Part 6

He moved back into the rain and the darkness, and I had never a doubt but that he was taking with him the knowledge of my father’s secret. I had only to follow and bring him back, and accuse him of burning down my home. My recently acquired popularity would ensure his conviction; and the little scoundrel deserved hanging.

I ran out, and when Olaffson saw that he was being pursued he took to his heels like a coward, and made for the neck of shingle leading to the mainland. In spite of my recent struggle, I soon began to gain on him. We had drawn away from the shelters, and there was not a soul in sight, while the rain lashed continually.

Coming to a great rock, the Icelander stopped short and dodged round it. I followed, sure of having him; but as I was about to make the turn, a shock came upon me out of the darkness, and before I could recover I was caught from behind, a sack went over my head, and I was borne to the shingle, with the bitter knowledge that I had been tricked, and that Olaffson had been used as a bait to draw me away from the settlement.

I had to abandon the struggle, for there were certainly three men against me. My arms and legs were strapped; a hand sought for and found the plan, and I heard the splutterings of a match, and knew that the paper was being burnt. After a terrible interval I heard the tramp of a heavy beast, followed by the deep snorting of a pack-ox. I was dragged up, and seated upon this beast, one ankle was joined to the other underneath its body, and the ox was started, and tramped on, as it seemed, for hours, until I knew we were well away in the forest, because the ground was hard, and there was no more rain. The ox was prodded constantly, but my captors only spoke in deep whispers, which did not reveal their identity. Olaffson I knew, and Redpath I knew; but who was the third?

I was cold, racked, and half-dead when the beast stopped. I was taken down, too helpless to stand, and carried through scrub and long grass. I was dragged up a wall, and let down upon soft, dry ground. Finally my legs were released, the sack round my body unfastened, and I was abandoned, but so utterly exhausted that I fell at once into a dead sleep, indifferent as to what ill-use might be in store for me.

When I awoke, the first thing that startled me was the utter silence which told me of my isolation. I worked my head and shoulders clear of the sack, and got upon my feet with many a twinge of pain and stiffness. My back was one huge bruise, and my bandaged head throbbed fearfully.

Between a few lengths of lumber, placed above a small aperture in the corner, came the sunlight to laugh at me. This hole was quite three feet above my head. The walls were great blocks of solid masonry, and I wondered at them, because I had never before seen any building which had not been built of wood. I did all I knew to free my wrists, drawing in my breath, dragging, pulling, wearing the straps upon the rough wall; but my pinioners had made no mistake, and I was not the strong man I had been yesterday. Anyhow, a man is a poor creature when his arms are tied behind him.

After a time--how long an interval I do not know, because I think I must have slept again--the silence became broken, the lumber was pulled away, and strong light emptied itself into my prison, making me start and wince, and my eyes run. This new light was again obscured as a big figure let itself through the hole, and descended by means of a rope-ladder, which did not quite reach the ground. My eyes cleared, and I saw under the light the great body and flabby face of the adventurer Redpath.

With one hand clutching the rope, he nodded at me in an altogether friendly fashion, and began at once:

“Good morning, Petrie. Pardon me for intruding upon your privacy; but you may possibly remember that you were not--er--over-courteous to me upon the occasion of our last meeting.” He put out his hand quickly. “I do not wish to recall an unpleasant incident. I have always been a man of forgiving nature, but I will, nevertheless, ask you to place your own small discourtesy against any apparent indiscretion I may now be guilty of.”

He spoke in the easy, well-trained voice of the educated gentleman. He waited, but when I did not speak, he went on:

“I trust you slept well. You must really have been exhausted after that fight. Allow me to congratulate you upon your well-earned victory. Your exhibition of science and strength was an education. The little affairs at a certain London Club which I once attended were quite fifth-rate performances in comparison.”

My tongue was loosened at that, and surprise conquered everything.

“You were watching?”

“And most profoundly interested,” said the adventurer, with soft emphasis. “I was so fortunate as to secure an extremely favourable position from which to view the spectacle. Your blows were perfect models for any--er--prize-fighter to imitate. Concerning their power and their accuracy, this unfortunate mark upon my own forehead furnishes ample testimony. You do not see it? Ah, the light down here is somewhat bewildering. By the way, you must have been wondering how these stone buildings ever came to be here. Perhaps you are interested in archæology? These stone remains take us, I assume, very far back into the past, and I fancy you and I are the first men of culture to light upon them. I should say, from a distinctly elementary knowledge of paleontology, that they were originally erected by fire-worshippers; but as your local knowledge is possibly extensive, I am quite prepared to defer to your opinion.”

