly boasted the prowess of
their chief.

Chandonnais came in from the Agency, with a huge ham under either
arm. He went back, laden with peltries, and when he returned, he was
rolling a fresh barrel of flour before him. His face was set in an
expression of extreme displeasure, for he was constitutionally opposed
to work.

"Can I help?" asked Lieutenant Howard.

"Wish you'd go over to the Agency, Ralph," replied Mackenzie, "and
bring over as many blankets as you can carry. Chan will go with
you--he's got to bring more bacon."

Mrs. Howard had long since retreated to the living-room. The door was
closed, but the tumult of the trading station resounded afar.

"Be careful, Rob," said Mackenzie, "that's a sheep skin dyed with
walnut juice. He tried it on you 'cause you're green." Turning to the
Indian, the trader spoke volubly, even after the would-be cheat had
grabbed his sheep skin and started for the door.

"This jawbreaker talk is tellin' on me," Mackenzie resumed. "This is
the first time they've ever come on me all at once this way. Mighty
sudden, I take it. It's early, too. Usually they do their tradin' on
the Q.T., one and two at a time, weeks before. They say this is the
last day of Winter and that to-morrow will be Spring."

Chandonnais and the Lieutenant returned, laden with bacon and
blankets. The half-breed wiped the sweat from his swarthy face with a
very dirty sleeve, and Howard made no further offers of assistance.
Instead, he went over to Forsyth, and began to talk with him.

"What's going on?" asked Robert, "do you know?"

Ralph shrugged his shoulders. "They haven't taken me into their
confidence," he replied, "but I suppose it's the annual pilgrimage."

"Where? What for?"

"Didn't Father John tell you? Every year they go up into Canada to get
their presents from the British. Damn the British!" he added, with
unnecessary emphasis.

"Oh," said Robert, thoughtfully. "In case of trouble, then, the
Indians are on their side."

"Exactly. Quite a scheme, isn't it?"

"It's a devilish scheme!"

"Be careful," warned Mackenzie, "some of 'em understand more English
than they let on."

The trading fever rapidly spread to the squaws. Those who were not
bringing furs for exchange and carrying provisions back to the camp
offered moccasins and baskets for sale. Mackenzie shook his head--he
had no use for anything but the skins.

Under cover of the excitement, much petty thieving was going on, and
it was necessary to keep close watch of the peltries, lest they be
exchanged again. The squaws kept keen eyes on the counters, making off
with anything desirable which was left unguarded. Chandonnais took a
place at the door, finally, to call a halt upon illegal enterprises.

Without the least knowledge of why he did it, Robert bought a pair of
moccasins. They were small, even for a woman's foot, and heavy with
beads. The dainty things appealed to him, suddenly and irresistibly,
and the price he paid for them brought other squaws, with countless
moccasins.

"Uncle John," he shouted above the clamour, "please tell them I don't
want any more moccasins!"

A few rapid words from Shaw-ne-aw-kee had the desired effect. "Don't
see what you want of those things," he observed; "they won't fit
anybody."

"Pretty things," remarked Howard, sauntering up. "Whom are they for?"

"I--I--that is, I don't know," stammered Robert. "I just wanted them."

The Lieutenant laughed. "Oh, I see," he said. "Another case of
Cinderella's slipper?"

"Yes, we'll let it go at that," returned Forsyth. He had regained his
self-possession, but the colour still bronzed his cheeks.

When every possible exchange had been made, and every Indian had
been given a small additional present, the room became quiet again.
Black Partridge received a small silver ornament which Mackenzie had
made for him during the long winter evenings, with manifestations of
delight and gratitude.

"What's he saying, Uncle?" asked Robert.

"He's swearing eternal friendship for me and mine."

"Much good that does," said Howard, nonchalantly. "I'd trust a dead
Indian a damn sight sooner 'n a live one."

Black Partridge may have caught the gist of what had been said, but he
repeated his expressions of gratitude and his assurances of continued
esteem. The room, by contrast, was very silent after he went out.

"Lord!" sighed the trader. "What a day!"

Mrs. Mackenzie's voice sounded clearly in the next room. "Yes, dear,"
she said, "I'll tell him, and I'll explain it all. Don't you fret one
mite about it." Then the door opened and Mrs. Howard came in.

She talked with Forsyth for a few minutes, then turned to her husband.
"Shall we go home?" she asked, "or do you want to stay here for
supper?"

"Better stay," suggested Mackenzie, hospitably.

"No, we'll go," said Ralph. "Good-bye, everybody."

Neither spoke until they entered their own house again, then Katherine
put her hands on his shoulders and looked straight into his eyes.
"Ralph," she said, seriously, "can't you trust me?"

"I hope so," he returned, drawing away from her, "and as I've fixed it
now, I think I can."

"Ralph!" she cried, "you hurt me!"

"Look here," he exclaimed roughly, "I don't want any more of this. I
have trouble enough without your pitching into me all the time. This
is my house and you are my wife--please remember that."

"There's no danger of my forgetting it," she answered hotly.

"Come, Kit, do be reasonable. I don't want to quarrel."

She smiled cynically and bit her lips to keep back the retort that
struggled for utterance. "Whatever you do," her mother had said to
her, "don't quarrel with your husband. It takes two to make a quarrel."

Later, a semblance of peace was restored, but long after the
Lieutenant was asleep, Katherine lay, wide-eyed and troubled, with
bitterness surging in her heart.

From the window of her room she saw the late moon when it rose from
the lake, and soon afterward the clock struck three. Then a ghostly
pageant passed the Fort. Black Partridge was ahead--she knew his
stately figure in spite of the blanket in which he was enshrouded.
Behind him came more Indians than she had ever seen at one time,
silently, in single file.

The squaws brought up the rear, laden with baggage. The last one was
heavily burdened and was far behind. As she straggled along, the pale
moonlight revealed something strange upon her head and Katherine
recognised her own discarded summer hat of two seasons past. The
implied comparison made her laugh in a way which was not good to
hear--but no one heard.

Across the river another watcher was taking note of the departure
of the Pottawattomies, for Robert had found it impossible to sleep.
Physically, he was too tired to rest, and his mind was unusually
active. The dainty moccasins hung on the wall of his room and
something obtrusively feminine in their presence was, in a way,
disturbing, but not altogether unpleasant.

The young man was somewhat given to analysis and introspection, and
had endeavoured, unsuccessfully, to solve the freakish impulse which
led him to buy moccasins too small for any woman he knew. Further
questioning of self brought out the astounding fact that he would not
give moccasins to any woman he had ever met, even though these might
fit her.

The Indians passing the Fort were a welcome diversion, and he, too,
laughed at the one who followed the procession with more than her
share of baggage, but he missed the fine point in the matter of
millinery. "She looks like the one I bought them of," he said to
himself, "but I won't be sure."

The moon faded and grey dawn came up out of the inland sea. A ribbon
of light lay across the Fort and the pulses of the river stirred
beneath the ice. The blood came to his heart like the sap mounting in
the maples, and he felt a sudden uplift of soul. A bluebird paused
over the river for an instant, the crimson of its breast strangely
luminous against the sky, then from a distant thicket came the first
robin's cheery call, and he knew the Indians were right--that it was
Spring.




CHAPTER IV

RONALD'S VIEWS OF MARRIAGE


Mrs. Howard was trying to sew, but seemed to lack the necessary
energy. The Lieutenant paced the room in his favourite attitude--hands
crossed behind his back--and gave her his views upon various topics,
from the mistakes of the War Department at Washington to the criminal
mismanagement of Captain Franklin. He became so interested in this
last subject that he spoke as if addressing a large audience, happily
unmindful of the fact that his single listener was preoccupied.

"Upon my word, Kit," he was saying, "there isn't a man in barracks who
wouldn't make a better Captain than the one we've got."

"His wife is coming," remarked Katherine, impersonally.

"I don't care if she is. Somebody ought to tell him where he stands in
the estimation of the officers and men."

His disapproval of his superior officer was reflected in his cool
response to Mrs. Franklin's cheery greeting when she came in with her
sewing. "I've got something for you," she said to Katherine; "guess
what it is!"

"I couldn't guess--what is it?"

"A letter," she answered brightly, "from Doctor Norton! You aren't
jealous, are you?" she asked playfully, turning to the Lieutenant.

He made no reply, but gnawed his mustache nervously. Katherine's face
blanched as she took the note and tore it open with trembling hands.

There was neither date, address, nor signature. "I understand," it
began, "and everything is all right. I beg of you, do not distress
yourself about me, and, if I can ever serve you in any way, command
me."

The words danced before her eyes as the Lieutenant approached and held
out his hand, silently, for the letter.

"It's nothing that would interest you, dear," she said, tearing it
straight across.

"Pardon me, I think it would." He quickly possessed himself of the
note and fitted the two parts of the page together, laughing as he did
so. Only Katherine noticed that his voice shook.

"If you're through with it, I'll burn it," he said quietly, after
what seemed an age. Without waiting for an answer, he threw it into
the open fire and hurriedly left the house. Then something dawned on
Mrs. Franklin.

"Kit," she cried, "can you ever forgive me?"

"What did you think?" retorted Katherine, fiercely. "Would he have
sent a note to me if he had meant it for my husband? Why didn't he
come over instead of writing?"

"I don't know," murmured Mrs. Franklin. For the moment she was afraid,
and as the inevitable surmise forced itself into her consciousness,
she gazed at Katherine, horror-stricken and dumb.

"I know what you're thinking," said Mrs. Howard, with forced calmness.
"It's very charitable of you, but I'm glad to be able to tell you that
you're mistaken."

"You poor child!" exclaimed the Captain's wife. She slipped a friendly
hand into Katherine's cold one and was not surprised when the
overwrought nerves sought relief in tears.

Little by little, Katherine made a full explanation. "It's too small
and too silly to talk about," she sighed, "but I haven't been well
lately and the slightest thing will worry me almost past endurance.
I don't know what's the matter with Ralph--he is not at all like
himself, and that troubles me, too."

"Funny," observed Mrs. Franklin, irrelevantly.

"What's funny?"

"Men in general and husbands in particular. Wallace isn't inclined to
be jealous, so I've never had that to bother me, but he's as stubborn
as a mule, and I guess that's just as bad. Anyhow, I'd like to trade
his stubbornness for something else. I'd appreciate the change for a
little while, no matter what it was."

"I wouldn't mind that," said Katherine, with the ghost of a smile
hovering around her white lips. "I think I could get along better with
a stubborn man than I can with a savage."

"Be careful what you say about savages," put in the other, lightly;
"you know my aunt is a full-blooded Indian."

"I've often wondered about that. How do you suppose it happened?"

"It is rather queer on the face of it, but it's natural enough, when
you think it over. You know Captain Wells was stolen by the Indians
when he was a child and he was brought up like one of them. Even after
his people found him, he refused to go home, until his two sisters
came to plead with him. Then he consented to make them a visit,
but he didn't stay long, and went back to the Indians at the first
opportunity. Their ways were as impossible to him as his were to them.
I'm glad he married the chief's daughter, instead of a common squaw.
He and Little Turtle are great friends."

There was a long silence, then Katherine reverted to the original
topic. "I never thought of Captain Franklin as stubborn," she said.

"Didn't you? Well, I just wish you could talk to him a while after he
gets his mind made up. Before that, there's hope, but not afterward;
and you might just as well go out and speak to the stockade around
the Fort. He's contrary, too. Yesterday, for instance, he told me he
thought he'd have drill, as the men hadn't been out for a long time.
I asked him if some of them weren't sick, and he said they were, but
it wouldn't hurt the others any. Just then your husband came in and
suggested drill. 'Haven't thought about it,' says Wallace, turning
away, and the Lieutenant talked ten minutes before he discovered
nobody was listening to him. After he went away, George came in and
asked about drill. 'We won't have it to-day,' said Wallace, and that
was the end of it."

"Was he like that before you were married?"

"Yes, only not so bad. I mistook his determined siege for
inability to live without me, but I see now that it was principally
stubbornness. He made up his mind to get me, and here I am. He gets
worse as he grows older--more 'sot' in his ways, as your mother would
say. I don't see how anybody can be that way. He explained it to me
once, when we were first married, but I couldn't understand it."

"How did he explain it?"

"Well, as nearly as I can remember, he said that he dreaded to have
his mind begin making itself up. It's like a runaway horse that you
can't stop. He said he might see that he was wrong and he might want
to do differently, but something inside of him wouldn't let him. It
seems that his mind suddenly crystallises, and then it's over. A
crystal can be broken, but it can't be made liquid again."

"Is his mind liquid?" inquired Katherine, choked with laughter.

"No--I wish it was. I'm glad you're amused, but I'm too close to it to
see the fun in it. Wasn't your husband ever stubborn?"

"No; I don't think so--at least, I don't remember. I suppose he can't
help being jealous any more than the Captain can help being mulish. I
guess they're just born so."

"Marked," suggested Mrs. Franklin.

"Yes--marked. I hadn't thought of that. Before we were married, Ralph
was jealous of everybody who spoke to me--man, woman, or brute. I
couldn't even pet the cat or talk to the dog."

"Matrimonial traits," observed the Captain's wife, sagely, "are the
result of pre-nuptial tendencies. If you look carefully into the
subject before you're married, you can see about what you're coming
to."

"I guess that's right. I needn't have expected marriage to cure Ralph
of jealousy, but, like you, I supposed it was love."

"My dear," said Mrs. Franklin, with feeling, "many a woman mistakes
the flaws in a man's character for the ravages of the tender
passion--before marriage."

"Well, I never!" said a soft voice behind them. "Kitty and Mamie
talking scandal!"

Both women jumped.

"How did you get in?" demanded Mrs. Howard.

"Came in," replied Ronald, laconically.

"Don't you know enough to rap?" asked Mrs. Franklin, angrily. Like
others who have been christened "Mary," she was irritated beyond
measure at that meaningless perversion of her name.

"Did rap," answered George, selecting the most comfortable chair, "but
nobody heard me, so I let myself in."

"How dare you call me 'Kitty'?" exclaimed Mrs. Howard.

"Soldiers aren't afraid of anything except the War Department."

"How long have you been here?" they asked simultaneously.

"Don't all speak at once. I've been here a long, long time--so long,
in fact, that I'm hungry." He looked past them as he spoke and gazed
pensively out of the window.

Mrs. Franklin's cheeks were blazing and her eyes snapped. "You're the
very worst man I ever met," she said.

The Ensign sighed heavily. "And yet I've never been accused of
mulishness," he remarked, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling, "nor of
jealousy," he added. His mouth was twitching, and the women exchanged
glances.

"I admit an enormous appetite," he continued. "Wonder if it's the
ravages of the tender passion?"

Mrs. Howard brought in a plate of cookies and set it ostentatiously
within his reach. "Lovely woman!" apostrophised George. "She feeds
me! Radiant vision, will you be mine?"

There was a dead silence.

"Queer, isn't it," observed the guest, between mouthfuls, and
apparently to himself, "that women should look so pretty when they're
mad?"

"Your wife will be pretty all the time, then," said Mrs. Franklin.

"I trust so. She'll have to have a good start at it, or she won't get
me, and with the additional stimulus which living with me will give
her, she'll be nearly as lovely as the wives of the other officers at
Fort Dearborn. I could give her no higher praise. These cookies are
all gone."

"I know it," replied Mrs. Howard. "I gave you all I had left."

"If I might presume," said Ronald, "I'd like the prescription they
were made by, to give to my wife, when I get one. I suppose it's more
in the making than in the prescription, and though I'll undoubtedly
like 'em, my native love of truth will oblige me to tell her that they
don't come up to those Kitty--pardon me, Mrs. Howard--used to make for
me. I always think of you by your first name," he went on. "I know
it's wrong, but I can't help it. You're so good to me. Isn't there one
more cooky?"

"No, there isn't."

"Your mother makes surpassing doughnuts. Did she ever teach you how?"

"Oh, yes," responded Mrs. Howard, coolly; "but I don't make them very
often. I haven't made any for months."

"I have the plan of 'em all written down, in case you should forget
how. I'm saving it for my wife. Can I go and look in the pantry?"

"No, you cannot."

"Why don't you get married, George?" asked Mrs. Franklin, by way of a
diversion.

"I've never been asked."

