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  THE HEART OF UNAGA

  BY RIDGWELL CULLUM

  AUTHOR OF "_The Triumph of John Kars_," "_The Law Breakers_," "_The Wayof the Strong_," _etc._

  A. L. BURT COMPANYPublishers New York

  Published by arrangement with G. P. Putnam's Sons

  COPYRIGHT, 1920BY RIDGWELL CULLUM

  Made in the United States of America

  The Knickerbocker Press, New York

  CONTENTS

  PART I

  I.--JULYMAN TELLS OF THE "SLEEPER" INDIANS

  II.--THE PASSING OF A DREAM

  III.--THE GOING OF STEVE

  IV.--UNAGA

  V.--MARCEL BRAND

  VI.--AN-INA

  VII.--THE HARVEST OF WINTER

  VIII.--BIG CHIEF WANAK-AHA

  IX.--THE VISION OF THE SPIRE

  X.--THE RUSH OUTFIT

  XI.--STEVE LISTENS

  XII.--REINDEER

  XIII.--"ADRESOL"

  XIV.--MALLARD'S

  XV.--THE SET COURSE

  PART II

  I.--AFTER FOURTEEN YEARS

  II.--THE SPRING OF LIFE

  III.--MANHOOD

  IV.--KEEKO

  V.--A DUEL

  VI.--THE KING OF THE FOREST

  VII.--SUMMER DAYS

  VIII.--THE HEART OF THE WILDERNESS

  IX.--THE CLOSE OF THE SEASON

  X.--THE FAREWELL

  XI.--THROUGH THE EYES OF A WOMAN

  XII.--KEEKO RETURNS HOME

  XIII.--THE FAITH OF MEN

  XIV.--THE VALLEY OF DREAMS

  XV.--THE HEART OF UNAGA

  XVI.--KEEKO AND NICOL

  XVII.--THE DEVOTION OF A GREAT WOMAN

  XVIII.--THE VIGIL

  XIX.--THE STORE-HOUSE

  XX.--THE HOME-COMING

  XXI.--THE GREAT REWARD

  The Heart of Unaga

  PART I

  CHAPTER I

  JULYMAN TELLS OF THE "SLEEPER" INDIANS

  Steve Allenwood raked the fire together. A shower of sparks flew up andcascaded in the still air of the summer night. A moment later hissmiling eyes were peering through the thin veil of smoke at the twodusky figures beyond the fire. They were Indian figures, huddled down ontheir haunches, with their moccasined feet in dangerous proximity to thelive cinders strewn upon the ground.

  "Oh, yes?" he said. "And you guess they sleep all the time?"

  The tone of his voice was incredulous.

  "Sure, boss," one of the Indians returned, quite unaffected by the tone.The other Indian remained silent. He was in that happy condition betweensleep and waking which is the very essence of enjoyment to his kind.

  Inspector Allenwood picked up a live coal in his bare fingers. Hedropped it into the bowl of his pipe. Then, after a deep inhalation ortwo, he knocked it out again.

  "'Hibernate'--eh? That's how we call it," he said presently. Then heshook his head. The smile had passed out of his eyes. "No. It's a dandynotion. But--it's not true. They'd starve plumb to death. You see,Julyman, they're human folks--the same as we are."

  The flat denial of his "boss" was quite without effect upon Julyman.Oolak, beside him, roused himself sufficiently to turn his head andblink enquiry at him. He was a silent creature whose admiration forthose who could sustain prolonged talk was profound.

  "All same, boss, that so," Julyman protested without emotion. "Him samelike all men. Him just man, squaw, pappoose. All same himsleep--sleep--sleep, when snow comes," Julyman sucked deeply at his pipeand spoke through a cloud of tobacco smoke. "Julyman not lie. Oh, no.Him all true. When Julyman young man--very young--him father tell him ofLand of Big Fire. Him say all Indian man sleeping--so." He leant oversideways, with his hands pressed together against his cheek toillustrate his meaning. "Him father say this. Him say when snow come AllIndian sleep. One week--two week. Then him wake--so." He stretchedhimself, giving a great display of a weary half-waking condition. "Himsit up. The food there by him, an' he eat--eat plenty much. Then himdrink. An' bimeby him drink the spirit stuff again. Bimeby, too, himroll up in blanket. Then him sleep some more. One week--two week. So.An' bimeby winter him all gone. Oh, him very wise man. Him no work lakhell same lak white man. No. Him sleep--sleep all him winter. An' whenhim wake it all sun, an' snow all gone. All very much good. Indian manhim go out. Him hunt the caribou. Him fish plenty good. Him kill muchseal. Make big trade. Oh, yes. Plenty big trade. So him come plenty oldman. No him die young. Only very old. Him much wise man."

