XXXI THE WINDIGO

The weather favored the voyageurs that day, and they were able to make good time for about twenty miles to a little cove, the mouth of a stream. There they landed to eat a supper of the fish they had caught on the way. The boys felt greatly encouraged when Etienne told them they had almost reached the southern end of Minong. Two or three hours more travel would bring them to a smaller island lying off the end of the large one. From there, he said, the weather favoring them, they could steer a straight course for the northwest shore of the lake and soon reach the Grande Portage. Deeply disappointed though the lads were at not finding the riches they had endured so much to gain, they felt a great sense of relief at the thought that their perilous journey was so near its end.

By the time they had reached the cove, the boys, who had only partly recovered from starvation and suffering, were very tired. After their supper of fish, they were glad to creep into a pile of balsam branches under the canoe and fall asleep immediately. But the night was cold and they had no cover but the branches. Several times one of the three had to crawl out, chilled and stiff, to replenish the fire that burned close to the raised side of the canoe. Usually it was the Indian who took this task upon himself, for he slept lightly and little, ready to spring up at the slightest unusual sound. He did not intend that the Windigo should creep on their camp without his knowing it.

Just as the stars were fading with the dawn, Nangotook was awakened suddenly. He lay still and listened. From up the river came faint sounds, the cracking of twigs, the rustling of branches. Noiselessly the Indian crept from under the canoe, listened a moment, and then made his way cautiously in the direction of the sounds. There was a splash in the stream. In the faint light he could see a black bulk against the water. Nearer and nearer he crept, until the dark form began to move slowly towards the opposite bank. Then, knowing he would get no better chance for a shot, Nangotook let fly an arrow, and then a second and a third in quick succession. Every arrow hit the mark, the black bulk plunged forward, wavered and fell sidewise with a great splash. The hunter sprang into the stream. Luckily the water, where the beast had fallen, was shallow, and Nangotook soon had his game, a full grown caribou, ashore. Here was meat in plenty for days to come.

He dragged the caribou back to camp and placed it near the fire. The boys were sleeping so soundly that his coming did not wake them, and he crept under the canoe without disturbing them. He did not sleep any more after that, but kept his eye on the meat. Once he heard the pad of soft feet beyond the fire, and rose to send an arrow towards a pair of gleaming eyes. He missed his aim, and the lynx slipped away in the darkness and did not return.

The boys were surprised and delighted when they saw the result of Etienne’s night hunting, but they were also a little chagrined when they realized that they had slept so soundly and carelessly that they had known nothing of what was going on. The day was too windy to permit the voyageurs to start out across the open lake for the northwest shore. They might have continued along the coast of Minong, but, as they had such a short distance to go in that direction, they decided to camp where they were until the caribou meat was dried. The spot was a favorable one, and they might not find another so good. Moreover there might be other game in the neighborhood, and there were certainly fish in the stream and off the rocks at its mouth. The net they had set the night before yielded a good catch of whitefish. It was the caribou meat that tasted best to the boys, however, and put new strength and spirit into them. The gruesome tragedy they had found traces of the day before seemed like a bad dream.

The day, which was bright and pleasant, though windy, was spent in drying the meat, curing the hide, fishing and hunting. The three proposed to collect as large a supply of food as possible. Bad weather might come again at any moment, and they did not intend to be caught in another storm without plenty of food to last them through.

In a marshy place the boys came upon a great flock of wild geese, that had paused, on their way south, to feed. The birds took alarm at once, and, with great flapping of wings and excited honks, followed their leader into the air and away, but Jean succeeded in hitting one as it left the water. He had to wade out into the cold mud and water to his waist to secure the bird, but it was a welcome feast to the three that night. The southward flight of the geese was, however, another reminder of the approach of winter. Nekah, the goose, knew what he was about, said the Ojibwa.

The following morning the voyageurs left the little cove. The south wind was strong enough to make crossing the lake dangerous, but they could go on along shore with little difficulty. They could at least reach the island which Nangotook said lay off a bay at the southern end of Minong. From there the Ojibwa intended, as soon as the weather would permit, to steer directly for the lake shore.

The travelers had rounded the end of Minong, when they came in sight of a canoe at some distance across the water. It held only one man, and they were too far away to make out anything about him, except that he did not wear the scarlet cap of the Canadian voyageur. Was it the Windigo? The boys felt a thrill of excitement, not unmingled with dread. Whether he had seen them or not they could not tell, but they followed as rapidly as they could make the canoe fly over the water. The lone traveler was making for some islands ahead. He passed into a channel between two of them and disappeared.

Without any orders from Nangotook in the bow, Ronald, who was in the stem, steered in the same direction. He wanted to find out if the man ahead was really the Cree murderer. He suspected that Nangotook was ready to kill the Windigo on sight That was the Indian way with such outlaws. Certainly the boy was not inclined to show any mercy to an Indian who had killed and eaten a white man. If he had merely killed the Frenchman,—well, Le Forgeron probably deserved death, and a private quarrel between him and his companion was the business of no one else, Ronald thought, but the evidence seemed to prove that the Cree had treacherously stabbed the white man in the back, for the purpose of eating him. For such hideous crime there could be no excuse, not even starvation, and no mercy for the criminal. That was the code of the Indian, the voyageur and the forest runner.