"Didn't you ever ask anybody?"

"Oh, Lord, yes! I've asked every girl I've ever met. Say, do you know
that I've got so now that I can propose off-hand, as easily as other
fellows can after they've written it out and learned it? If there was
a girl here at the Fort who suited me, I'd ask everybody to my wedding
inside of two weeks."

"Charming diffidence," murmured Katherine.

"Modest soul," commented Mrs. Franklin. "What kind of a girl would
suit you?"

"I like the domestic variety. The faithful kind, you know. One who
wouldn't gad all the time. Good cook, and that sort of thing."

"Some Indian girl"--began the Captain's wife.

"I know," interrupted George, pointedly; "that runs in some families,
but it never has in ours. Wouldn't mind an Indian aunt, maybe, after I
got used to her; but a mother-in-law--Lord!"

Mrs. Franklin was angry for an instant, then she laughed. It was
impossible for any one to harbour resentment against Ronald.

"I don't think I could ever love an ordinary girl," that intrepid
youth resumed, with a dare-devil light in his eyes. "She'd have to
be very superior. Lots of girls get married without any clear idea
of what it means. For instance, while I was working day and night,
trying to earn board and clothes for a woman, I wouldn't like to have
her trot over to her friend's house to discuss my faults. If that's
marriage, I won't enlist."

"You haven't any faults," put in the Captain's wife, sweetly. "There
would be nothing to discuss."

"True, Mamie, I had forgotten that. Thank you for reminding me of my
perfection. But you know what I mean. As soon as I got out of sight
of the house, she'd gallop over to her friend's, and her friend would
say: 'Good-morning, Mrs. Ronald, you don't look fit this morning. What
has that mean thing done to you now?'"

Throwing himself thoroughly into the part, the Ensign got up and
proceeded to give an elaborate monologue, in falsetto, punctuated with
mincing steps and frequent rearrangement of an imaginary coiffure.
Mrs. Howard clasped her hands at her waist and the tears rolled down
Mrs. Franklin's cheeks.

"And then she'd say," Ronald went on, "'Just suppose you had to live
with a mulish, jealous man who wouldn't give you more than nine
dresses and eleven bonnets and four pairs of shoes. Yes, that's just
what the horrid thing has done. And this morning, when I asked for
money to get a few clothes, so I could look more respectable, he gave
me some, but I caught him keeping back fifty-two cents. Now, what do
you think of that? Do you suppose he's going to take a lot of men out
and get 'em all drunk?'"

The entrance of Captain Franklin put an end to the inspired portrayal
of wifely devotion. As Katherine had said, he did not look stubborn.
On the contrary, he seemed to be the mildest sort of a man, for he
was quiet and unobtrusive in manner. His skin was very white, and the
contrast of his jet-black hair and mustache made him look pale.

"Did you tell them the news?" he asked Ronald.

"'Pon my word, Captain, I haven't had time. They've been chattering so
ever since I came in that I'm nearly deaf with it. You tell 'em."

"I don't know as you'd call it news," said the Captain; "but we can't
afford to ignore any incident out here. A Kickapoo runner has come
in from the Illinois River, and he says the pack-trains are about to
start from there and from the Kankakee, and that they will be here
soon."

"It's an early Spring," remarked Mrs. Franklin.

"I'm glad," said Katherine; "I love to be outdoors, and the Winters in
this lonesome little Fort are almost unbearable."

"What?" asked Ronald, "with me here?"

"Drill to-morrow," said the Captain, turning to his subordinate. The
Ensign saluted gravely, but made no reply.

The Captain lingered a few moments, listening while the others talked.
"Are you going home, Mary?" he asked.

"Yes, after a while. I'll go now if you want me to."

"No; never mind. I've got some things to see to."

"Now that," observed Ronald, as the Captain closed the door, "is what
I call a true marriage."

"In what way?" asked Mrs. Franklin.

"This deference to a husband's evident wishes. It might have happened
to me. Lonesome George comes into the sewing circle and his glad
eyes rest on the wife of his bosom. Talk to the crowd a little while
and get everybody to feeling good, even though I'm on the verge of
starvation. Then I say: 'Darling, are you going back to our humble
little home?' and she says: 'Yes, George, dear, when I get good and
ready--bye-bye!'"

Mrs. Franklin was eager to ask Katherine how much of their
conversation she supposed he had overheard, but he seemed very
comfortable where he was, and at last she folded up her work and went
home, the Ensign bidding her an affectionate farewell at the door and
extending a generous invitation to "come again."

"There, Kitty," he sighed, "at last we are alone. It has seemed so
long!"

Katherine turned upon him a look which would have frozen a lesser man
than Ronald. "Please call me Mrs. Howard," she requested, icily.

"I can't."

"Why not?"

"Well, some way, it makes me feel as if you were married, and I can't
stand it to be constantly reminded of my loss. 'Mrs. Lieutenant' is
better, 'cause I'm a lieutenant, in a way, myself, but it's too long.
I suppose I can say 'Mrs. Loot,' if you insist upon formality. I came
to you with a message, and that is why I have braved your unjust
wrath. Your mother sent me to ask you and your husband to come over to
supper. I've seen him and he's willing. She's been making doughnuts
all the afternoon, and I think there's a pie or two, so get your
bonnet and come along."

"Come along!" repeated Katherine.

"Yes, come along. I'm going, too."

"Does she know it?"

"I think she suspects it. If she doesn't, the pleasure will have the
additional charm of a surprise. There's the Lieutenant now. We'll all
go together."

They met on the parade-ground and she put her hand on her husband's
arm timidly, but he did not draw away from her as she had feared he
would, and she became intuitively conscious that he had determined to
say nothing about the unlucky note.

The sun shone brightly and the March wind swept the cobwebs from her
mental vision. Ralph said very little; but Ronald, who never required
the encouragement of an answer, talked unceasingly, and it seemed to
Katherine that the world was sunny and full of friends.




CHAPTER V

THE FIRST FLOWER OF SPRING


There was a report like a pistol shot from the ice in the river,
followed by others at short intervals. "That means for us to get out
the boats," said Mackenzie to Chandonnais.

Only one of the boats stored in the trader's barn was worthy of the
name. It was a large bateau, capable of accommodating a dozen people
and a small amount of baggage. The others were pirogues, or logs
trimmed at the ends and hollowed out in the centre. One person might
be negatively comfortable, but two crowded the small craft to the
danger-point.

A pirogue furnished the ordinary means of communication with the Fort,
and two or three were fastened to a sapling on the other side of the
stream. There was also a good boat, belonging to the Fort, which would
hold five or six people. The bateau was used for carrying freight
between the Fort, the Agency House, and Mackenzie's.

The river was a narrow, deep, weedy channel, with a very slight fall,
and a large sand-bar stretched across the mouth of it. In Summer, one
could stand at the end of the broad piazza in front of the house and
see the Indians in their light canoes pass the sand-bar at will, go
down into the lake, and return up-stream.

Gradually the river filled with great masses of ice, which moved
lazily in a circle at the whim of some concealed current, or drifted
gently toward the mouth of the stream. For several days there was no
communication with the Fort; then Mackenzie broke the ice-jam at the
bar, and by the middle of March a boat could easily cross.

Seemingly by preconcerted arrangement, the pack-trains arrived during
the last week of March. Twenty horses came from the Illinois and
Kankakee districts, and seventeen from the Rock River, loaded with
skins. For a year the Indians in the Mississippi valley had exchanged
peltries for provisions, beads, and liquor. Five Canadian _engagés_,
with rude camping outfits strapped to their backs, walked in leisurely
fashion beside the horses.

The skins were stored in the Agency House, awaiting the schooner from
the American Fur Company at Fort Mackinac. The horses were tethered
on the plains near the Fort, and business was carried on there, except
at meal-time, when eight hungry men and four children taxed Mrs.
Mackenzie's strength to the utmost.

Three days later the schooner was sighted, bearing down from the
north, and, as it was practically the only event of the year, the
settlement went in force to the lake shore to see it come in. A
corporal's guard, bitterly complaining, was left at the Fort.

With the wind filling her sails, the ship steered south-west until she
reached a point exactly opposite the mouth of the river, then turned
swiftly, like a bird, and came toward the cheering crowd on shore. The
waves broke in foam upon her keel, and amid the shouts of command and
welcome and the clatter of the rigging, came the song of a _voyageur_,
in a clear, high tenor, which won a separate recognition.

"More men to feed," sighed Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Never mind, Aunt Eleanor," said Forsyth, "I'm going to help you."

"Me, too! Me, too!" cried the children.

Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Franklin promptly offered their services, and
Ronald put an affectionate arm about her waist. "Don't bother, Aunt
Eleanor," he said; "you've got me."

Forsyth was surprised at the speech, and still more astonished when
the Ensign made it good during the hard days that followed. He tied a
big blue apron under his arms, unmindful of its ridiculous flapping
about his knees, set his cap on the back of his head, rolled up his
sleeves, and announced that he was ready for work. Forsyth helped
him split wood, bring water, make fires, and wash dishes until his
head swam with weariness; but through it all, Ronald was serene and
untroubled, keeping up a cheery whistle and a fusillade of comment and
observation which lightened the situation exceedingly.

Mrs. Mackenzie found herself taking orders from the young soldier who
was the self-constituted master of the cuisine, and learned to obey
without question, even when she was sent to her easy-chair early in
the morning and kept there during the greater part of the day.

Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Franklin were unceremoniously put out. "Kitty
and Mamie," pleaded the Ensign, in an aggravating falsetto, "will you
please run home? Your mother has enough to feed without your trotting
in to meals." He accompanied the request with a threatening wave of a
spoon filled with pancake batter, which had the desired effect.

"There," he said, "I've finally chased 'em out. I do hate to have
women bothering around me, don't you, Rob?"

"I've never been bothered," laughed Forsyth; "at least, not in that
way."

Swiftly upon the heels of the schooner came the boats from Milwaukee.
The cargoes were landed on the lake shore and taken to the Agency
by the pack-horses. All day the patient beasts plodded to and fro,
carrying furs to the shore, and provisions, blankets, calicoes,
prints, and a thousand other things to the storehouse. The small boats
from the ship plied back and forth, landing the cargo and taking back
peltries, and the men worked from sunrise to sunset.

An unusual amount of friction developed between the several _engagés_
and _voyageurs_, and various disputes were settled on the spot with
bare fists. Chandonnais had a rare talent for getting into trouble,
and few indeed were the fights in which he did not eventually take a
leading part.

"Chan," said Mackenzie, at length, "you ain't paid to fight, but to
work; and if there's any more of this I'll send you to one of the
other posts." This threat was always effectual, for some reason which
the trader did not seek to know.

At last the tired horses finished their task and every skin was in the
hold of the schooner. The Agency House was filled to bursting with the
materials of trade, and a small but precious horde of gold pieces,
representing the balance in his favour, was hidden in Mackenzie's
leather belt.

There was a day of rest for everybody except Mrs. Mackenzie and her
assistants; then Chandonnais surprised the trader by a demand for his
year's wages.

"Why, Chan!" exclaimed Mackenzie, "don't you want me to keep it for
you as I've been a-doing?"

The half-breed shook his head sullenly.

"Well, it's yours, and you can do just as you please with it, but I
guess you'll be sorry for it later. Mind, now, this is all till next
year--you don't get any advance."

Chan agreed, and Mackenzie called Robert to witness the transaction.
Five shining ten-dollar gold pieces were counted out into a grimy paw
that closed upon them quickly, as if in fear.

"Fifty dollars and found," Mackenzie explained to Robert as
Chandonnais went away. "I don't grudge it neither, for he's a good boy
when he ain't fighting."

The schooner was lying by for a favouring wind, and the pack-trains
were waiting to give the horses a needed rest. Mackenzie had made
an equitable division of the stores at the Agency, and each of the
_engagés_ knew exactly what he was to take back with him, and the
approximate value of each article in terms of peltries. During the day
liquor flowed freely, and at night there was a barbecue on the lake
shore.

A young ox was roasted whole, in front of a huge fire which could be
seen for miles around. Forsyth and the Mackenzies, with their four
children, and the officers and men from the Fort with their wives and
families, sat around on the sand and took part in the celebration. A
single sentinel patrolled the Fort, cursing his luck, and a few stray
Indians watched the festive scene from afar.

Chandonnais had his violin, and the fine tenor of the _voyageur_ was
lifted in song--old French _chansons_ and garbled melodies of the day.
The strings of the fiddle were twanged in delicate accompaniment until
the singer struck up Yankee Doodle, which, owing to the French accent
and the peculiar distortion of the tune, was taken by the company as a
humorous performance.

The men ate hungrily, and at last even Ronald was satisfied. Then
a sudden thought struck him, and he went over to speak to Captain
Franklin. "Good-bye, everybody," he shouted.

"Where are you going?" asked Forsyth.

"I'm going back to relieve that poor devil at the Fort."

In spite of a chorus of protests, he went, and the lone sentry
appeared presently, grinning from ear to ear, to feast and revel while
his superior officer kept guard with a bayonet over his shoulder. It
was such trifles as this which endeared Ronald to the soldiers. There
was not a man in barracks who would not have followed him cheerfully
to certain death.

The fire died down and some of the men slept peacefully on the sand,
while others yawned openly. Chandonnais improvised a weird melody
which was strangely out of keeping. There was something uncanny in the
air which accorded ill with the festival, and it seemed only fitting
and proper when Mad Margaret materialised from the outer darkness and
came into the centre of the group.

A hush came over the company and some of the newcomers, who had heard
wild tales of Margaret, were secretly afraid. Chandonnais kept on
playing, and she watched him with wide, wondering eyes. For a long
time the magic of the strings kept her quiet, then she began to
mutter to herself uneasily.

"Margaret," said Mackenzie, gently, "come here."

Chandonnais threw down his violin with a gesture of impatience,
beckoned to the singer, and walked away rapidly. The _voyageur_ rose
lazily, yawned, and followed him with seeming indifference.

Margaret's eyes were shining like the live coals which gleamed in the
ashes. She leaned forward and picked up the violin, stroking it and
crooning to it as if it were a child.

"Margaret," said Mackenzie again, "come here."

She went to him with a dog-like, unquestioning obedience, and sat down
in front of him. Mrs. Mackenzie was next to her husband, with the baby
in her lap, and Mrs. Howard sat on her mother's left. The Lieutenant
was talking with Forsyth and the Captain, and at a little distance, on
Mackenzie's right, sat Doctor Norton.

A sharp cry came from the violin, where Margaret's fingers tightened
on the strings. "I see blood," she said,--"much blood, then fire, and
afterward peace."

No one spoke, and Margaret mumbled to herself, then pounced upon
Katherine. She took her by the shoulders and shook her roughly. "You
will have your heart's desire," she cried, "at the time of the blood,
but sorrow will come with it!"

Before any one else had time to move, Doctor Norton caught Margaret
and pulled her away.

"Oh," she shrieked, shaking her fist in his face, "the Red Death has
its fingers at your throat!"

Mackenzie picked up the violin, found the bow in the darkness, and
began to play--rudely enough, it is true, but in some semblance of
rhythm. Margaret quieted almost immediately, and sat down in front of
him, rocking back and forth in time with the faltering tune.

"Aunt Eleanor," said Forsyth, over her shoulder, "don't you think I'd
better take the children home?"

"Yes, please, if you will."

She put the sleeping baby into his arms, woke Maria Indiana, and
directed Ellen and Johnny to go with "Cousin Rob." The procession
moved slowly, for the baby was heavy, and the other children were
inclined to linger. Mad Margaret had a terrible fascination for them.

As they passed a grove of cottonwoods, angry voices came from the
thicket, in a mongrel French which had but little in common with that
Robert had learned at Yale.

"It is abominable," cried Chandonnais. "It is too much!"

"So?" laughed the other, mockingly; "and only last year you told me
you would pay the price!"

"A year's wages for a common crucifix!"

"It is no common crucifix. It is of solid silver, and it is from the
old mission, where it was blessed by Père Marquette himself."

"How do you know?"

"The good Father told me so. It has been blessed by Père Marquette and
by all the holy men who have come after him. It will cure disease and
keep from all harm."

"Well," sighed Chandonnais, "I'll take it."

Robert heard the clink of the half-breed's hard-earned gold, and
wondered whether he had spent the whole of it for a cross.