He pulled out a cigar, standing before me, and went on smoothly:

“You reserve your judgment? Well, I believe you are wise. These ruins happen to be here, and they serve the sufficiently useful purpose of affording you with shelter, and there can be no conceivable advantage to either of us from determining what people or age saw them spring up. I hope the rain did not come through last night. The roof seems solid enough. Will you smoke? Ah, excuse me! I had not noticed that your arms are temporarily unavailable.”

His manner stunned me. I wanted to shout at him, to curse him, and threaten him, but I was frozen and unmanned by his cynicism, and all I did say was merely, “What do you want with me?”

He seemed surprised.

“I am, like you, my dear Petrie, most desperately dull, and it occurred to me that it would be pleasant to drop in for a chat. There are absolutely no gentlemen in this God-forsaken country. Besides, your father and I were very intimate friends, before he went wrong. I remember your birth well; indeed it was only a slight difference with your father which prevented me from becoming your godparent. You were a fine child, yes, a distinctly fine child, but I remember you would never let me nurse you. In fact, you always showed a remarkable aversion for me.”

His flabby face shook with laughter as he fumbled for a match.

That woke me up, and I said deliberately:

“I guess you’ve got me, Mr. Redpath. You took me foul last night, and you brought me here for your own ends. What’s going to happen to me now, only you and Olaffson know; but unless you covered your tracks well through the forest you’ve done a bad piece of work--”

“My dear fellow,” interrupted the adventurer, “really you must not suggest such things. It is not my fault if I happen to be entirely dominated by that vile little brute Olaffson. It is a disgusting confession for an Englishman to make, but it is none the less a fact. That Icelander does what he likes with me. He twists me round and round his little finger. He insisted on bringing you here, and for my life I dared not cross him. Of course, you find it tedious here,” he went on, relapsing into his former mood; “and it must be decidedly annoying having your arms tied--tightly, if I mistake not? Should you be leaving this place I must, as a friend, warn you against Olaffson. He is a dangerous man, and what is worse, an utterly unscrupulous man.”

“Are you two going to starve me?” I said.

“My dear Petrie, you are indeed in a morbid mood!” was the answer I received.

In my sheer impotence I could have thrown myself against the stone wall. My anger ran away with my prudence at last, and I swore at the man, and cursed him, daring him to approach me, pinioned though I was. He looked really disturbed, and when I had done, for lack of strength, continued softly:

“Too bad, Petrie! That excitement yesterday was too much for you. I fear you suffer from fighting on the brain. But why speak of fighting with me? My dear man, if you and I met in a little friendly bout I am sure I should be unrecognisable to my friends in less than two minutes. But since you have introduced the subject, what is your opinion of this compact little protector?” He pulled a little plated revolver from his hip pocket, and extended it towards me smilingly. “I bought it in Winnipeg as I came through. It is said to be the best, as well as the latest, thing in quick-firing. I carry it loaded, of course, though I understand I am breaking the law of the country by doing so; but I am sure you would be the last to condemn my action, because you know what rascals there are about this land--it contains the scum of the earth, Petrie, I do assure you. Then, you see, I am elderly and weak, and almost as nervous as any old woman.”

He finished this speech with a deprecatory smile, and returned the weapon to its accustomed place in a dexterous fashion, as though well accustomed to the use of it.

“I guess you’re going?” I said, keeping down my madness by a great effort.

“Well, I suppose so. These partings are included among the petty troubles of living. Ah, Petrie, if I were you! Lucky man! young and strong, with all your life ahead. Look at me, old and poor, though, by Gad! it seems only a year ago that I was sent down from Oxford for defying the dons, as they termed it, in their injustice. Well, good-bye, my boy. Take care always to steer clear of Olaffson. By the way, I’m thinking of crossing the lake to hunt for gold.”

He stood in the light, looking down at me slowly.

I could not answer him--I could not! I had no learning and no wit to make reply to this calm, cynical gentleman, who had come merely to enjoy the sight of my degradation. He stepped upon the rope-ladder, pushed himself out, the smoke of his cigar lingering; but before replacing the lumber, his loose face appeared again, and he said:

“If I don’t call again, Petrie, and I fully intend to give myself that pleasure, you will understand that I have been prevented by pressing business. This is such an out-of-the-way place, and of course, it is very difficult to get at. Good-bye, and good luck!” Once more he looked back to shout “The weather’s grand!”

Darkness came after the sunshine, and the night followed, but Redpath did not come back. The hours went by, taking with them another day, and silence and loneliness were my meat and drink. When the night came again I understood more clearly as vitality ebbed out of me. I was abandoned to starvation in this old stone ruin of the bush.