  The white man smiled tolerantly. He shrugged.

  "Guess you got a nightmare, Julyman," he said. "Best turn over."

  Steve had nothing to add. He knew his scouts as he knew all otherIndians in the wide wilderness of the extreme Canadian north. Thesecreatures were submerged under a mental cloud of superstition andmystery. He had no more reason to believe the story of "hibernating"Indians than he had for believing the hundred and one stories of Indianfolklore he had listened to in his time.

  Julyman, too, considered the subject closed. He had said all he had tosay. So the spasm of talk was swallowed up by the silence of the summernight.

  The fire burned low, and was replenished from the wood pile which stoodbetween the two teepees standing a few yards away in the shadow of thebush which lined the trail. These men, both white and coloured, had thehabit of the trail deeply ingrained in them. But then, was it not theirlife, practically the whole of it? Stephen Allenwood was a policeofficer who represented the white man's law in a district as wide as agood-sized European country, and these scouts were his only assistants.

  They were at headquarters now enjoying a brief respite from the endlesstrail which claimed all their life and energies. And such was the natureof their work, and so absorbing the endless struggle of it, that theirfocus of holiday-making was little better than sitting over a camp-fireat night smoking, and occasionally talking, and waiting for the call ofnature summoning them to their blankets.

  It was a wonderful night, still and calm, and with a radiance ofstarlight overhead. There was the busy hum of insect life from theadjacent woods, a deep murmur from the sluggish tide of the greatCaribou River which drained the country for miles around. The occasionalsigh that floated upon the air spoke of lofty pine crests bending undera light top breeze which refrained from disturbing the lower air. Thenight left the impression of unbreakable peace, of human content, and aworld where elemental storms were unknown.

  But the impression was misleading, as are all such impressions innature's wild, and where the human heart beats strongly. There was nocontent in the grey eyes of the white man as he sat gazing into theheart of the fire. Then, too, not one of them but knew the cruel moodsof the great Northland.

  A wonderful companionship existed between these men. It was somethingmore than the companionship of the long trail. They had fought thebattle of life together for eight long years, enduring perils andhardships which had brought them an understanding and mutual regardwhich no difference in colour, or education could lessen. For all thedistinction of the police officer's rank and his white man's learning,for all the Indians were dark-skinned, uncultured products of the greatwhite outlands, they were three friends held by bonds which only thehearts of real men could weld.

  The territory over which Steve Allenwood exercised his police controlwas well-nigh limitless from a "one-man" point of view. From hisheadquarters, which lay within the confines of the Allowa Indian
Reserveon the Caribou River, it reached away to the north as far as the ArcticCircle. To the west, only the barrier of the great McKenzie River markedits limits. To the south, there was nothing beyond the Reserve claiminghis official capacity, except the newly grown township of Deadwater, twomiles away. Eastwards? Well, East was East. So far as InspectorAllenwood knew his district had no limits in that direction, unless itwere the rugged coast line of the Hudson's Bay itself.

  His task left Steve Allenwood without complaint. It was never his way tocomplain. Doubtless there were moments in his life when he realized theoverwhelming nature of it all. But he no more yielded to it than hewould yield to the overwhelming nature of a winter storm. That was theman. Patient; alive with invincible courage and dispassionatedetermination. Square, calm, strong, like the professional gambler healways seemed to have a winning card to play at the right moment. Andnone knew better than his scouts how often that card had meant thedifference between a pipe over the warm camp-fire and the cold comfortof an icy grave.

  Julyman was troubled at the unease he observed in the white man's eyes.It had been there on and off for some days now. It had been there moremarkedly earlier in the evening when the white man had helped his girlwife into the rig in which Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, wasdriving Dr. and Mrs. Ross, and their two daughters, to the dance whichwas being given down at the township by the bachelors of Deadwater.Since then the look had deepened, and Julyman, in spite of his bestefforts, had failed to dispel it. Even his story of a race of"hibernating" Indians had been without effect.

  But Julyman did not accept defeat easily. And presently he removed thefoul pipe from his thin lips, and spat with great accuracy into theheart of the fire.

  "Bimeby she come," he said, in his low, even tones, while his black,luminous eyes were definitely raised to the white man's face. "Oh, yes.Bimeby she come. An' boss then him laff lak hell. Julyman know. Julymanhave much squaw. Plenty."

  Steve started. For a moment he stared. Then his easy smile crept intohis steady eyes again and he nodded.

  "Sure," he said. "Bimeby she come. Then I laff--like hell."