The next day the prevailing wind of Summer blew warm and strong
from the south-west, and the sails of the schooner filled as if in
anticipation. Robert thought of the hardy Romans in the Æneid, when
"the breezes called their sails," as once again the people gathered on
the shore.

Letters and messages to friends at Fort Mackinac, together with many
trifling gifts, were pressed upon the crew. A long line of foam lay
upon the turquoise water when out in the sunlit distance the ship
turned to the north, and hands were waved in farewell long after the
others had ceased to see. The Mackenzies were glad it was over, even
though a long year was to pass without communication with the outside
world, but others were sorry. Chandonnais was non-committal and hummed
to himself the song of the _voyageur_.

The pack-trains were loaded, the patient horses bending under a
heavier burden than they had brought; the boats started to Milwaukee
after all of the _engagés_ had been given another round of liquor,
and a pack-train followed them north on land. The others, silhouetted
against the setting sun, went west over the unbroken prairie; the
drowsy tinkle of the bells died away in a silvery murmur, and peace
lay on Fort Dearborn.

       *       *       *       *       *

At the end of the week there was a diversion which was entirely
unexpected--as most real diversions contrive to be. Mrs. Mackenzie
was in the garden, planting flower seeds, when soft footsteps sounded
on the bare earth beside her, and a sweet voice said, "How do you do,
Aunt Eleanor?"

"Why, Beatrice!" exclaimed Mrs. Mackenzie, kissing her warmly. "Where
did you come from?"

"From Fort Wayne, with Captain Wells--he's across the river. I rowed
over by myself. I was so afraid you'd see me coming and wouldn't be
surprised."

"My dear! I'm so glad!"

"Maybe you won't be, when I tell you. I've come to live with you, Aunt
Eleanor."

"That makes me happier still," said Mrs. Mackenzie, in her stately
way. "You are welcome."

"Thank you, Aunty; but I haven't come to be a burden to you, and I
trust I never shall be. If I'm ever a trouble, I want you to tell me
so and send me away. In the first place, I have fought most terribly
with my aunt and uncle at Fort Wayne. They don't know I've come."

"Why, my dear! How could you?"

"Oh, they know it now," said Beatrice, laconically, with her head on
one side. "If they don't, the suspense will do them good. Anyhow, they
know I'm not there, and that's enough. You know I have a little income
of my own, Aunty, so I'm not dependent upon any one, and I'm going to
pay my board. If you won't let me," she continued, warningly, seeing
disapproval on Mrs. Mackenzie's kindly face, "I'm going back with
Captain Wells to-morrow, so now!"

"I'll let you do anything you want to, dear, if you'll only stay with
me. I have needed a grown daughter ever since Katherine was married."

"Then it's all arranged, and I'll stay with you for ever. I know I
never could fight with you."

"Here comes your uncle."

The trader beamed with delight when Beatrice cast herself upon him and
kissed him twice. "I've come to live with you," she said, "and I've
just fixed it with Aunt Eleanor. Captain Wells is over at the Fort
with the soldiers. We brought ten with us--it was quite an army, and
the Captain kept up military discipline all along the trail, with me
for First Lieutenant. They're going to stay at the Fort, and I'm going
to stay here." She pirouetted around him in high spirits.

"You're welcome, Bee; but how did it happen?"

"I fought," explained Beatrice, carelessly. "They told me what I
should do and what I shouldn't. Nobody ever says 'must' to me. If you
ever want me to do anything, you'll have to say 'please.' Would you
mind going over to the Fort after my things, Uncle? I've got a big box
with all my worldly goods inside of it."

Mackenzie went, for men always did as Beatrice suggested.

"Come in, dear," said her aunt. "You can have the east room, so you'll
get the morning sun."

"How sweet you are, Aunt Eleanor," murmured the girl, with her arm
thrown around the other's shoulders, for she was even taller than Mrs.
Mackenzie. Her face had the deep, creamy tint which sometimes goes
with violet eyes and brown hair with auburn lights in it. Beneath a
short nose, tilted ever so slightly, was the most bewitching mouth in
the world--small and perfect in shape, dangerously curved, and full of
a daring coquetry. When she smiled, one saw that her teeth were small
and white and absolutely even, but soon forgot that minor detail.
At first glance, no one would have called her pretty; she was like
something beautiful which must be studied before it is appreciated.

The arrival of the visitor had effectually broken up the school.
"Tuzzin Bee! Tuzzin Bee!" crowed Maria Indiana, delightedly.

"You darling," cried Beatrice, catching the child in her arms; "have
you remembered me a whole year?"

Robert was introduced as "a cousin on the other side of the house,"
and he bent gravely over the girl's hand.

"Are we truly cousins?" she asked.

There was a confused silence, then Robert found his tongue. "I trust
we are," he said, with the air of a gentleman of the old school, "for
you are the first flower of Spring."

The door burst open and Ronald entered. "What do you think," he
shouted; "we've got troops! Captain Wells has brought ten soldiers to
the Fort!"

"Miss Manning," said Mrs. Mackenzie, "let me present Ensign George
Ronald, of Fort Dearborn."

Beatrice bowed, but he stared at her for an instant, then brought his
heels together and raised his hand to his forehead in military salute.
There was an awkward instant, then the deep crimson dyed the Ensign's
face. He turned--and bolted.

From the window Beatrice saw him, in a pirogue, pulling back to the
Fort as if his life depended upon it, then she laughed--a deep, sweet,
vibrant laugh, that thrilled Robert to the very depths of his soul.




CHAPTER VI

COUSINS


"Aunty," said Beatrice, at breakfast the next morning, "do you think I
scared him to death?"

"What do you mean, dear?"

"Why, that young man--yesterday. Mr. Ronald is his name, isn't it?"

Mrs. Mackenzie laughed at the memory of the Ensign's scarlet face. "I
think he'll get over it," she said; "don't you, Rob?"

"I certainly do. He's the last man in the world to be afraid of a
woman."

"Oh, yes, he'll recover," put in Mackenzie, significantly.

"I think it's lovely here," observed Beatrice, irrelevantly, "and I
know I'm going to like it."

"We're going to try very hard to make you happy," said Forsyth, with
evident sincerity.

"I've wanted to live with Aunt Eleanor ever since last Spring, when
they all came to Fort Wayne. Otherwise, I wouldn't have fought. That
is, perhaps I wouldn't."

Rising from the table, she went out on the piazza, and Robert
instinctively followed her. If the long journey on horseback had
tired her, she showed no sign of it, for she might have been a part
of the morning as she stood there, smiling, with the sunlight on her
wind-blown hair.

The heavy brown coil, with auburn lights and black shadows in it, had
a strange fascination for Forsyth. He liked the way her hair grew
around her forehead and temples, and the little curl that escaped at
her neck. She was looking away from him, and he thought her unaware of
his scrutiny till she said quietly: "Well, how do you like your new
cousin? Do you think I will do?"

"Yes," he stammered, dimly grateful for the impulse that kept her face
still turned away; "that is, very much."

"How am I going to get my horse over here," she demanded suddenly.

"What horse?" asked Robert, stupidly.

"The one I rode from Fort Wayne, of course. Did I understand you to
say you had been to college?"

"Yes; I graduated."

"Really?" Beatrice turned upon him a dazzling smile. "I never should
have thought it," she added pleasantly.

"Where is your horse?" he asked, crimsoning.

"You don't see it anywhere, do you?"

"N--no."

"Then, obviously, it's at the Fort, isn't it?"

"I--I suppose so."

"Well, then, we're making progress. Now, how do I get it over here?"

"Swim," said Robert, helplessly, at his wit's end.

Beatrice stamped her small foot upon the piazza. "Uncle John," she
called, "come here! How is Queen coming across the river?" she asked,
when he appeared.

"Well, now, Bee, I don't know. There's no bridge and no way to go
around. She'll either have to come in a boat or swim."

Robert flashed a grateful glance at him, but said nothing.

"She won't get into a boat," said Beatrice, with a puzzled little
frown on her face. "We swam a river together once, but she didn't like
it, and we both got wet."

"Go down near the bar and come across," suggested Forsyth, having
partially recovered his self-possession. "It can't be very deep
there."

"No; but the sand is soft. Better leave her at the Fort, Bee, and
you can go over there when you want her. It's safer," he added. "The
Indians might get her out of my barn, but she'll be all right in the
garrison stables."

"That settles it," replied Beatrice. "Here comes Captain Wells."

An erect, soldierly figure came up the path with the characteristic
walk of the Indian. His eyes were small and dark, and his face was
bronzed like the people among whom he had lived; but when he smiled at
Beatrice and bowed with mock humility, all traces of the savage were
instantly effaced. He wore the rough garb of the plainsman, and the
only suggestion of vanity was in the black ribbon that tied his queue.

"Mackenzie," he said, "I warn you. You have a tyrannical
commander-in-chief."

Beatrice pouted prettily. "I'm sorry for Uncle John," she said; "but
it's too late to help him now. I've come for keeps."

All the time he was speaking, Captain Wells's piercing glance was
fixed upon Forsyth, to whom he had just been introduced, but of whom
he had heard at the Fort, and the young man grew vaguely uncomfortable.

"Your pardon, sir," said Captain Wells. "I fear the manners of the
prairie seem strange to a gentleman of culture. My only excuse is that
your face interests me."

"Come on over to the Fort, Cousin Rob," suggested Beatrice, with ready
tact, "and I'll introduce you to Queen. They don't want us here,
anyhow."

Together they climbed into the pirogue in which Captain Wells had
crossed the river, and with some difficulty reached the opposite
shore. Ronald was standing at the entrance, talking with the sentinel,
and when he saw them coming he went toward the barracks with more
haste than dignity. Forsyth laughed, but Beatrice held her head high,
and a faint flush stole into her cheeks.

"Where are the stables, Cousin Rob?"

"This way."

Robert's involuntary gasp of admiration at the sight of Queen
instantly placed him high in his fair cousin's favour. "Isn't she a
beauty?" she asked.

The little black mare whinnied joyously at the approach of her young
mistress, prancing and curvetting prettily in spite of her halter.

"Poor dear," said Beatrice, "you aren't used to being tied, are you?"

She led the horse out on the parade-ground and exclaimed with
pleasure at the satin smoothness of the glossy coat. The grooms had
done their work well and stood around, grinning broadly, while she
praised them. The mare might have hailed from the blue grass country,
so perfect were her lines. She was built for speed as well as beauty,
and the small black hoofs pawed the ground impatiently, as she rubbed
her velvet nose against her owner's cheek by way of a caress.

"There isn't any sugar, Queen," laughed the girl, "and I just came to
say good-morning."

"We'll have some rides on the prairie together," said Robert. "My
horse isn't much, compared with yours, but he used to get along pretty
well on the roads back East."

"Aren't there any roads here?"

"I haven't discovered any, but the prairie isn't bad."

"Come on out now," said Beatrice, "and I'll show you what she can do."

As they passed the barracks, Robert was dimly aware of Ronald's
scrutiny from some safe point of observation; but Beatrice chattered
merrily until they reached the open space beyond the Fort.

A convenient stump stood near by and she led the mare to it. "Now
then, Beauty," she said. In an instant she was mounted on Queen's
bare back, and there ensued an exhibition of horsemanship that would
have put a cavalryman to shame. Some of the soldiers came out to see
the mare change her gait at a word from her rider, and turn readily
with neither bit nor bridle. The pins dropped, one by one, from the
girl's hair, and when she turned out on the open plain for a final
gallop, it streamed out behind her as Atalanta's may have done when
she made her last race.

Beatrice was riding like the wind. She went straight on until she was
scarcely a speck upon the horizon, then circled back gradually. Queen
was on her mettle, and no dame of high degree ever held her head more
proudly than the little black mare with the tossing mane. With a last
turn she came toward the Fort straight as an arrow, and stopped so
suddenly at the word that she was thrown back upon her haunches.

The girl slipped to the ground, laughing and flushed. "Oh!" she cried,
"that was glorious, wasn't it, Queen?"

"I'm proud of my cousin," was all Forsyth said; but there was a volume
of meaning in the tone.

A groom led the horse away to be rubbed down, and Beatrice began a
fruitless search for the lost hairpins, in which Robert refused to
join her. "Don't put it up," he pleaded, "you look so much prettier
with it down."

"I can't, anyway," she said. "I haven't a single pin."

The heavy mass of brown and auburn hung far below her waist, rippling
ever so slightly, and ending in a curl. A pink flush was on her face
and her eyes were dancing. "Come," she continued, "they're talking
about me over there, and I know it."

She had hit upon the truth, for the Mackenzies were having an animated
conference with Captain Wells. "I never suspected there was any
trouble," he was saying, "and she didn't mention it. She was waiting
for us a piece up the trail, and two men with her were carrying her
box. She said she was coming, so the soldiers took her things and she
rode with me.

"As she told you, they probably know it now, but I'll see them the
first thing when I go back and explain. They'll be glad to know she's
safe. She's as skittish a filly as I've ever laid eyes on--she won't
wear a bit, nor stand; and that little black devil that she rides is
made out of the same kind of timber. The two of them will have the
settlement by the ears inside of a month--you wait and see."

Beatrice appeared at this juncture and pointed a rosy finger at
Captain Wells. "Perjurer!" she laughed. "You've been taking my
character away from me!"

"I never tell anything but the truth, Miss," returned the Captain,
awkwardly. "Are you going back with me this afternoon?"

"I told you once," she answered, "that I was going to live with Aunt
Eleanor. I'm never going to Fort Wayne again!"

"Do you want me to take a letter or a message to your people?"

"No!" cried Beatrice, with her eyes blazing. "If you dare to mention
me to them, or say I sent any kind of a message, I'll--I'll haunt you!"

The Captain went out, murmuring confused apologies; and Robert,
feeling himself in the way, went to his room. The moccasins hanging on
the wall gave him a vivid moment of self-knowledge. The dainty, arched
foot he had seen for the first time when Beatrice stamped on the
piazza, might easily have been the one for which the moccasins were
made. He stroked the pretty things caressingly, with a soft light in
his eyes.

"I knew she was coming," he said to himself; "but how did I know?"

In the afternoon, Mackenzie and the officers rode a little way on the
Fort Wayne trail with Captain Wells, who was charged with many letters
and messages for friends there, and Beatrice watched the start from
the window of the living-room.

"Who's that, Aunt Eleanor, riding beside Uncle John?"

"Captain Franklin, in command of the Fort."

"And who's the mean-looking one, twisting his mustache?"

"Lieutenant Howard, dear--Katherine's husband."

"Oh!" said Beatrice, quickly. "Aren't they happy together?"

There was a long silence. "Not very happy, I'm afraid," sighed Mrs.
Mackenzie.

"I'm sorry," said the girl, with genuine sympathy. "Do you think I
could help in any way?"

"I don't know, Bee--I wish you could. You will be company for
Katherine, and perhaps you can make it easier for her, in some ways,
if you try."

"Poor Cousin Kit! Of course I'll try! Look, Aunty," she said, abruptly
pointing to a belated rider who was galloping to overtake the others.
He had his cap in his hand, and his yellow hair was blowing in the
wind. "That's the big boy I scared. Is he married?"

"No," replied Mrs. Mackenzie. Her lips did not move, but her eyes
smiled.

"He's handsome," said Beatrice, dispassionately. "I've lived at all
the posts--Fort Wayne, Detroit, and Fort Mackinac, and he's the
best-looking soldier I've seen. I'd like to paint his picture, if he'd
let me."

"I'll ask him, dear; I think he'll let you."

"Aunt Eleanor!" cried Beatrice, reproachfully.

"Why not?"

"Oh--because. Where are those soldiers going, Aunty?"

Mrs. Mackenzie looked out of the window and saw half a dozen men in
the boat belonging to the Fort, headed up-stream.

"They're going fishing, I guess. I'll have to go away a little while
this afternoon, Bee. Mrs. Burns is sick and she needs me--you won't
mind, will you? I'll leave the table all set, and I'll surely be back
before dark. Are you afraid to be left alone?"

"No. I'm not afraid of anything; but where is Cousin Rob?"

"He's teaching the children. They don't seem to get much time,
someway, in the morning, so they begin right after dinner and study
till supper time. I'm so glad to have Robert here--he's doing wonders
with them."