CLERICAL ERRORS

I had shouted for hours, as it seemed to me, in the frail hope of guiding some wandering Indian to my prison, until my throat went dry, and my swollen tongue filled my mouth. The loneliness remained unbroken. My wild voice broke against the stone roof, to fall back upon me in fragments of wasted echoes. All this effort was unprofitable; I was doomed. I was a missing man; my little course was to run out in that mysterious ruin, and my bones were to be added to its antiquities.

That which tormented me more than the desire for vengeance, more even than the fear of death, was my utter helplessness--liberty was so near to me. In my normal state I could so easily have jumped to catch the square hole, and so dragged myself out to the roof; but I was pinioned, and my arms, with all their muscle that I had learnt to be proud of, were the first part of me to die.

I sank slowly into a sleep which was not sleep, until a time came when the pale moon lit and stabbed one shivering ray into my prison. I writhed along the ground like some poor beast which has been shot in the hinder part, and bathed my fevered face in that light. Anything for the world again! My eyes were sore, my half-bandaged wounds stabbed me, red spots spun confusedly wherever I looked. I was afraid of the great loneliness, which suggested the more fearful silence I was about to enter. As I sank towards oblivion I prayed for the sound of a voice, even the growl of a beast or a bird-call, even a sad voice from the grave.

I shook off the stupor, and called aloud once more. It was not a shout for help, but a shout of fear. The horror of the great shadow was over me.

The echoes had hardly settled down into the dust before my nerves, strung to a terrible tension, thrilled and started with the shock of a voice, and my ears caught the answering sound of a feeble cry out of the night.

“Rupe! Boy Rupe!”

“MacCaskill,” I muttered in a delirium.

Animal-like scrapings came against the outer wall; a beating upon the stones, a great groan, and then a mad burst of laughter. Soon an unearthly voice began to sing the song of joy, called the National Anthem of the English. The wild sounds made the night tumultuous:

“_Kitche milweletuk Kinwaish Pimetesit. O Pimache!_”

How had this native singer found me? How did he know my name?

It was a bright night, and the wind was in the south. On such a night the spirits of the dead are abroad, singing their songs of gladness. I was about to die. I was able to hear, as I came near to join them.

“God save the Queen!” wailed the voice, but now in English. Whether this Queen were a living personage or a tutelary spirit, I did not know. A scream made the air start, and then the sounds made words--“Me son Rupe! Me son!”

Now it dawned upon my failing brain that my father had come back, and because I was not yet dead, I feared to meet him. Cry after cry pierced the moonlight, with some weird laughter, and the sounds of an old man’s trouble. The tumult seemed to me so great that I turned and weakly muttered, “There must be a multitude, and they are all dead.” I tried to turn my voice upward in the call, “Father!”

The wandering voice spoke and answered clearly:

“Comin’, Rupe. Have patience wi’ me, boy. I’ve ben a-lookin’ ev’ry night. Ay, ay, ev’ry night a-lookin’, an’ a-watchin’, an’ a-callin’. Ole father’s found ye.”

I could make nothing of this. My father had only been dead a short time. There was a scuffling upon the roof, and the old spirit went on yelling the National Hymn, and danced to his own mad music. I then heard the angry scratching of his nails upon the roof of my prison.

“They hid the boy away here!” screamed the voice, shrill and cunning. “I tried to stop ’em, but they wouldn’t have it. They said, ‘Git, ole man!’ He was jest tired wi’ fightin’, was the boy. I could tell he’d wake after a while. Rupe!”

I shouted back, alive and conscious at last.

A great stone crashed down, and the lumber bounded and splintered. Piece by piece the prison bars disappeared, and the cool moonlight dropped upon me. In vain I tried to move. I could not see my rescuer, but I realised that he was happily seated at what he thought was the entrance to my grave. His voice was hoarser, when he bent down to call, “Rupe! They’re a-comin’ up all round!”

He went on:

“Bide low, while they clear away a bit. They’re screechin’ awful along the creek, an’ the blue lights are jumpin’ crazy. I knew the dead were around to-night. Bones were rattlin’ dreadful when I come out. There was crowds of stiff ’uns a-whisperin’, an’ a-laughin’, an’ a-tumblin’ around in the air, as crazy as sand-bugs. I looked for ye among ’em. An’ I come out a-calling after ye. Bide a while, boy; I’m restin’ a piece, afore pullin’ the earth off ye.”

Slowly it came to my tired brain that I was being saved by a madman who had lost a son bearing my name.

The cunning voice above went on:

“I told ’em I’d find ye, an’ ’twas no use talkin’. I said, ‘Boys all! Rupe’ll come back one midnight. Ole moon’ll be good and full a-comin’ over yon ledges, an’ ole south wind’ll blow soft, an’ the tree heads’ll start to jump. I’ll come along the Creek o’ Corpses a-callin’ Rupe, an’ I’ll find me boy. Sure, I’ll find him, an’ we’ll go home together to the ole home on the lake.’”