  Julyman's sympathy warmed. He felt he had struck the right note. Hiswide Indian face lit with an unusual smile.

  "Missis, him young. Very much young," he observed profoundly. "Him lakdance plenty--heap. It good. Very good. Bimeby winter him come. Cold lakhell. Missis no laff. Missis not go out. Boss him by the long trail. So.Missis him sit. Oh yes. Him sit with little pappoose. No dance. Nonothin'. Only snow an' cold--lak hell."

  This time the man's effort elicited a different response. Perhaps he hadover-reached. Certainly the white man's eyes had lost the look that hadinspired the Indian. They were frowning. It was the cold frown ofdispleasure. Julyman knew the look. He understood it well. So he went nofurther. Instead he spat again into the fire and gave himself up to aluxurious hate of Hervey Garstaing, the Indian Agent, whom all Indianshated.

  Julyman was only a shade removed from his original savagery. There weretimes when he was not removed from savagery at all. This was such amoment. For he abandoned himself to the silent contemplation of a visionof the heart of the Indian Agent roasting over the fire before him. Itwas stuck on the cleaning-rod of his own rifle like a piece of bread tobe toasted. Furthermore his was the hand holding the cleaning-rod. Hewould willingly throw the foul heart to the camp dogs--when it wasproperly cooked.

  His vision was suddenly swept away by a sound which came from somewherealong the trail in the direction of Deadwater. There was a faint,indistinct blur of voices. There was also the rattle of wheels, and thesharp clip of horses' hoofs upon the hard-beaten road. He instinctivelyturned his head in the direction. And as he did so Steve Allenwood stoodup. Just for a moment the white man stood gazing down the shadowedtrail. Then he moved off in the direction of his four-roomed log house.

  Left alone the Indians remained at the fireside; Oolak--thesilent--indifferent to everything about him except the pleasant warmthof the fire; Julyman, on the contrary, angrily alert. He was listeningto the sounds which grew momentarily louder and more distinct. And withvicious relish he had already distinguished Hervey Garstaing's voiceamongst the rest. It was loud and harsh. How he hated it. How its tonesset the dark blood in his veins surging to his head.

  "Why sure," he heard him say, "the boys did it good. They're brightboys."

  In his crude fashion the scout understood that the Agent was referringto the evening's entertainment. It was the soft voice of Mrs. Ross whichreplied, and Julyman welcomed the sound. All Indians loved the "med'cinewoman," as they affectionately called the doctor's wife.

  "It was the best party we've had in a year," she cried enthusiastically."You wouldn't have known old Abe's saloon from a city hall at Christmastime, with its decorations and its "cuddle-corners" all picked out withTurkey red and evergreens. And you girls! My! you had a real swell time.There were boys enough and to spare for you all. And they weren't thesort to lose much time either. The lunch was real elegant, too, with theoysters and the claret cup. My! it certainly was a swell party."

  The wagon had drawn considerably nearer. The quick ears of the Indianhad no difficulty with the language of the white folk. His main sourceof interest was the identity of those who were speaking. And, inparticular, he was listening for one voice which he had not as yet beenable to distinguish. Hervey Garstaing seemed to do most of the talking.And how he hated the sound of that voice.

  "Why, say, Dora," he heard him exclaim in good-natured protest, as theoutline of the team loomed up out of the distance. "I don't guess Mrs.Allenwood and I sat out but two dances. Ain't that so, Nita?"

  Julyman's ears suddenly pricked. He may have been an uncultured savage,but he was a man, and very human. And the subtle inflection, as theAgent addressed himself to Steve Allenwood's wife, was by no means lostupon him.

  "Three!"

  The answer came in chorus from the two daughters of the doctor. And itcame with a giggle.

  "Oh, if you're going to count a supper 'extra,' why--Anyway what's threeout of twenty-seven. There's no kick coming to that. Guess a fellerwould be all sorts of a fool----"

  "If he didn't take all that's coming his way at a dance," broke in thedoctor's genial voice, with a laugh.

  The wagon was abreast of him, and Julyman's eyes were studiouslyconcerned with the glowing heart of the fire. But nothing escaped them.Nothing ever did escape them. He closely scanned the occupants of thewagon. Dr. and Mrs. Ross were in the back seat, and their two daughterswere facing them. Hervey Garstaing was driving, and Nita Allenwood wassitting beside him. It was all just as it had been earlier in theevening when he had seen them set out for Deadwater.