"He seems nice," said Beatrice, "and I like him. Can't I go with you,
Aunt Eleanor?"

"No, dear--somebody has to stay with the baby. He's asleep, though,
and I don't think he'll trouble you."

"I'll take care of him, Aunty. Don't fret about us."

Nevertheless, the house seemed very lonely to Beatrice after Mrs.
Mackenzie went away, and she roamed about restlessly. For a time she
amused herself by examining the articles on the depleted shelves
behind the counters, but the interest soon vanished. She could find
nothing to read except a soiled and ragged copy of a paper three
months old, which she had already seen at Fort Wayne. The murmur
of voices from a distant room, reached her ears with sudden and
attractive significance, and her face brightened.

"I don't know as I should do it," she said to herself, but she went to
the door and tapped softly.

Robert opened it, in surprise, and Beatrice stepped into the room.
"I've come to visit the school," she said.

"Goody!" cried Johnny.

She seated herself on the window ledge and smiled radiantly at the
embarrassed teacher. Discipline had been difficult from the beginning,
and the guest made matters worse.

"Now, then, Johnny," Forsyth said, "what were we studying?"

"Eight times three."

"Yes, and how many are eight times three?"

"Twenty----"

"Twenty-one," said Beatrice.

"Twenty-one," repeated Johnny, readily, with the air of one who has
accomplished a difficult feat.

Robert frowned and bit his lips. "Eight times three are twenty-four,
Johnny. Write it ten times on your slate--that will help you to
remember."

"What a gift for teaching," murmured Beatrice. Robert flushed, but
did not speak, and there was no sound in the room but the pencil
scratching on the slate.

"Cousin Rob?"

"Yes, Johnny. What is it?"

"Why, Cousin Bee just said eight times three were twenty-one. Did she
tell a lie, or didn't she know?"

"Never mind, Johnny; just attend to your lesson."

"Mamma says it's wicked to tell lies," observed Ellen, virtuously,
sucking her slate pencil.

Beatrice was enjoying herself hugely. She flashed a wicked glance at
Forsyth as she said, "I'm so glad I came!"

"Go on with your work, Ellen. I want you to write that sentence five
times without a mistake. Maria Indiana, bring me your primer. Begin
here."

"Tan't. Baby's fordot."

"Oh, no, you haven't. We learned this yesterday, don't you remember?
Now, then,--'I see,'--what's the rest of it?"

"I see a tat."

"Where?" asked Beatrice, lightly, and Maria Indiana gazed at her,
sadly bewildered.

"Where is the cat?" she asked again. "I don't see any."

"Here, Baby," said Robert; "look at the picture."

"I don't like a picture cat," said Beatrice, with a tempting smile, as
she held out her arms to the child.

"Tuzzin Bee!" crowed the baby, running to her, "me loves oo!"

"I've got this done now," said Johnny. "Eight times three are
twenty-four."

"That's a mistake," put in Beatrice. "Didn't I tell you it was
twenty-one?"

"Cousin Rob," asked Ellen, in deep trouble, "if Cousin Bee has told a
lie, will she go to hell?"

"No," sobbed the baby; "me doesn't want Tuzzin Bee to go to hell!"

Robert's face was pale, and there was a dangerous look in the set
lines of his mouth. He went to Beatrice, took her by the shoulders,
and gently, but firmly, put her out of the room, then locked the door.

"Well, I never!" she said to herself.

Beatrice was not given to self-analysis, but she could not keep from
wondering why she felt so queer. She knew she had no right to be
angry, and yet she was furious. She was certain that she would have
done the same thing if she had been in his place, and much earlier at
that; but the fact did not lessen the enormity of his crime.

"He dared to touch me!" she whispered, with her face hidden.

The long afternoon faded into dusk, and then Mackenzie came home.
"Where's mother?" he asked.

"She went to see Mrs. Burns. She said she was sick."

"Have you been lonesome, Bee?"

The girl bit her lips. "Not very," she answered grimly.

School was dismissed and the children trooped into the living-room.
Robert spoke pleasantly to his uncle, but took no notice of Beatrice.

"Uncle John," she said at length, "what do you think of a person who
takes a lady by the shoulders and puts her out of a room?"

"If you had been a lady," retorted Robert, "I wouldn't have put you
out."

"Don't quarrel," said Mackenzie. "Life is too short to fuss." He took
Chan's violin from the chimney-shelf in the next room, and began to
play a lively tune. Ellen and Johnny pranced around the tea-table, and
Maria Indiana, with faltering steps, endeavoured to imitate them.

Beatrice laughed, and Robert's heart softened, though he had been very
angry with her only a little while before. He was about to beg her
pardon for his seeming harshness, when the door burst open and Mrs.
Mackenzie rushed in, breathless and white with fear.

"The Indians!" she cried. "The Indians!"

"Where?" shouted Mackenzie, springing to his feet.

"Up at Lee's! Killing and scalping!"




CHAPTER VII

THE ALARM


With rare presence of mind, Beatrice blew out the candles, and they
made their way to the river in the darkness. The mist was rising from
the bare earth and the air was heavy with dew. There was no outward
sign of danger; but the grey shadows were portentous of evil, and in
the very stillness was a nameless fear.

Mrs. Mackenzie had the baby in her arms. "Smother him if he cries,"
said the trader, in a low tone, but, fortunately, the child kept
quiet. Maria Indiana began to wail and her father shook her roughly.
"Keep still!" he whispered warningly.

Beatrice took charge of the other children, who did as they were told
without a murmur of complaint. The bateau lay at its moorings and they
got into it with as little noise as possible. Mackenzie and Robert
were at the oars.

The stream was narrow, yet the minutes passed like hours, and the
sound of the oars seemed carried far into the night. "Careful, now,"
whispered Mackenzie. Robert took the little girl in his arms and they
ran up the esplanade to the Fort.

Dim shapes of horror seemed hovering around them as they strained
their ears to catch the savage cry which had blazed the red trail of
torture from Jamestown to the Lakes. Soldiers ran to meet them, picked
up the two older children, and hurried with them into the Fort. As
they entered the stockade, the heavy gate crashed into place.

"Thank God," breathed Mackenzie, "we are safe!"

On the parade-ground was a scene of confusion. Men ran to and fro,
carrying ammunition and pails of water to the blockhouses and points
marked on the stockade. Pine knots, thrust between the bars, blazed
fitfully, throwing a lurid light here and there and making the
darkness deeper by contrast.

From the windows and open doors of the officers' quarters came stray
gleams of light. White-faced men and women ran in and out of the
shadows, hoarse cries of command were heard, and it seemed like some
vivid dream.

Beatrice ran to the stables, and Queen whinnied when she felt the
girl's soft hand upon her. "Hush," she said, "we came together,
Beauty, and we'll stay together--while we're here," she added, with a
little choke in her voice.

Over by the barracks a man and a boy were talking to Captain Franklin,
while a little group of people listened. Beatrice, with Queen's halter
in her hand, went near enough to hear.

"I knew something was wrong," the man was saying. "A dozen of 'em came
in all painted up, but Frenchy and White seemed to think it was all
right and went on talking to them. I says to the kid here, 'They ain't
Pottawattomies, and we'd better get away if we can. Do as you see me
do.'

"So we went out to the canoes, and two of the red devils followed us
to ask where we were going. I told 'em we were going over to feed the
cattle and we'd be back soon to get supper. When we got across we
pulled some hay and pretended to get the cattle together, but as soon
as we got behind a stack, we ran for the Fort. Two shots were fired
after we left, and God only knows what they're doing up there now.
There must be thousands of them in the woods."

"Where's Chan?" asked Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Haven't seen him since noon," replied her husband. "He'll have to
look out for himself."

"Where are the soldiers who went fishing?" asked Beatrice.

"They haven't come back," answered the Captain; "but they're armed."

"That won't do any good," said Lieutenant Howard. Two of the soldiers
standing by ran to the blockhouses without waiting for an order. The
deep-throated guns thundered a warning, and confused echoes came back,
but there was no other answer.

Preparations for fight went on. The men in the blockhouses were
ordered to stay there, and others were assigned to the same posts.
Still others were stationed at the magazine and at regular intervals
along the stockade. The gates were heavily guarded, and Captain
Franklin ordered the women and children to the officers' quarters, but
only Mrs. Mackenzie obeyed.

"I'll stay here," said Mrs. Franklin, in open defiance.

"Wait till we are attacked," cried Katherine.

"Queen and I will stay together," said Beatrice, proudly.

Ronald was rapidly loading the army pistols and distributing them
among the women. Beatrice was standing with her arm thrown over the
mare's neck when he came to her, and the fitful light of the pine
knots shone full upon her face and her glorious hair. Her eyes were
bright and she breathed rapidly, but no one could have said she was
afraid.

For a moment they stood there, looking into each other's eyes. "When
the first Indian leaps the stockade, put it to your temple and fire,"
said Ronald, almost in a whisper.

Beatrice took the heavy pistol from him with a steady hand. "Give me
another cartridge," she said.

"What for?"

"For Queen. I won't have her hurt, and she goes first."

The Ensign obeyed, with another long look at the girl. "You're a
thoroughbred," he said. For a breathless instant they faced each
other, then Ronald clicked his heels together, saluted, and turned
away.

Something stirred painfully in the girl's heart. As in a dream, she
saw Mrs. Mackenzie and the children going into Lieutenant Howard's,
watched Forsyth and the trader as they loaded their muskets, and heard
Katherine's terrible laugh when she put the cold muzzle of the pistol
to her temple to see how it would feel.

Then Franklin and Ronald passed her. "I won't give an order," the
Captain was saying; "it's a job for volunteers."

"May I have them?" asked the Ensign.

"Yes--six. We can spare no more."

A moment later a clear voice sounded above the clamour, "Attention!"

There was the rush of hurrying feet, an instant's wondering silence,
then Ronald spoke. "Boys," he said, "Mrs. Burns has a baby a day
old, and there is no one with her but her husband. I'm going after
them--who's going with me?"

The soldiers, to a man, rallied around him. "I!" came from every
throat. "I'm going!"

"Six only," he said. He quickly selected his men, they snatched up
their guns, and, with a warning "hush!" from him, they went to the
bateau in which the Mackenzies had crossed.

"Steady!" came Ronald's low voice, then the oars murmured in the water
and the heavy gate rumbled into place once more.

Forsyth, stunned by the whirl of events, was leaning on his musket,
staring vacantly into space. Across the parade-ground his face
appeared to Beatrice in the last flicker of a burnt-out knot. All her
pent-up anger returned to her, and, still smarting under the memory of
his affront, she left her horse and went over to him.

"Why didn't you go with him?" she demanded.

"Who--where?"

"Ensign Ronald!"

"I--I don't know," he stammered.

He had told the unvarnished truth, but she interpreted it in her
own way. "I'll tell you why you didn't go," she said, with measured
distinctness. Then her eyes flashed and her breast heaved.

"Coward!" she blazed.

Robert started as if he had been struck, but before he could speak,
she had left him and gone back to Queen.

Her lip curled as she saw him standing there, leaning on his musket,
with his head bowed. His habit of self-analysis asserted itself, and
he began to wonder whether she had been right. The blood that had left
his heart came back in tides of pain, and the word burned itself upon
his consciousness. "Coward," he said to himself, "coward! She called
me a coward!"

Yet he knew that what she had said did not matter so much as the
possibility that she had spoken truly--that his self-respect meant
more than any woman's praise or blame. His reason told him that; but
her scornful, accusing face flitted before him and he had an impulse
to get away--it did not matter where. Still dazed, he went to the
blockhouse at the north-west corner of the stockade and joined the men
there.

On the parade-ground Doctor Norton was making grewsome preparations.
A stretcher was placed near each blockhouse, and others at regular
intervals. Bottles were ranged in rows upon the ground, and piles of
bandages showed whitely under the flare of the torches.

He looked up, to find Katherine at his side. "Let me help you," she
said.

"No; there's nothing you can do just now, but I'm afraid we'll have
our hands full later if--Go and scrape some lint," he broke off
abruptly, "and make some coffee. Get the other women to help you."

Here the Lieutenant passed them, without seeming to see them, and she
followed him with a guilty feeling in her heart.

When she entered her own house, she found her mother there, scraping
lint and making bandages, while a pot of strong coffee was already
steaming on the hearth and piles of cut bread were stacked upon the
table.

"This is all we can do, dear," said Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Let me help you, mother--I'll get some more old linen."

Mrs. Franklin came in with her arms full of white cloth, which she
tore into strips and wound tightly, ready for immediate use. They
worked by the light of a single candle, and the three loaded pistols
lay on the table in front of them.

"If we sleep to-night," said the Captain's wife at length, without
pausing in her task, "I'll take Miss Manning and Mrs. Burns, when the
boys come back."

"Mother and the children can stay here," said Katherine; "but I
haven't room for any more."

"That's all right," answered Mrs. Mackenzie. "The men can go to the
barracks."

More than an hour passed, but nothing was heard from the rescue party,
and the fear of danger deepened. The Lieutenant came in, endeavouring
to conceal his nervousness.

"That's good," he said, indicating the piles of lint and bandages.
Then he drank a cup of strong, black coffee, and paced back and forth
uneasily.

"Where are the boys?" asked Katherine. "Isn't it time for them to come
back?"

"No, I don't think so; we could hardly expect them yet."

"Couldn't some of the others go after them?"

"Heavens, no! We haven't fifty men here, and we need every one. Chan
is missing, seven have gone after Mrs. Burns, and six are on a fishing
trip--that's fourteen out of our small force. In their place we have
Father John, Forsyth, and the man and boy from Lee's. The Indians are
probably gathering in the woods and making ready to attack us. God!"
he said, under his breath, "why can't we have troops!"

Katherine warned him with a glance which almost imperceptibly
indicated Mrs. Franklin, who was hard at work, seemingly absorbed in
her task. "Where's Wallace?" she asked, without looking up.

"Walking around the parade-ground. He's safe," he added bitterly;
"don't worry about him."

Mrs. Mackenzie and Katherine both frowned at the emphasis on the last
word. "Don't worry about me, either," he continued; "I'm going now."

Katherine went to the door with him. "Can I do anything more, dear?"
she asked.

"No," he said roughly, "unless you want to mind your own business for
a while!" He laughed harshly, pushed her from him, and went out.

"Ralph isn't well," she sighed, going back to the table; "and I'm
afraid something has happened outside, too. I wonder where the boys
are?"

The whole garrison was asking the same question secretly; but no
man would openly admit that there was ground for anxiety. Beatrice
had tied Queen to the flag-pole, and was besieging the Doctor with
inquiries.

"Tell me," she pleaded, for the third time, "haven't they been gone
long enough to get back?"

"Yes," he answered finally; "they have. They should have been here
long ago."

"I knew it!" she exclaimed. "I'm going to the blockhouse to see if
they aren't coming!"

She called to those above her, but no one heard, so she went up the
ladder. "Where are they?" she cried, bursting in upon the startled
group.

Even as she spoke there was a faint "halloo" from the west. "They're
coming," shouted Robert, but his voice was lost, for the sentinel at
the gate had heard also.

The parade-ground filled with people, and Beatrice had turned to
descend the ladder, when Robert caught her by the arm.

"Beatrice!" he gasped. "Let me know the worst--do you despise me?"

"Yes," she answered, coolly. "Please let go of me, and never dare to
touch me again."

The gate was lifted and seven men came in, carrying the mattress on
which lay Mrs. Burns and her baby. Mrs. Franklin led the way to her
hospitable door, where Mrs. Mackenzie and Katherine were already
waiting to do what they could in the way of making the mother and
child comfortable.

It was Mrs. Mackenzie who first noticed that Ronald was not with them.
"Where's George?" she asked, in a low tone.

"He's gone up the river, ma'am," answered one of the soldiers. "We
begged him not to, but he would go, and he wouldn't let a one of us
go with him. He thought he heard a noise, so he went up-stream to see
what it was."

Mr. Burns had seen no Indians, but, like the others, thought they were
gathering in the woods. He was far away from the house at the time the
man had shouted the warning; but he had heard the two shots at Lee's
and the guns from the Fort.

"Captain," said Lieutenant Howard, "I'll be one of a party to go and
find Ronald. He's probably up at Lee's."