The voice had been pathetic, but it altered sharply and became angry.

“She’s ben a-followin’ me ev’ry night, Rupe. She seemed lost to-night, an’ she looked only a girl. She was a-comin’ this way--a-comin’ after me, Rupe, a-comin’ to keep you down in the ground. You mind the squaw, who fit worse’n a man, Rupe. You mind she wounded ye in the leg. You didn’t see it out. Listen, boy! Listen to ole father!”

His voice became a scream.

“I’ll tell ye, Rupe. There was a man who fit wi’ a bush-axe, an’ doin’ good, I tell ye, a-knockin’ ’em around fine, an’ the squaw made at him. Eh! like a beast, boy, like a wil’ beast. She’d fixed her few, but this ’un was too slick. He jumped ’way back, an’ when she come on with her big cutter he dropped his axe, an’ she dropped--ay, dropped, an’ doubled, an’ kicked once, an’ never used her knife again. I was that man, Rupe.”

His shrill laughter rang out triumphantly.

“I set down, Rupe, ’cause we was beatin’ ’em fast, an’ I was winded, being oldish. I got lookin’ around, an’ come to see a stiff’un a-lyin’ close up. He was only a boy, you might say. Wounded ter’ble he was, an’ lettin’ the blood run outer him like smoke outer a stove-pipe. You was that man, Rupe.”

He cut short his mad laughter, and I heard him move.

Two crooked hands came weirdly through the aperture, and the voice shouted at me.

For a moment I forgot the madman in the horror of the thought that Redpath might be near. My feeble heart seemed to be stopping, and a succession of dreadful screams beat into my ears and realised my dread.

“She’s found us, Rupe! The squaw’s a-comin’!”

I was so fearfully weak that I even laughed at his grotesque fear. Probably the woman he feared so greatly was some crooked shadow cast by the moon.

Then another voice came out of the night to tell me that the madman’s eyes were true--a soft voice, not of the dead, nor of the insane, but of the loving and living.

“I am hungry, and very tired. I have searched for three days, and this is the third night. I heard your voice in the bush, and so I have come.”

The world was mine again!

The old man sobbed, and panted, and screamed, and would not allow the girl to come near. I could hear him running and howling, as she tried to out-manœuvre him; but I was beyond aiding myself. I could not have stood or walked had the walls fallen away from me.

“Let me go to him!” pleaded Akshelah; but the maniac, with his superstitious fears, would not hear of it. “Then I must fight you,” said my maid.

As I had lately fought Jake Peterssen for her good fame, so now Akshelah fought the madman for my life.

How long they actually contended I do not know, because Akshelah would never tell me, but presently a light footstep ran overhead, a lithe figure dropped through the hole, and Akshelah knelt beside me. She did not speak, she had not the breath; but she freed my dead arms, and, supporting my head upon her shoulder, gave me water of life out of a little bottle. It seemed nothing but a taste, but more might have done me harm.

She took from her bosom a little meat and bread, which she had brought from Gull, and though starving herself, had never touched, and fed me sparingly. She wiped my face, and chafed my arms with her soothing little hands, and while she worked to restore me I felt something dripping upon my face from hers. The maniac’s long nails had scored deep marks upon her cheeks and forehead.

When I awoke from the long sleep into which she had soothed me it was day. I felt weak and miserably ill, but this illness was due to life returning, and not lessening; from finger-tips to shoulders my arms were two separate tortures. Close beside me Akshelah lay curled up in the sleep of exhaustion, her poor little brown face dreadfully stained and pinched, and my heart cut me. Had this girl been wise she would have remained in the shaded encampment among her own people, instead of following my fortunes, to risk dangers by land and water, privations, insults, death itself; and for what? Because she fancied I wanted her? Because she had promised to be always my friend? Because she was happier with me in danger than in comfort when I was away? Despite all my ignorance, I thought that this last might prove to be the true reason.

Directly she woke, worn and wan, the girl began to laugh, and mirthfully assured me that life was very enjoyable, even when one was next door to starvation. My maid went on laughing when I expressed a fear that Redpath might return, and she went on to tell me of the notices posted about Gull Island, offering a reward for information concerning me, and of MacCaskill, whom she had left running wild, but “no good.”

Then she swung herself from the prison, and I passed an anxious hour, which I employed in trying to use my limbs. I had quite forgotten the half-breed madman until Akshelah came back.

“He is asleep in the grass, and bitten all over with flies,” she said. “He is just where I sent him. I hit him like you hit the black man.”

Soon I heard scrapings and whinings, and the feeble voice demanding where I might be found.

“We are close to the great water,” said Akshelah. “Look at the berries I have brought you.”