  Oh, yes. It was all the same--with just a shade of difference. Nita wassitting close--very close to the teamster. She was sitting much closerthan when Steve, earlier in the evening had tucked the rug about her tokeep the chill summer evening air from penetrating the light dancingfrock she was wearing. They were both tucked under one great buffalorobe now. It was a robe he knew to be Hervey Garstaing's.

  As the vehicle passed the fire Dr. Ross flung a genial greeting at thetwo Indians. Julyman responded with a swift raising of his eyes, and oneof his broad, unfrequent smiles. Then, as the wagon passed, his eyesdropped again to the fire.

  He knew. Oh, yes, he knew. Had he not sat with many squaws who seemeddesirable in his eyes? Yes, he had sat just so. Close. Oh, very close.Yes, he was glad his boss had taken himself off. Maybe he was lookingdown into the depths of the basket which held the little white pappooseback there in his home. It was good to look at the little pappoose whenthere was trouble at the back of a father's eyes. It made the troublemuch better. How he hated the white man, Hervey Garstaing.

  * * * * *

  For once Julyman's instincts were at fault. He had read the meaning ofSteve Allenwood's sudden departure in the light of his owninterpretation of the trouble he had seen in the man's grey eyes. He wasentirely wrong.

  Steve had hea
rd the approaching wagon, and he knew that his wife and theother folk were returning from the dance. But almost at the same instanthe had detected the sound of horses' hoofs in an opposite direction. Itwas in the direction of his home. Julyman had missed the latter in hisabsorbed interest in the return of these folk from Deadwater.

  Steve reached the log home in the bluff at the same moment as a horsemanreined up at his door. The man in the saddle leant over, peering intothe face of the Inspector. The darkness left him uncertain.

  "Deadwater post?" he demanded abruptly.

  Steve had recognized the man's outfit. The brown tunic and side-arms,the prairie hat, and the glimpse of a broad yellow stripe on the side ofthe riding breeches just where the man's leather chapps terminated onhis hips. These things were all sufficient.

  "Sure."

  "Inspector Allenwood, sir?"

  The man's abrupt tone had changed to respectful inquiry.

  "I'm your man, Corporal."

  The Corporal flung out of the saddle.

  "Sorry I didn't rec'nize you, sir," he said saluting quickly. "It'spretty dark. It's a letter from the Superintendent--urgent." He drew along, blue envelope from his saddle wallets and passed it to hissuperior. "Maybe you can direct me to the Indian Agent, Major Garstaing,sir. I got a letter for him."

  Steve Allenwood glanced up from the envelope he had just received.

  "Sure. Best cut through the bluff. There's a trail straight throughbrings you to his house. It's mostly a mile and a half. Say, you'll needsupper. Get right along back when you've finished with him. When did youstart out?"

  "Yesterday morning, sir."

  The Inspector whistled.

  "Fifty miles a day. You travelled some."

  The Corporal patted his steaming horse's neck.

  "He's pretty tough, is old Nigger, sir," he said, with quiet pride. "Mr.McDowell wanted me to pick up a horse at Beaufort last night, but Iwouldn't have done any better. Nigger can play the game a week without aworry. Guess I'll get on, sir, and make back after awhile. That thebarn, sir?" he went on, pointing at a second log building a few yardsfrom the house, as he swung himself into the saddle again. "I won't needsupper. I had that ten miles back on the trail. I off-saddled at anIndian lodge where they lent me fire to boil my tea."

  Steve nodded.

  "Very well, Corporal. There's blankets here in the office when you comeback. This room, here," he added, throwing open the door. "I'll set alamp for you. There's feed and litter for your plug at the barn. Rub himdown good."

  "Thank you, sir."

  The man turned his horse and headed away for the trail through thebluff, and Steve watched him go. Nor could he help a feeling ofadmiration for the easy, debonair disregard of difficulties and hardshipwhich these men of his own force displayed in the execution of theirwork. In his utter unself-consciousness he was quite unaware thatwherever the police were known his own name was a household word forthese very things which he admired in another.

  He passed into his office and lit the lamp. Then he seated himself atthe simple desk where his official reports were made out. It was aplain, whitewood table, and his office chair was of the hard Windsortype.

  He tore open his letter and glanced at its contents. It was from his ownimmediate superior, Superintendent McDowell, and dated at Fort Reindeer.It was quite brief and unilluminating. It was a simple official order toplace himself entirely at the disposal of Major Hervey Garstaing, theIndian Agent of the Allowa Indian Reserve--who was receiving fullinstructions from the Indian Commissioner at Ottawa--on a matter whichcame under his department.

  He read the letter through twice. He was about to read it for a thirdtime, but laid it aside. Instead he rose from the table and movedtowards the door as the wagon from Deadwater drew up outside.