"You won't," growled the Captain, biting his mustache. "Just because
the young fool chooses to risk his life for nothing, I won't expose
five or six men to danger. We have none to spare."

"How did he go?" asked the Doctor of Mr. Burns.

"He took my boat. He'll pull back down-stream quick enough if anything
is wrong."

"No he won't," returned the Doctor, warmly; "you don't know the lad."

Robert walked back and forth on the parade-ground, sorely troubled on
his own account, and deeply concerned for the safety of his friend.
Mackenzie shared his anxiety, but quickly vetoed the suggestion that
they two follow him.

"'T ain't no manner of use, Rob," he said, kindly. "We're under
military orders, and you heard what the Captain said. Besides, that
dare-devil boy ain't afraid of anything, and I guess he'll come out
with a whole skin--he always has."

"Were you thinking of going after him, Cousin Rob?" asked Beatrice,
sweetly.

He started at the sound of her voice, then looked full in her face
with no sign of recognition. Beatrice met his eyes squarely until he
turned on his heel and walked away, followed by a peal of light,
mocking laughter that cut into his heart like a knife.

"What's the matter between you and Rob?" asked the trader, curiously.

"Nothing," answered the girl, shrugging her shoulders; "but I was
amused a little while ago because he was so frightened--he was scared
almost to death."

Mackenzie's eyes glittered as he peered at her keenly from under his
bushy brows. "Don't say that again, my girl," he said, huskily, "for
fear doesn't run in the Forsyth blood. His grandfather was killed at
Lexington."

"A boat is coming," shouted a man from the blockhouse. Shortly
afterward, the fishing party came in, tired but triumphant, with a
long string of river fish. They had seen no Indians, and had not met
Ronald.

"Did you hear the gun?" asked the Captain.

"Yes, sir," replied one of the soldiers. "We were up on the North
Branch and thought it was a warning, so we laid low for a while. Then,
as we didn't hear anything more, we came on down as quietly as we
could."

"Everything all right at Lee's?" asked Lieutenant Howard.

"As far as we saw, sir."

Still there was uneasiness regarding the Ensign. Katherine was pale,
Mrs. Franklin was crying, and Beatrice had her small hands clenched
tightly together. Suddenly they all knew how much they should miss him
if----

Then there was a familiar whistle outside, the sentinel opened the
gate, and Ronald came in with a big black and white dog in his arms.

"I thought I heard him howling," he said, in answer to the torrent of
questions, "so I went on up to Lee's to get him. The devils have been
there all right,--the guns must have frightened them away.

"Yes," he continued in a low tone, in answer to a whispered question
from Howard; "White and Frenchy. White was shot and stabbed in the
breast and poor Frenchy was scalped--the whole top of his head lifted
off. The dog was guarding the body."

"What's that?" asked Mrs. Franklin, from the edge of the group where
all the women were standing together. "Speak louder--we can't hear."

The deep-toned bell tolled taps, and there was a general movement
toward quarters. "I was just talking about the dog," shouted Ronald to
the women.

"He fought me at first," he continued, addressing the Lieutenant
and the Doctor; "but I soon won his heart. Poor old boy," he said,
stroking the dog, "he didn't want to be made into a stew, did he?"

"We must go up to-morrow," said the Lieutenant.

"What are you going to call him?" asked the Doctor.

"Major, I guess--we haven't a major here."

Lieutenant Howard's white teeth showed in a sarcastic smile. "You
might call him 'Captain,'" he said, twisting his mustache, "for the
same good reason."




CHAPTER VIII

THOROUGHBREDS


The guard was doubled that night and the small force was ready for
instant action. Sentinels patrolled the river bank and stood at the
gates; while in the blockhouses the cannon were trained through the
port-holes, and men kept vigilant watch.

At three o'clock the terrified bleating of the sheep aroused every one
but the children. A sentinel fired his musket and retreated to the
Fort, then a heavy gun rumbled ominously.

Once again the parade-ground filled with people. "What is it? What is
it?" they cried.

"Indians," Captain Franklin explained. "They went after the horses,
but didn't find them, so they stabbed the sheep and turned them loose.
The sentry saw some of them in the pasture, and fired, then ran to the
Fort. A tomahawk just missed him--it grazed his head and struck a
waggon wheel. The cannon must have frightened them away."

So it proved, for the next morning a trail of blood led from the
pasture toward the woods. The sheep lay dead on the plains around the
Fort, but search parties found nothing, though they scoured the woods
thoroughly for miles around.

Chandonnais appeared at the usual time for work, but refused to say
where he had been. When he was asked unpleasant questions, he always
pretended that he did not understand, and from this position neither
man nor woman could swerve him a hair's breadth.

Lieutenant Howard, with four men, went up the river to Lee's and
buried the two victims of the night before. "It wasn't good to look
at," he said to Ronald, when he returned.

"I know," answered the Ensign; "I found out that much last night. I
didn't dare strike a light, but I felt----" He turned his face away
and swallowed hard. "Don't tell the women," he concluded.

"I won't," said Howard, "and I've made the boys promise not to talk.
There's no use of making things worse than they are."

Major sat at Ronald's feet, listening intelligently, and thumping the
ground vigorously with his bushy tail. "Poor old boy," said his new
master, affectionately; "it was pretty bad, wasn't it? He's a nice
dog, isn't he, Howard?"

"Washing would help him."

"He's going to have his Spring bath the first warm day. How do you
suppose dogs know whom they belong to? Major knows he's mine, and
nobody could get him away from me."

Beatrice came out of Captain Franklin's and took a careful survey of
the Fort. It was a gloomy place at best, but the disorder of the night
made it worse.

"Good-morning," said the Lieutenant, as he passed her on his way home.

"Good-morning," returned the girl, including Ronald in the salutation.
Then she whistled to the dog, but he paid no attention to the call
other than to lean heavily against his master.

"He's mine," laughed Ronald, meeting her, "and you can't have him. How
do you like living in the Fort?"

"I don't like it," she answered disdainfully. "It's about as cheerful
as a tomb. I'm glad we're going home."

Ronald lifted his brows inquiringly. "Who's going home?"

"Why, all of us--Uncle John, Aunt Eleanor, the children, and--and
Cousin Rob."

"Oh, no, you're not! You're going to stay here."

"Who said so?"

"I say so," replied George, mischievously.

"Can't I go out of the Fort?"

"No."

"We'll see," said Beatrice, tossing her head.

She ran to the gate, but he was there before her and effectually
barred the way.

"Let me pass," she said icily.

"I'm sorry, Miss Manning, but you can't go without permission from
the Captain. You are under military orders, and no soldier or citizen
is to leave the Fort without a guard. After sunset no one but the
sentries can pass the gates."

"For how long?" demanded Beatrice.

"Till the Captain orders otherwise."

"And I'm to stay here, then, without a hat, or even a clean
handkerchief, until His Majesty sees fit to let me go to my own home
in broad daylight!"

The colour flamed in her cheeks, and her eyes snapped dangerously. The
Ensign was enjoying the situation hugely, and thought Beatrice was
the prettiest girl he had ever seen. In fact, he was on the point of
saying so, but, fortunately, thought better of it.

"You can go if I go with you," he suggested.

"Then I'll stay here," announced Beatrice, with unconcealed scorn. She
walked away from him with her head high, and went straight to Captain
Franklin.

"Gone to see if I lied to her," laughed Ronald to himself. "She's a
mettlesome damsel--devilish mettlesome."

"That is my order," said the Captain, in answer to her question, "and
it must be obeyed."

"Can't I go home at all?"

"Certainly, for a few minutes at a time. Ask Ensign Ronald to go with
you this afternoon."

The Captain turned away, and Beatrice gazed at his retreating figure
with fire in her eyes. "Fool!" she said aloud, stamping her foot; "I
won't ask him. I'll stay here till I die before I'll ask him!"

Captain Franklin's house immediately became offensive to her, and
she knew Robert was at Katherine's, teaching the children. The
parade-ground was odious, because Ronald was walking briskly around
it for exercise. Her uncle passed her with the coolest kind of a nod,
remembering what she had said about Robert the night before, and she
began to wish she had never left Fort Wayne.

Only the stables remained, and she went there to see the friend who
never failed her. Queen pranced in her stall and tapped with her
dainty hoofs impatiently.

"I can't take you out, Beauty," she said sadly, "because they won't
let us leave the Fort."

Queen put her nose into the girl's neck and was immediately slapped.
"You're not allowed to do that," said Beatrice, sternly, turning away.
Queen whinnied and Beatrice understood that the offender was very
sorry and very lonely, and would never do it again, so she went back.

"I'll take you around the Fort if you'll be good," she said. Her
saddle was hanging there, but she preferred to ride without it, so she
replaced the halter with a bridle and went out, mounted, hoping Ronald
was not there.

But he was still walking around the parade-ground, with Major in
his wake. Queen pricked up her ears but went on, obediently, at the
slow pace which was better than nothing. Ronald smiled to himself as
Beatrice crossed and turned so that if he kept on he would appear to
be following her.

Twice, three times the procession went round the square, with the
dog bringing up the rear, before a bright idea struck the Ensign.
By slow-degrees he slackened his pace, and as they passed Lieutenant
Howard's for the fifth time, Mrs. Mackenzie came out on the piazza.

"What's the matter, Bee?" she called; "can't you catch him?"

In half a minute Queen was in her stall, much surprised, and not a
little displeased at the sudden termination of her exercise. "You
wretch," whispered Beatrice, as she dismounted; "whatever possessed
you to follow him?"

The coast was clear when she left the stables, but she went to Mrs.
Howard's in a bad humour. She was not upon good terms with any one,
and would have have started back to Fort Wayne that afternoon if it
had been possible. She smiled grimly as she realised that, by her own
act, she had forever cut herself off from her friends there. "I'll
have to fight it out here," she said to herself; "I seem destined to
fight."

Mrs. Franklin went to Mrs. Howard's to invite Beatrice to dinner, and
was much disappointed when she refused. "Thank you," Beatrice said,
trying hard to be pleasant; "but I'll stay with Aunty and Cousin Kit
this time. I haven't a doubt you'll get tired of me, though, before
His High Mightiness lets me go home."

She could have bitten her tongue out for the unlucky speech, but, to
her relief, the Captain's wife misunderstood. "I saw you at the gate
this morning," she laughed, "arguing with George. It's no use--he
always has his own way."

"What a narrow escape!" she exclaimed, as Mrs. Franklin went out.
"Aunt Eleanor, this is one of my bad days."

"You mustn't say any day is bad, dear," replied Mrs. Mackenzie,
"because each one is what we make it. We begin afresh every morning
with the day in our own hands. I'm sorry this has happened; but I'm
very glad we had the Fort to come to, and I am sure you can find
something pleasant here if you only look for it."

Nine people crowded around Mrs. Howard's table at dinner time, but
Mackenzie and Robert barely spoke to Beatrice. The tribal instinct was
strong in the trader, and Robert was of his blood. Katherine perceived
that something was wrong and did her best to produce harmony, in which
she was ably seconded by her husband. The Lieutenant was in a very
pleasant frame of mind.

"Cousin Bee," said Ellen, "are you coming to visit the school this
afternoon?" Beatrice was talking with Katherine and did not seem to
hear.

"Tuzzin Bee," screamed Maria Indiana, "is oo tummin?"

"No, dear," answered Beatrice, quickly.

"Why not?" asked Mrs. Mackenzie, innocently; "it might amuse you, Bee."

"I doubt it," said the girl. "I'm going to help Kit."

"Cousin Rob put her out," explained Johnny, "because she told a lie."

Above everything else on earth, Beatrice hated to wash dishes, but she
plunged into the work with a will after dinner, as a penance, and in
spite of Mrs. Howard's protests.

"It's so good of you to help me," sighed Katherine, as the last dish
was put away; "for mother is tired out, and I have a headache. None of
us slept much last night, I fancy."

"I know I didn't, but I seldom sleep in the daytime. I wish you and
Aunt Eleanor would go and lie down. I can take care of myself."

"All right," answered Katherine, "if you don't mind."

Beatrice sat by the window a little while after the house became
quiet, then went over to Mrs. Franklin's, but there was no response to
her rap. "Everybody's asleep, I guess," she said to herself.

She went to the gate and looked out longingly into the bright Spring
sunshine. The sentinel passed her with his musket over his shoulder,
and went on around the Fort. She heard his measured steps die away in
the distance, and wondered, mechanically, how long it took him to make
the round.

It seemed a long time before she heard him coming. A pirogue was tied
to a sapling on the river bank and the oars lay near it. Across the
stream the lonely house was beckoning to her to come. She slipped
out of the gate and leaned up against the stockade outside. Then the
sentry passed again.

"Against orders, Miss," he said.

"What?" asked Beatrice.

"Standin' outside."

"Oh," she said, returning to the gate. "Can I stand here?"

"Yes'm, if you don't go no further. Orders is to stay inside."

"All right." She smiled brilliantly, then inquired, in a tone of
polite interest, "Are you all alone here?"

"Yes'm. My mate's at mess."

"Too bad. It's lonely for you, isn't it?"

"Yes'm, but I'm used to it."

He went on, and she watched him till he turned the first corner. A
backward glance assured her that the parade-ground was deserted, so
she edged out of the gate again, and, under cover of the stockade, ran
to the pirogue, snatched up the oars, and started across.

The blood beat hard in her pulses, but she was not afraid, and the
rare delight of disobeying military orders set her head awhirl. She
expected to see the esplanade fill with soldiers, shouting to her to
come back, but nothing happened. She reached the other bank safely,
tied the pirogue, and ran into the house. From the window of the
living-room she saw the sentry pass once more. His head was bowed and
he did not notice that a boat was gone.

Then Ronald came out of the Fort alone and took another boat. She
shrank back to the farthest corner of the room, and her heart stood
still until she saw him turn up-stream. "There," she said to herself,
"he's disobeying orders, too, for he's gone without a guard. If he can
do it, there's no reason why I shouldn't."

Unconsciously, Beatrice had sustained a high nervous strain for too
long a period. The quarrel with her aunt and uncle at Fort Wayne had
been an affair of no small moment at the time, and the preparation
for the journey and the long horseback ride had told upon her
strength. The excitement of her arrival, new scenes and new faces, and
the fright of the night before had taxed her still further, and her
trouble with Robert had hurt her more deeply than she knew. She had
reached the fine dividing line between a let-down and a break.

The indescribable loneliness of the house was depressing. The bare
walls seemed to whisper back and forth, and the table, still set for
supper, had a ghastly look about it. The rooms were not merely alone,
but untenanted. Cold ashes lay upon the hearths, the dust had settled
upon the chairs, and the sunlight outside only served to heighten the
gloom.

In the schoolroom the books were piled neatly upon the table, and the
slates were clean--ready for the next day's task. She experienced
an unwonted twinge of conscience as she entered, unrebuked, and
remembered how exasperating she had been.

At the Fort she had thought of many things she needed, but now her
errand seemed purposeless, and the pleasures of disobedience began to
pall. She went into her room, gathered up some of her toilet articles,
and stood there, listlessly, watching the sentinel as he passed again
without missing the boat.

"They're fine soldiers," she said to herself. "They know lots."

Then her heart gave a great leap, for there was a soft step at the
back door. Some one entered very quietly, and she became as cold and
immovable as if she had been made of stone. The catlike tread moved
slowly into the living-room, and she trembled like an aspen. She tried
to raise the window, thinking that she could scream if she could not
get out, but her hands shook so that it was useless. Meanwhile the
intruder came nearer, with the same stealthy steps. No one had crossed
the river and the sentinel was not in sight.

Some one opened the door of the schoolroom and closed it with the
least possible noise. Then the hushed steps came nearer still, but
the window would not move. Her door was open, but she knew the
flimsy lock would not hold, even if she could manage to shut it. An
instant--now--she tried to shut her eyes, but could not--horror upon
horror came upon her--then Ronald entered her room.

For a blind instant the earth whirled beneath her, then the
flood-gates opened and Beatrice wept. He did as any other man in his
place would have done and put a protecting arm around her, but, though
sorely tempted, manfully refrained from kissing her.

"I'm so sorry I frightened you," he said, with bitter self-reproach.
"Don't, Beatrice--Miss Manning,--please don't cry any more!"

As soon as she was conscious of her position, she drew away from him,
still sobbing. It was not only her fright, but the natural result of
the high tension at which she had lived for more than a week. He left
her and rummaged around until he found a bottle of brandy, then he
brought her a glass of water liberally strengthened with it.

"Here," he said, "drink this."

She obeyed, and in a few minutes began to recover her self-possession.
"How did you get here?" she asked.

"I went up the river a little way, landed on this side, and walked
down to the back door. You didn't suppose I'd let you come over here
alone, did you?"

"Did you see me when I came?"

"Certainly. I expected you to do just what you did, and I kept my eye
on you. I knew you were in the house, because I saw the boat outside,
but I didn't mean to frighten you. I just thought I'd look around
until we met."

"You--you--walked so softly," she said, with quivering lips.

"Did I? That's the first time I've ever been accused of that. It must
have been your imagination."

"Perhaps," she answered, with a long sigh.

"If you have everything you want, we'll go back now."

Scarcely conscious of what she did, she stooped to pick up the things
that had fallen to the floor. They seemed utterly useless for all
time, but she felt the necessity of action. As they turned to leave
the room, he took her cold hands in his and looked down into her wet
eyes.

"Promise me," he said, "that you will never again disobey a military
order."

She hesitated, and he repeated it.

"How do you know I'd keep a promise?" she asked, to gain time.

"Because you're a thoroughbred."

Something in his eyes subdued her. "I promise," she said, almost in a
whisper.

"All right. Now, we'll not say anything about this to any one--do you
understand?"

She was still trembling when he helped her into the pirogue, and
neither spoke while they were crossing. When they entered the gate,
Captain Franklin met them.

"Did she ask you to take her over?" he inquired of Ronald.

The Ensign's eyes met his squarely. "Yes, sir."

"Did you go together? I thought I saw you going alone."

"We went together. She was waiting for me outside."

"Very well. I will have no disobedience of my orders--remember that,
both of you."

"Don't faint," George whispered, warningly, as the Captain walked
away. "It's all right now, but that's the first time I ever lied--in
my official capacity."

Beatrice put a small, icy hand into his own. "Thank you," she said
quietly; "you're a thoroughbred, too."




CHAPTER IX

ON THE FORT WAYNE TRAIL


As silently as they had gone, the Indians returned. No one but the
sentinels saw the ghostly procession when it passed the Fort from the
southward, in the grey mists of dawn. Black Partridge was still at the
head, the others following him in single file.

The deserted wigwams in the hollow were as they had left them, and
inside of an hour they had taken up the thread of existence at the
point where the annual pilgrimage had broken it off. Some exchanges of
gifts were made among them; but, in the main, each one was satisfied
with what he had received.

Early in the morning the chief went to the trading station, and,
finding it deserted, went immediately to the Fort in search of
his friend Shaw-nee-aw-kee. They had a long conversation on the
parade-ground, and soldiers and civilians gathered around them,
listening impatiently until the interpreter was ready to speak.

"I understand it now," said Mackenzie to the Captain. "He says
that while they were up in Canada, the Chippewas and Ottawas sent
speeches among them, saying the northern tribes had heard that the
Pottawattomies and Winnebagoes were not upon good terms with the white
people and that they desired them to be friendly. His own people only
laughed, but the Winnebagoes determined to show their independence in
a refusal to obey the commands of other tribes. So a dozen braves came
here to take some white scalps, that they might flaunt them in the
faces of the others. He says a large force was waiting in the woods,
and that they would doubtless have killed every one outside of the
Fort, even if they did not make an attack upon the Fort itself, but
that the guns of the White Father frightened them away."

Here the chief began to talk again, with many gestures.

"He says," continued Mackenzie, "that we need not now be afraid, since
he and his people have returned to protect us. He is sorry that his
friends have suffered during his absence, and after this a part of the
tribe will always remain here, while the others go after their gifts."

"We can go home, then," said Mrs. Mackenzie.

"Isn't he splendid!" exclaimed Beatrice. "I'd like to paint his
picture. Do you think he'd let me, Uncle John?"

It took a great deal of explanation to make Black Partridge
understand, but he finally consented, on condition that the picture
would be given to him. "He's afraid the white squaw will make a
charm," said Mackenzie.

"All right," laughed Beatrice. "I can make several sketches, and he
can have one of the pictures. He needn't know I make more than one."

By night the Mackenzies were in their own home again, and, as the
weeks passed, the fear was forgotten by all save Beatrice. She
could not enter her own room without a vivid remembrance of her
fright, coupled with the consciousness that she had cried like a
baby, and that the Ensign had put his arm around her unrebuked. She
hated herself for her weakness and blamed herself bitterly for her
foolishness, because, if she had only stopped to think, she would have
known the difference in sound between a moccasin and an army boot.

Still, at night, she would sometimes start from troubled dreams with
the same deadly fear upon her and tremble long after she knew she was
awake and safe. Behind it all was something she did not care to think
of, but memory gave her no peace.

Pictures, clear and distinct, intruded upon her mental vision against
her will. She saw Robert leaning on his musket, the only man in
the Fort who was not up and doing when danger seemed imminent, and
shuddered at the look on his face when she called him a coward. In
his eyes there had been something of the same reproach with which
a dog regards the well-loved master who has unjustly struck him.
"Lexington!" she said to herself over and over again; "his fathers
fought there, and I called their son a coward!"

Swiftly upon the memory came the sound of his voice when he had cried,
"Beatrice, do you despise me?" and the sight of his strained, eager
face, as he waited for her to speak. The knowledge of her answer made
her shrink from herself with bitterness and shame. The obvious course
of apology lay open to her, but her pride refused to humble itself
that far. Time and time again she had determined to make partial
atonement in that way, but her stubborn lips would not move to shape
the word "forgive."

Robert seemed to have forgotten, and each day he made himself dearer
to the Mackenzies. Between the trader and his college-bred nephew
there slowly grew one of those rare friendships possible only to men.
Mackenzie had not spent his life upon the frontier without learning to
understand his fellow-man, and to read, though perhaps roughly, the
inner meaning of outward semblances. In Robert he saw the blood of the
Forsyths undefiled--the martial spirit was there, educated, refined,
and tempered until it was akin to polished steel. From his mother the
boy had received broad charity and a great gentleness, as well as the
adamantine pride which is at once the strength and terror of a woman's
heart.

Mrs. Mackenzie had quickly learned to love him, and with her he took
the place of a grown son. He helped her in countless little ways, and
often sat with his arm thrown over her shoulders while she sewed upon
the rough garments her husband wore, and talked to him as she worked.
The children idolised him.

From all this Beatrice felt herself an outcast, though there was no
visible evidence that she was not one of them. The trader laughed and
joked with her as he always had done, and her aunt regarded her with
tender affection. Maria Indiana and the baby adored her, and the other
children openly admired her, in spite of a lingering belief that she
had broken one of the Ten Commandments. Still, she was not satisfied,
for every day she remembered, with a pang of self-reproach, and Robert
stood aloof. He never failed to be courteous and considerate, yet
between them was a cold, impenetrable distance which never softened in
the slightest degree.

Beatrice and Ronald were great friends. His unnatural shyness had
worn off, but he did not treat her with the easy familiarity the
other women at the post had learned to expect from him. He was quite
capable of teasing Mrs. Howard and Mrs. Franklin to the limit of
their endurance; but Mrs. Mackenzie and Beatrice were included in the
manifestations of deep respect.

Mr. and Mrs. Burns decided to leave the post and go to Fort Wayne,
where they had relatives, as soon as Mrs. Burns was able to travel.
The man and boy who had escaped from the Indians at Lee's determined
to go with them. The farm was too far away from the Fort to be
altogether safe, and a kind of disembodied horror had hung about the
place since the killing of the two men and the savage mutilation of
their bodies.

Black Partridge and a few of the Pottawattomies volunteered to
accompany them to Fort Wayne whenever they might be ready to start.
For a time it was thought best to take one of the waggons at the Fort;
but Spring was at hand, and there would doubtless be streams which a
waggon could not successfully ford.

Ronald assisted Mr. Burns in selecting and packing the few things they
were to take with them, and their household effects were distributed
among the Indians who were to compose the guard. The four white people
were to ride horseback and the Indians were to follow on foot, riding
the horses back when the others had safely reached Fort Wayne.

"Miss Manning," said Ronald one afternoon, "we are having trouble in
finding a horse suitable for Mrs. Burns. Would you be willing to lend
her yours?"

"No, I wouldn't," snapped Beatrice.

"The horse will be brought back safely," pleaded the Ensign.

"No, she won't, because she isn't going."

Ronald's face changed and he left her without another word.

"I don't care," said Beatrice to herself; "she couldn't ride Queen
anyway. Queen wouldn't let her--nobody has ever ridden her but me."
Later, it occurred to her that she might have explained more fully
to Ronald, but she put the thought from her as unworthy of a proud
spirit. She knew that he had put her down as selfish, but repeatedly
told herself that she did not care.

The day was set for their departure, and they were to start at
sunrise. The night before, Beatrice found it impossible to sleep,
and, long before daylight, she got up and dressed. Because there was
nothing to do in the house and she was afraid of waking the others,
she went out on the piazza.

Across the river there were signs of life, and she got into a pirogue
with the laudable desire to say good-bye to Mrs. Burns. When she
reached the Fort, Mrs. Franklin and Katherine were already up and
assisting Mrs. Burns in her preparations for the journey; but the
Captain and Lieutenant Howard were not there.

Suddenly it occurred to Beatrice that she might take Queen and ride
a little way along the trail. She had been over the ground before
and was not afraid to come back alone. Without saying anything of
her intention, she appeared on the parade-ground, mounted, and met a
chorus of protests.

"It isn't safe for you to go alone," said Mrs. Franklin.

"Please don't, Bee," added Katherine.

"Really, Miss Manning," observed Doctor Norton, "it is not best for
you to go."

"I'm not afraid," replied the girl, with a toss of her head.

The party she had determined to escort, individually and collectively,
offered feeble objections, which were immediately waved aside. "I'm
going," said Beatrice, "because I want to, and because it would break
Queen's heart if we went back now."

"What's all this fuss about?" inquired Ronald, sauntering up, and
rubbing his eyes.

The women explained all at once, in incoherent sentences; but Beatrice
did not appear to hear any part of the conversation until he ended it
by saying, "She can go if she wants to, because I'm going along."

Beatrice bit her lip. "You are not," she said, in a tone of command.

"Yes, I am," he laughed; "and, moreover, you are never to ride out of
the gate of the Fort unless an officer goes with you."

She turned and looked at him scornfully, and Ronald, still laughing,
saluted. "A military order, Miss Manning."

It was scarcely light when they started, with Beatrice leading the
way. Queen's eager feet fairly flew, and the girl's pulses caught the
exultant sense of life. The others fell far behind, and Beatrice
doubled and crossed on the trail wherever it was possible.

They had gone about six miles from the Fort when she reined in and
waited for the others to come up, then made her adieux.

"Why do you say good-bye?" asked Ronald.

"Why, because I'm going back now."

"Oh, are you coming back? I thought you were going to Fort Wayne."

She made no reply, but watched the four riders as they turned a little
away from the lake and went south-west over the prairie. A pack horse,
Black Partridge, and four other Indians were following them.

"What made you think I was going to Fort Wayne?" she asked.

"Nothing, only you had such a good start. Besides, you live there,
don't you?"

"No," she said slowly, "I live here. I fought at Fort Wayne."

"Indeed!" remarked Ronald, with polite interest. "Indians or soldiers?"

The pink flush upon her face deepened. "Shall we go back, now?"

"As you please, Miss Manning."

She went ahead, leaving him to follow or not as he chose.

"I wish Major was here," he called to her.

"Why?" she asked, over her shoulder.

"Because it's the same kind of a procession we had around the
parade-ground, and I enjoyed that so much."

Beatrice apparently had not heard, for she went on at the same
leisurely pace. At her right, touched here and there with silver, the
lake lay like a sheet of dusky pearl. Far in the east was spread the
glowing tapestry of dawn, and the rising wind stirred the girl's hair
faintly as she looked across the water, with the sunrise reflected on
her face.

Ronald saw her pure, proud profile, touched to exceeding beauty by the
magic light of morning, and an unconscious, childish wistfulness in
the lines of her mouth. A lump came into his throat and he swallowed
hard. The morning was in his blood, and he had a quick sense of
uplifting, as if his heart had suddenly found its wings.

Then Beatrice turned still more toward him. "It's beautiful, isn't
it?" she asked, softly.

All of her harshness seemed to have fallen from her; she was radiant
and exquisitely womanly in this new mood, and the boy's soul knelt in
worship.

"Why wouldn't you let me come alone?"

"Because I didn't want you frightened," he answered.

The dimple at the corner of her mouth was barely manifest as she said,
demurely, "You should have stayed, then; for you are the one who
frightened me."

"I'm sorry," he said. "I told you that before."

"Yes, I know." She sighed, and added, "It was awful, though, and I
shall never forget it."

"Neither shall I."

He was beside her now, for the trail had widened, and he put his hand
upon the small white one that held Queen's bridle.

"That day," he said huskily, "you put your hand in mine,--when we met
the Captain,--a little, cold hand."

She nodded, but did not take her hand away. "I was dreadfully
frightened then, and you saved me."

His blood leaped in his veins. "That's nothing--I'd do more than that
for you, any time. I had my reward before I had earned it."

The girl's violet eyes opened wide. "I don't understand."

"Have you forgotten that I had my arm around you, just for a minute? I
have dreamed of it ever since--dear."

For an instant she saw him as if he had been a young Greek god,
strangely met in the fields of Arcady; then the glamour passed and he
was only an awkward soldier in a shabby uniform. She cut Queen with
her riding-whip and went furiously ahead, but a boyish, troubled face
was close beside her.

"Have I offended you?"

Beatrice smiled with calm superiority. "You shouldn't say such
things," she replied; "you're far too young."

"Huh!" he retorted, with spirit, "I'm twenty-five!"

"Twenty-five?" she repeated incredulously; "I don't believe it. Why,
I'm twenty myself, and I never thought you were more than eighteen."

She laughed wickedly as she saw him squirm. Through long experience
she had found that shaft one of the most effective in her repertory,
which was not by any means limited. More than once it had quenched an
incipient declaration as effectually as if it had been a shower of
cold water.

They rode in silence till they reached the Fort. "Shall I take you
across?" he asked.

"No, thank you; I can go by myself, if there is no military order
against it; but you may take Queen to the stables, if you like."

She dismounted, taking no note of his proffered assistance, and went
to the river without another word. He watched her until she landed,
then turned away, leading Queen. "A rose, a little rose," he said to
himself; "but, oh, the thorns!"

When Beatrice arrived, she found the family in a state of high
excitement. Mackenzie was just preparing to go over to the Fort and
ask that a search party be sent out to look for her. He had surmised
that she had returned to Fort Wayne until he found that none of her
things were missing, and he received her explanation in stolid silence.

"Why didn't you tell us, Bee?" asked Mrs. Mackenzie. "You gave us all
a fright."

"Dear Aunt Eleanor," she cooed, rubbing her soft cheek against Mrs.
Mackenzie's, "I'm so sorry. I didn't know I was going till I got ready
to start,--I never know,--and I did not dream that any one would care."

Robert had been conducting a private search on his own account, and a
tell-tale relief crossed his face when he came in and found her at the
breakfast table.

"Were you worried about me, Cousin Rob?"

The deep, vibrant contralto voice thrilled him, but he told his lie
well. "No," he answered, carelessly, "of course not. Why should I be?"

The new mood of softness lasted all day. Beatrice did not stop to
analyse, but she was dimly conscious that something strange had
happened to her. At twilight she went out on the piazza, humming
happily to herself, and Robert smiled at her as she came toward the
open window of his room.

He had an old sword in his hand and was rubbing the thin blade with a
handkerchief. "What are you doing?" she asked, curiously.

"Just cleaning this."

"Is it yours?"

"Yes, it is now; but it was my grandfather's." He straightened
instinctively, as if in answer to some far-away bugle, and looked at
her without seeming to see. "He fought at Lexington."

His voice betrayed his pride of blood, and his nostrils dilated with
a quick, inward breath. His hands moved lovingly along the keen
blade--and then Beatrice humbled herself.

"Cousin Rob," she began, impulsively, "I want to tell you something.
I'm sorry and ashamed for----"

Scarlet signals were flaming in her cheeks, and he interrupted
her. "Say no more about it," he said generously; "we were all
unaccountably excited, and at such times we say and do things that
otherwise we would not. Forget about it."

"I'll be glad to," she answered earnestly; but in her heart of hearts
she knew she was not forgiven.




CHAPTER X

A GLEAM AFAR


As warm weather approached, the children grew restless under so much
schooling, and Robert made Saturday a holiday. In order to help his
uncle more efficiently, he was trying to learn the Indian tongue,
but found it far more difficult than Greek and Latin, and made many
ludicrous mistakes. Mackenzie was very patient with him, and Black
Partridge made occasional comments and suggestions, being deeply
flattered by the college man's desire to learn from him.

The trader had told him of the great school in the East, where
Forsyth had learned everything that was written down in books, and
yet could not talk with the Indians, or make a fire by rubbing sticks
together; and the implied superiority of the chief had its own subtle
gratification.

The women at the Fort were very fond of Beatrice, and she made daily
visits there, but time began to hang heavily upon her hands. Without
knowing why, she was restless and unhappy, and, after the manner of
her sex, attributed it to some hidden illness of the body rather than
the mind.

"I feel as if I simply must go somewhere or do something," she said to
Doctor Norton, in a vain effort to explain her unrest.

He examined her pulse and tongue, then laughed at her. "You're all
right," he said; "there's nothing on earth the matter with you."

"There is, too," she contradicted. "I don't feel right and I need
medicine."

"Quinine?"

She made a wry face. "No, I don't need that."

"Sulphur and molasses?"

Beatrice turned up her nose in high disdain. "Is that all you can
think of?"

"No," replied the Doctor, "I have other remedies, but I want to
give you something that would please you. If you feel that you need
medicine, my entire stock is at your service. I ask only for the right
to supervise your selection, as we don't want you poisoned."

They were sitting on the piazza, and the girl's laugh reached the
schoolroom and set the teacher's heart to throbbing. He could steel
himself against her smiles and her playful pouting, but when she
laughed, he was lost.

"I don't think you'd care much," observed Beatrice, "whether I was
poisoned or not, just so you didn't have to give up any of your
precious medicines. You're selfish--that's all."

"What more can I do, Miss Manning? I've offered you all my worldly
goods. Which bottle do you want?"

"Thank you, I've decided not to rob you. I'll die, if I have to,
without medical aid."

"Some people prefer it," murmured Norton.

"How did you happen to come here?" she asked abruptly.

He started slightly, remembering the face that led him, like a star,
from one frontier post to another, but he merely said: "An army
surgeon has no choice. We go where we are sent by the powers that be."

"I'd hate to be sent anywhere."

"I believe you," replied the Doctor, smiling; "and if you were
told you couldn't go anywhere that place would immediately become
desirable."

"Wonderful insight," commented Beatrice. "Or perhaps some one has told
you?"

"No, I don't always have to be told. I can see some things, you know."

"That's what Katherine told me. She said you could see through
anything or anybody, especially a woman. Your glance goes right
through us and ties in a bow-knot behind. I can feel the strings
dangling from my shoulders now."

Robert came to the door, followed by the children, who were eager to
get outdoors for the short recess they had every day. Beatrice had
a little insight of her own, and had noted the change in Norton's
face when Katherine was mentioned, and the quick, inquiring look in
Robert's eyes as he greeted them both.

"Forsyth," said the Doctor, "I'm going now, and I turn this refractory
patient over to you. She needs to get outdoors and walk till she
drops--it's the only cure for impudence. Will you see that she does
it?"

"Certainly, if she will go with me."

"I'll go," put in Beatrice, "if I have to take medicine."

They watched the Doctor until he started across the river. "Perhaps,"
said Robert, "you'd rather some one else would go with you. If so, it
can be easily arranged."

"Now, Cousin Rob," said the girl, coaxingly, "don't be horrid to me.
You're the only cousin I have, except Katherine and the infants; and
as long as I'm here you'd better make the best of me."

His heart suddenly contracted. "Are you going away?"

"I can't," she laughed. "I have nowhere to go."

Robert smiled curiously. "When do you want to go, and where?"

"Saturday morning," she replied; "to the woods, after flowers."

"Very well," he said, quietly, turning away.

To one of them the days passed slowly, but on Saturday, when Beatrice
expressed surprise at the rapid flight of time, Forsyth unhesitatingly
chimed in. She looked at him narrowly when she thought he did not know
it, and put him down as a self-absorbed prig.

She was at odds with herself when they started, but it was one of
those rare mornings which May sets like a jewel upon the rosary of
the year. They walked north along the lake shore, and, since silence
seemed to suit her, he wisely said nothing.

Gradually peace crept into her heart, and as they approached the woods
they turned to the west, where white blossoms were set on thorny
boughs and budded maples were crimson with new leaves.

"You were good to bring me here," she said gratefully; "it seems like
an enchanted way."

"I am glad to give you pleasure," he replied conventionally.

The ground was still hidden under the brown leaves of October, that
rustled gently with a passing breeze or echoed the fairy tread of the
Little People of the Forest, playing hide-and-seek in the wake of
Spring. As Beatrice walked ahead of him, it seemed to Forsyth that she
belonged to the woods, as truly as did the nymphs and dryads of old.

Buttercups scattered garish gold around them, and beyond, among the
trees, the wild geranium rose on its slender stalk, making a phantom
bit of colour against the background of dead leaves. Between the mossy
stumps budded mandrakes were huddled closely together, afraid to bloom
till others had led the way. Beatrice looked around her and drew a
long breath, then gently stroked a satin bud upon a bare stalk of
hickory.

"Why don't you pick something?" asked Robert, with a laugh. "That's
what we came for, isn't it?"

"No, I can't pick things. I feel as if I were hurting them. Suppose
you lived here in this lovely place and a giant came along and broke
you off at the waist to take your head home with him--how do you
suppose you'd feel?"

"I don't think I'd feel anything after the break. Besides, that's not
a fair hypothesis. There is no real analogy."

"Hy-poth-e-sis," repeated Beatrice, looking at him, mischievously;
"did I pronounce it right?"

"Of course--why?"

"Because," she answered, with her eyes dancing, "it's a nice word and
I'd like to learn it. I want to say it to Doctor Norton. Some of his
words are as long at that, but they're not nearly so complicated, and
I yearn to excel in his own specialty."

The girl's mock reverence for his learning irritated him unspeakably,
and he closed his lips in a thin, tight line.

"Cousin Rob," she said, putting her hand on his arm, and with
bewildering kindness in her tone, "can't you take me just as I am?"

The temptation to take her, just as she was, into his arms, made him
draw back a step or two. "I always make a point of that," he said,
clearing his throat.

Then a vista opened before them, which might have been a field of
Paradise. Across the plain, where the dead goldenrod of Autumn still
lingered, there were white blossoms on invisible branches, set
against the turquoise sky, as still as stars of frost. It was as
though a cloud of white butterflies had paused for an instant, with
every dusty wing longing for flight.

Great white triliums bloomed in clusters farther on, with here and
there a red one, lonely as a lost child. Far to the right was a little
hollow filled with wild phlox, shading from white to deepest lavender,
and breathing the haunting fragrance which no one ever forgets.

"Let's go to the lake," she said.

Tall bluffs rose on either side where they turned eastward, with
triliums and dog-tooth violets within easy reach, and a robin's cheery
chirp was answered by another far away. Slanting sunbeams came like
arrows of light into the shadow of the woods, and at the shore line
was an expanse of sand which shone like silver under the white light
of noon.

"Why do you stand there?" asked Beatrice. "Why don't you sit down?"

"I was just looking at something."

"What?"

"Come here--perhaps you can see."

She strained her eyes in the direction he indicated, but
unsuccessfully. "I don't see anything," she said; "what is it like?"

"I don't know. It's something shiny, but it isn't a bird, because it
doesn't move."

"Birds aren't shiny, anyway," objected Beatrice. "Let's eat our lunch."

"I'm willing, for it's getting heavy, and I'd rather carry it inside."

Beatrice laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks. "That's the
first time I ever heard you say anything funny," she said, wiping her
eyes. "Mr. Ronald is always saying funny things."

A dubious smile crossed Robert's face, and there was a long silence.
"I wish you'd show me that shiny thing again, Cousin Rob," she said at
length; "I'm interested in it."

"You didn't seem to be."

"That's because I was hungry," she explained. "I feel better now, and
by the time we've finished our lunch I'll be absorbingly interested in
it."

Robert stood on the sand, in the same place as before, and saw the
silvery gleam again. Then she took his place and saw it, too. "Why,"
she said, "isn't it queer? Do you think it's the sun on a birch?"

"No, it's too high, and birches don't often grow on the very edge of
the shore."

"That isn't the edge."

"Well, it's near it. The light just hangs in the air. There doesn't
seem to be anything behind it. I've often seen stray gleams in the
woods and tried to find them, but I never found anything. It's a
daylight will-o'-the-wisp."

"Let's follow this one," suggested Beatrice.

They walked along the hard sand, close to the water, stopping every
few steps to find the gleam. Sometimes it was only a thread of light,
detached and unrelated to anything around it, then in other places it
was a white glare, like the reflection thrown from a mirror.

Often they lost it, but found it again a little farther on. Beatrice
was tired but determined, and kept on for what seemed miles. Then
they stopped several times without finding it. "Let's go up into the
woods," she said; "perhaps we'll see it again from there."

They climbed the steep bluff of sand, with the aid of bushes and
cotton wood saplings, and for an instant caught the light again, then
it vanished. The girl was pale, and Robert feared they had come too
far.

"We'll go back," he said, "as soon as you rest for a little while. Why
didn't you tell me you were tired?"

"Because I'm not," she retorted. "I'm willing to rest a little while,
but I'm going to find it."

They sat down under the spreading branches of an elm for a few
minutes, then, in spite of his expostulations, Beatrice started north
again. "We can walk till midnight," he pleaded, "without finding it,
and it's foolish, anyway."

"No, it isn't; see there!"

In the air, between the bluff and the lake, hung a shimmering thread
of light which seemed close by, and all at once he became as eager as
she. They walked rapidly for a few moments, then Beatrice stopped.

"Why," she said, in a high key, "it's a house!"

"Be careful," warned Robert, "we'd better go back."

"I'm not going back till I see. I've come too far!"

A little farther on, they came to it. Set far back into the bluff, so
that only the face of it was visible, was a little one-roomed cabin,
built of logs. The door was open, but the place was empty, as Beatrice
discovered. "Come in," she said hospitably.

"We'd better go back," said Forsyth, warningly. "Come!"

"I will, in just a minute."

She took a long look about the room, then came out. From the top of
the cabin, which projected only a foot or so from the bluff, and
suspended from a whittled branch not quite weather-worn, hung a silver
cross, fully eight inches high, with a wondrously moulded figure of
the Christ stretched upon it.

Robert's eyes followed hers, and for a few minutes neither spoke.
"That's what we saw," she murmured, in a low tone; "that's the light
that led us here--the sun upon the cross!"

"Come," said Robert, firmly, taking her by the arm.

Reluctantly she let him lead her away, and they turned south, keeping
close to the lake shore, but out of the sand.

"Who lives there?" she asked.

"Why, I don't know--how should I?"

"It was neat inside, and there was blue clay and chips in the cracks,
just as there is at home. There was a fireplace, too, but I didn't see
any chimney."

"There was a chimney, though, of some dark-coloured stone. It looked
like a stump on the bluff. I noticed it while you were inside."

"There's no dark-coloured stone around here."

"Then it must have been limestone darkened with mud. I didn't get near
enough to see."

"Somebody lives there," said Beatrice. "There was a narrow bed, with
a blue-and-white patchwork quilt upon it, and two chairs made out of
barrels, and a little table and shelves,--do you think Indians live
there?"

"It's possible. Some of them may be more civilised than the rest
and prefer to live in a house--in the Winter, at least," he added,
remembering the panes of glass in the front of the house, either side
of the door.

"It's queer that a cross like that should be there."

"Stolen," he suggested promptly, "from some Catholic church in the
wilderness."

"I'll tell you what," she said, after a long silence; "let's say
nothing about it to any one--just keep it a secret for the present.
What do you say?"

"I'm willing." The idea of a secret with his pretty cousin was far
from unpleasant to Robert.

"Because, if the others knew, some of the soldiers would go there--Mr.
Ronald would be the first one. Besides, I've noticed that if you
really want to find out about anything, you always can, though it
takes time. I'd rather we'd find out by ourselves, wouldn't you?"

Robert thought he would.

"I think," she continued, "that some of the Indians live there, as
you said, and that the cross was stolen and hung over the door for an
ornament. Perhaps Black Partridge lives there--he seems to know more
than the rest."

"Yes; that's possible. Anyhow, we'll find out without asking
anybody,--is that it?"

"That's a bargain. Whoever lives there doesn't want to be bothered,
for you can't see the house at all except from the shore; and in
Summer, when the canoes are passing, it must be pretty well hidden by
the saplings and the undergrowth on the ledge in front of it. There's
just one place there where anybody can get down--a steep little path,
worn smooth."

"You saw a great deal in a few minutes, didn't you?" asked Robert,
admiringly.

"Of course," she answered, with a toss of her head. "A woman can see
more in one minute than a man can see in sixty--didn't you know that?"

"I didn't, but I do now."

Silver-winged gulls glistened in the sun for a moment, then plunged
into the cool softness below. A rabbit track wound a leisurely way
across the sand and disappeared at the bluff. Down a ravine came a
tiny stream, murmuring sleepily all along its way to the lake.

Beatrice sighed and her eyes drooped. "Take me home," she said.

The blue of the water grew deeper, then changed to grey. The white
clouds turned to rose and gold, touched with royal purple, and the
wings of the gulls no longer shone. A bluejay with slow-beating wings
sank to his nest in a lofty maple, and, somewhere, a robin chirped
mournfully, as if he, too, were tired.

At last they came to the edge of the woods and saw the house, with the
four tall poplars at the gate, the shimmering gold of sunset upon the
river, and the Fort beyond. The exquisite peace of the woods had been
like that of another sphere. There was a twittering of little birds in
swaying nests, a sudden chill, a shadow, and a mist. The fairy patter
was hurried and hushed, the rustling leaves were quiet, and she leaned
wearily upon his arm.

"Tired?" he asked tenderly.

"Yes," she answered, smiling back at him, "but happy. Thank you for a
perfect day."




CHAPTER XI

A JUNE DAY


On a warm morning in June, Beatrice took her despised sewing under an
unwilling arm and went over to Mrs. Howard's. Mrs. Franklin was there
also, and they all sat on the porch, under the impression that it was
cooler there than indoors.

"I wish you girls would show me how this goes," pleaded Beatrice.
She was making herself a gown of pink calico, and encountering new
difficulties at every turn.

"Where's your pattern," asked Katherine.

"I haven't any map," returned Beatrice; "I lost it. I sawed this out
by an old one."

"It looks as if it had been sawed," laughed Mrs. Franklin. "Why didn't
you ask Mrs. Mackenzie to help you cut it?"

"Because I didn't want Aunt Eleanor to be ashamed of me."

"She doesn't mind us," put in Katherine.

"Stop teasing," commanded Beatrice, "and show me how to put the thing
together. Which piece goes where?"

Mrs. Franklin took the skirt and Katherine went to work at the waist,
pinning and basting firmly, so that there could be no mistake in the
result. Beatrice leaned lazily against the side of the house and
watched them admiringly, praising their skill now and then in accents
suspiciously soft.

"She's been taking lessons from George," remarked Mrs. Franklin.
"That's the way he gets things done."

"Speaking of angels----" said Katherine.

Ronald crossed the parade-ground and joined the group. "What's that
thing?" he asked, contemptuously indicating the pink calico.

"It's clothes," replied Beatrice, with spirit; "don't you wish you
were going to have new ones?"

The Ensign's answering laugh had a hollow sound to it, for the shabby
clothing at Fort Dearborn was a sore spot with both officers and men,
even though new and proper raiment was said to be on the way.

"You might make me some," he suggested, "and I'll promise to
encourage you while you do it."

"No, thank you," she returned loftily; "you'd be in the way."

"I expect I'm in the way now," he observed, making himself more
comfortable against the pillar of the porch. "When needles fly,
women's tongues fly faster; when women sew, they rip their husbands to
pieces."

A faint flush came into Mrs. Franklin's face as she bent over her work.

"I'll wager, now," continued Ronald, "that when you saw me coming, you
had to change the subject. Mrs. Franklin was explaining the vagaries
of the Captain, Mrs. Howard was telling what she was obliged to put up
with, and Miss Manning was talking about me."

The implication sharpened the edge of the girl's tongue. "You ought
to be very glad you're not married," she said sweetly; "and it goes
without saying that you never will be. Nobody on earth would have you!"

"Don't quarrel, children," put in Katherine, hastily. "Here comes
Ralph."

The Lieutenant sat down opposite Ronald and wiped his forehead.
"Lord!" he exclaimed, "isn't it hot!"

"Get a little closer to Miss Manning," advised the Ensign. "She's in
an icy mood this morning."

Beatrice and Howard smiled at each other understandingly. "Be careful
what you say," warned Mrs. Franklin; "they've decided that they're
cousins."

"Yes," replied the Lieutenant, "we've got it all settled. We're
step-cousins-in-law once removed. Want to go for a ride, Ronald?
Forsyth and I are going a little way down the trail."

"Which trail?"

"Fort Wayne, of course."

"Yes, I'll go," said the Ensign, rising; "it can't be any hotter on
horseback than it is here."

When the three men rode off, Beatrice pouted. "Why didn't they ask me
to go?"

"I guess they're going swimming," returned Mrs. Franklin, "for Mr.
Forsyth had some towels."

"Here's your waist," said Katherine; "did you shrink the goods?"

"Did I what?"

"Shrink it. Wash it, you know."

"Indeed I didn't. Why should I wash it when it's new?"

"Here's your skirt," said Mrs. Franklin. "You'd better make a narrow
hem and run a tuck or two above it so you can let it down. I'm going
home now, because Wallace is all alone. Good-bye."

Beatrice went to work gingerly, and Mrs. Howard watched her for a few
moments, then took pity. "I'll help you," she said, "I have nothing
else to do."

The work progressed rapidly, and they went into the house frequently
to fit the gown. "I can wear it to-night, I believe," said the girl,
delightedly. "I didn't know sewing was so easy!"

"Don't be too hopeful--there's lots to do yet."

Noon came on apace and the heat increased. Shimmering waves hung over
the parade-ground and vibrated visibly. There was not a tree within
the enclosure of the Fort, and the flag hung limply from the staff,
stirring only when the hot wind from the south-west swept over the
sandy plains.

Doctor Norton came out, looked around the deserted Fort, and crossed
to Lieutenant Howard's.

"Where are you going?" asked Beatrice, indicating an Indian basket he
was carrying.

"I'm going to the woods--primarily, to find a cool place, and,
secondarily, to gather roots and simples. Some of my medicines have
given out and I'm going to make a new supply if I can find the proper
plants."

Katherine was sewing busily and took no part in the conversation, but
there was a scarlet signal on either cheek.

"If you get enough of anything," said Beatrice, "the poor souls under
your care can have some of it, can't they?"

"Certainly."

"What do you expect to get around here?"

"Oh, lots of things. Wild ginger, for instance--would you like some of
that?"

"Don't care for it," she answered conclusively.

"Would you like a concoction of May apples?"

"I believe I would--it sounds well."

"My dear girl," said Norton, seriously, "the root of the mandrake is
such a deadly poison that the Indians give it to their enemies."

"I must remember that," murmured the girl. "I may need it for mine."

The Doctor laughed, then turned to Mrs. Howard. "Are you well?" he
asked anxiously.

Katherine's eyes met his. "Yes," she answered, but her voice was
scarcely audible. There was an uneasy moment for both of them, then he
went away.

Beatrice took up her sewing again and saw that Katherine's hands were
trembling. "He's an abrupt person," she said; "don't you think so?"

"Yes," answered the other, in a low tone.

"He's lovable in a way, though, don't you think so? I wonder why he
has never married?"

Katherine started and her lips moved, but there was no sound. Beatrice
looked into her face for an illuminating instant--then she knew.

"Katherine!" she cried, in horror.

Mrs. Howard dropped her work and fled into the house, trying to lock
the door, but the girl was too quick for her.

"Katherine, dear!" cried Beatrice, with her arms around the trembling
woman, "don't be afraid of me! You poor child, don't you know a friend
when you see one?"

"Friend?" repeated Katherine, in a rush of unwilling tears; "I have
none!"

"Yes you have, dear; now listen to me. I'm your friend, and there's
nothing in the world that could make me anything else. Tell me, and
let me help you!"

The words brought back the memory of another day, when the winter
snows lay deep upon the ground, and a man's voice, dangerously tender,
said the same thing.

"There's nothing wrong, Bee--don't, oh, don't think that of me!"

"I couldn't, dear--no one could!"

The curtains were drawn and the house was dark and comparatively cool.
Within that soothing shadow, Katherine gathered courage to face the
girl, and, little by little, hint at the tempest raging in her soul.

It was the old, common story of a proud woman with a hungry heart,
denied love and sympathy where she had a right to expect it, and
tempted unwillingly, but tempted none the less.

"Men are beasts!" exclaimed Beatrice, angrily.

"Don't say that, Bee! Ralph has a great deal to bother him, but I
can't help wishing he were different. If he were only as he used
to be! If I knew, or even thought he loved me--if he would try to
understand me--if he wouldn't always misjudge me--but now----"

"You're brave enough to fight it out and win, Kit--I know you are!"

"I hope so; but what hurts me most is the fear that he--that he
knows--that I--that I care--and pities me!"

"Who? Ralph?"

"No--the--the----"

"I understand," said Beatrice, quickly; "you mustn't let him know.
Besides, you don't really care. Women often mistake loneliness for
something else--don't you think so?"

"Perhaps. Oh, if he would only go away, where I would never see him
again--if he only would--sometime, in the long years, things would
come right between Ralph and me!"

"You'll have to wait, Kit. Life is made up of waiting, for women,
and it's the hardest thing for us to do. Oh, I know," continued
Beatrice, with a harsh laugh; "I fought something out myself once,
but I won. It was hard, but I did it, and I'd do it again--I wouldn't
be coward enough to run away. When things hurt you, you don't have to
let anybody know. You can shut your lips tight, and if you bite your
tongue hard it keeps back the tears. I always pretend I'm a rock, with
the waves beating against me. Let it hurt inside, if it wants to--you
don't have to let anybody see!"

The girl's fine courage insensibly strengthened the woman. "I'm so
glad you know," she sighed.

"I'm glad, too. I'm going now, Kit, and I wish you'd lie down a little
while. Don't forget I'm your friend, and I'll always help you when I
can, and anyhow, I'll always try."

It was characteristic of Beatrice that she went home without any
demonstrative farewell. She had been gentle, sympathetic, and
genuinely sorry for her cousin, but there was an inner hardness
somewhere which the other felt.

Overwrought by emotion, Katherine slept for hours, and when she
awoke a cool breeze had risen from the lake and was moving her white
curtains to and fro. Dull sorrow was gnawing at her heart, but the
stab was gone.

She dressed and went out, without any particular object in view. The
loneliness of the house depressed her, and she felt that she must get
away from it; yet she did not wish to talk to any one.

As she went toward the gate the Captain's wife met her. "Where are you
going?" she asked.

"To--to the little lad," faltered Katherine.

"Oh," said the other, quickly, turning away as if she had been hurt.
For a moment the childless woman envied the other her grave.

Half a mile from the Fort, in a hollow near the river, was a little
mound, marked only by a rude slab of limestone and the willow that
grew above it. At the sight of it her eyes filled.

"Oh, Baby," she sobbed, pressing her face against the cold turf above
him, "I wish I was down there beside you, as still and as dreamless
as you! You don't know what it means--you never would have known! Oh,
I'd rather be a stone than a woman with a heart!"

"Katherine!" cried a man's voice beside her; "Katherine!" Norton's arm
lifted her from the grave and held her close. "Dear heart," he said,
"is the world unkind?"

She drew away from him, but he still held her cold hand in his. "My
heart aches for you, Katherine--can't you tell me?"

"You never lost a child," she whispered, clutching at the straw.

"That is true, but I have lost far more. I----" He stopped and bit
his lips upon the words that struggled for utterance. "Come away," he
said, gently.

He led her to the bank of the stream, where they sat down under a
tree. She leaned against it, unconscious that he still held her hand.

There was a long silence, in which she regained, in some measure, her
self-control. "I can't think what's wrong with me," she sighed. "I've
cried more in the last six months than in all my life before. I'm not
the crying kind--naturally, that is."

"Don't think about that, for nature knows a great deal more than we
do. Cry all you want to, and thank God you have no grief beyond the
reach of tears."

"Beyond--tears?"

"Yes; there is another kind, which I am glad you do not know. It cuts
and burns and stings till it is the very refinement of torture, and
there is no veil of mist to blind the eyes."

She looked at him curiously. "You----?"

"Yes," he answered, with his head bowed; "that is the kind of grief I
know the best."

"I--I'm sorry," she said, stirred to pity.

"Why should you be sorry for me?" he asked, with a rare smile. "There
are countless joys in the world, but the griefs are few and old. The
humblest of us can find new happiness, but there has been no increase
of sorrow since the world was first made. There is a fixed and
unvariable quantity of it, and we take turns bearing it--that's all.
Nothing comes to any of us that some one before us has not met like a
soldier, bravely and well."

"You are strong, but I have no strength."

"There are different kinds of strength, Katherine, and of these the
one most to be prized is what we call endurance, for lack of a better
word. One can always bear a little more, for we live only one day at a
time, and to-morrow may bring us new gifts of which we do not dream."

Lengthening shadows lay on the river and the sun hung low in the west,
but they talked on. She forgot everything but the peace of the moment,
which came to her sore heart like a benediction. Without knowing it,
she was very near to happiness then.

The Doctor's voice was soothing, as if he were talking to a child, and
she did not dream that he was fighting the exquisite danger of her
nearness with all the power at his command. At last she leaned forward
with her eyes shining, and put her hand on his. "Thank you," she said,
softly, "for helping me!"

The man's blood leaped in his veins, and he sprang to his feet. He
walked back and forth on the bank of the river for some time before he
dared trust himself to speak.

"Your happiness is very near to me," he said, trying hard to keep his
voice even, "you must always remember that. And for me, it is enough
to be near you, even if----"

She stretched out her hands and he lifted her to her feet. "I must
go," she said.

"Yes, you must go, and go alone. I will stay here until you have had
time to get back."

The deference to circumstances jarred upon her and she did not answer.
Her hat was lying by the child's grave, and as he picked it up for
her, she said: "Why, there are violets all around. I never saw those
before."

"Didn't you?" he asked diffidently; "I thought you came often."

"No," she said, in a low voice, "not very often. Who put them there?"

He lowered his eyes at her question, and then she understood. "Did you
plant flowers on my baby's grave?" she cried.

There was a tense moment before he dared to look at her. "Yes," he
answered, slowly, "because----"

They were standing face to face, with the little grave between them,
and the woman's heart quivered with a strange and terrible joy. There
was no need of words, for, all at once, she knew why, during the four
years of her marriage, he had followed her from one post to another.
She saw a new meaning in his sympathy when the little lad died and her
husband blamed her so bitterly; moreover, she knew that her battle was
with herself, not him, for the unyielding edge of Honour lay between
them, and, even if she would, he would not let her cross.

For his part he, too, was uplifted, because without words she
understood, and answered with love in her eyes. Undisguised and
unashamed, her heart leaped toward him, but he stood with his hands
clenched so tightly that the nails cut deep into the flesh.

Neither had heard nor seen, but she felt an alien presence, and
turned. Not six feet away from them stood Lieutenant Howard, with his
face ashen grey. He had an armful of flowers--purple flags and yellow
lilies from the marsh and clover from the fields.

When he knew that she saw him, he came to the grave, stooped, and put
the flowers upon it. The Doctor stepped back, but Howard took no note
of him whatever. "It is a strange place for a tryst," he said, with
forced calmness. "Katherine, will you come home?"

They went all the way to the Fort without speaking, and when they
reached their own house, he stood aside for her to enter, then
followed her in and locked the door.

Trembling with weakness, he sat down and drew her toward him.
"Katherine, have you anything to say to me?"

Strangely enough, she was not afraid, and the terrible joy was still
surging in her heart.

"Only this, Ralph--that you have wronged me and misjudged me; but
you know this--that I never told you a lie in my life. As long as I
bear your name I will bear it rightly; while I call myself your wife,
you may know that I am faithful to you and to myself. That is all I
have to say, but for your sake and my own--and for the little lad's
sake--be just a little kind to me!"

Her voice broke at the last words, but he rushed past her and went
out. From the window of her room she saw him pacing back and forth on
the plains beyond the Fort, fighting his battle with himself. She knew
she had hurt him past all healing and pitied him subconsciously; the
dominant knowledge warred with her instincts.

When he came in to supper, his face was still pale, but his voice was
even and controlled. He ate but little, and they talked commonplaces
until afterward.

"Katherine," he said, "I remove the embargo; you may have--him--or any
of your other friends at the house as often as you please. I will not
force my wife to make clandestine appointments outside!" He laughed
harshly and went out, but, though she waited for him till long past
midnight, he did not return.

For her there was no rest. Pity, shame, fear, pride, and ecstasy
struggled for mastery in her soul. The sound of moving waters
murmured through the night with insistent repetition as the waves
came to the shore. In the dark hours before dawn she saw a man,
indistinctly, walking on the prairie, with his hands clasped behind
him and his head bowed.

At first she thought it was Ralph, but, straining her eyes through the
darkness, she saw that it was the other, and her heart beat hard with
pain.

"Dear God," she murmured brokenly, "oh, give him peace, and help me to
be true!"




CHAPTER XII

IN THE NORTH WOODS


"Come on, Doc," said Ronald.

"Where?" asked Norton, lazily.

"Across the river, of course; don't you see the mob over there?"

The large yard in front of the Mackenzie house was fairly well filled
with people when they arrived. Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie, Forsyth,
Chandonnais, Lieutenant and Mrs. Howard, and Mrs. Franklin were
standing behind Beatrice, who was painting in water colours. Black
Partridge, in all the glory of his feather head-dress and his most
gorgeous blanket, was posing for his picture. The chief endeavoured to
preserve the appearance of calm, but in reality he was greatly excited.

Doctor Norton and the Lieutenant exchanged cool salutations, and
Katherine was scarcely more cordial. All three of them had decided
to ignore past events, but there was an element of difficulty in the
situation, none the less.

"How do you suppose Birdie can wear a blanket in July?" asked Ronald.
"I should think he'd be roasted to a turn."

"It's his best blanket," explained Beatrice, selecting another brush,
"and he wants it in his picture."

"I'd rather my clothes would be painted separately on a day like
this," murmured Ronald.

"I didn't know you had more than one suit," remarked the artist, with
a flourish of her brush; "you can't properly say 'clothes.'"

"Well, 'clo', then," retorted the Ensign, "if it suits you better; but
some day you'll see me in a brand-new uniform."

"It's what I'm living for," answered Beatrice. "Somebody get me some
more water."

A dozen hands were outstretched, but it was Forsyth who secured the
cup, and he was rewarded with a radiant smile when he returned.

"Ain't that smart, now!" exclaimed the trader, delightedly, as the
unmistakable features of Black Partridge appeared upon the paper.
Chandonnais was grinning broadly, and even Ronald and the Lieutenant
condescended to praise.

"To think that we've had a real artist here for months and never knew
it!" exclaimed Mrs. Franklin. "Why didn't you let us know about it
before?"

"Because," answered the girl, "as an old lady at Fort Mackinac would
have said, I didn't 'feel to paint.'"

Mrs. Mackenzie was restraining the children with difficulty, for
each and every one of them yearned to take a brush and assist in the
delicate task. At last she took the baby and went into the house,
leaving Maria Indiana to Katherine, and the two older children to
their father and Forsyth.

"There," said Beatrice, with a critical squint at her work; "

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