The pursuers passed through the channel between the two islands, and came out in view of others, large and small. Instantly Nangotook’s keen eyes caught sight of something on one of the little islands that caused him to utter a short grunt, raise his paddle from the water, and gaze intently. Noting his apparent surprise, the boys’ eyes followed the direction of his gaze. From a bare tree on that little island something white was fluttering. It was not a gull roosting. It was too large, and too white, and it fluttered and waved in the wind. It was a white rag, a signal of some kind, a flag of distress.

“Some one is on that island,” cried Jean in great excitement. “He is wrecked or hurt or starving, and he has tied that white thing to the tree to attract attention. We must go there at once. He may be a white man. We must rescue him.”

“Go slow, little brother,” cautioned Nangotook gravely. “Maybe, as you say, there is a man there wrecked and starving, but what if that white thing be only a trap? Where is the canoe we have been following? The Windigo may be trying to get us ashore, so he may murder and eat us.”

“If he is, he will be getting the worst of it,” declared Ronald emphatically. “We are three to one, and the only thing we need be fearing is a gun. If he is decoying us ashore, he will not be firing on us until we have landed, and even then he will try, I think, to use fair words and treachery rather than force. In that we are a match for him, now we are forewarned not to trust him.”

“You speak truly, my brother,” Nangotook answered. “I meant not to go by that island, but to be cautious. It may be that the signal is a true one. We must find out. But we must watch that we are not taken unawares by the evil Windigo. Now that I have warned you, steer for that island, and if the Cree is there, let him look to himself.”

As they approached the place, the three watched eagerly for some indication of what they were to find there. Like most of the islands off Minong, it was rocky, but bore a patch of trees and bushes on its highest part. There seemed nothing unusual about it, but the white rag fluttering from a bare limbed birch tree. Not until they were close in, did Nangotook catch sight of a canoe drawn up on a bit of shelving pebble beach between two great rocks. Silently he pointed it out to the boys. They ran their own canoe upon the same beach and stepped out, the Ojibwa with one hand on his bowstring, an arrow in the other, and his eyes searching the rocks and woods for signs of ambush. He did not relax his vigilance when he heard Jean, behind him, utter a low-voiced exclamation.

The two boys had carried the canoe up the beach, and Jean had turned to look at the other craft that lay there. “Our own canoe,” he whispered to Jean. “It was the Cree for sure.”

Ronald glanced at the boat. There was no mistaking it. The three had built it themselves, and knew every rib and seam. It was wet, too. It had not been out of the water more than a few minutes. Though Nangotook did not turn his head, but still kept running his eyes searchingly over every bush and rock that might offer concealment to an enemy, he heard what Jean said. There was no need for him to examine the canoe. Jean’s testimony was sufficient. The Ojibwa went on up the steep bit of beach, the two lads close behind him, with weapons ready.

Apparently the man who had landed from the canoe had given no thought to being followed, and had made no attempt to hide his trail. He had gone up over the rocks and into the bit of woods, and his track was plain to the Indian. The latter advanced cautiously, the boys equally noiseless, a short distance behind. They had taken but a few steps among the spruce trees, when they were arrested by the sound of voices. There was more than one man on the island then, although there had been but one in the boat The voices were speaking French, one with the guttural accent of the Indian, the other in flowing, mellow tones. Even if the three had not had good evidence that Le Forgeron Tordu was dead, they would never have taken that rich, deep pitched voice for his rough, cracked one. Silently but rapidly, Nangotook slipped forward again, the boys following until he turned and signaled them to halt. After taking a few more steps among the trees, he stopped also.

The mellow voice was speaking, and the boys could hear it plainly. It was a pleasing voice of refined accents, and it spoke excellent French, the French of a man of breeding and education. Even Jean Havard, who was well educated for a Canadian lad of his time and boasted of his pure French blood, did not speak like that. He could make out the unseen man’s words distinctly.

“God will surely bless you through all your days,” the voice said. “Moreover I will see to it, if you will take me safely to the Grande Portage, that you shall be well rewarded in material things as well. Flour, blankets, traps for your hunting, whatever you need or want of such things you shall have. But better than all will be the blessing of God upon you, for saving the life of His servant to carry on His glorious work, and to labor a little longer for the good of your own people.”

The speaker ceased, and for a moment there was silence. Then the other man answered, but his words, spoken in a hoarse voice and guttural accents, were not distinguishable. While the second man was speaking, Nangotook crept forward again. Carefully he slipped between two spruce trees and peeped out from among the branches. He saw before him a rude wigwam in a small natural rock opening. In front of the wigwam stood the tall, black-gowned form of a Jesuit priest in conversation with an Indian. The Indian’s back was towards Nangotook, but the Ojibwa did not fail to recognize him.

“Eh bien, I will be ready in a moment,” said the priest in his deep, mellow voice.

He turned to go into the shelter. Instantly the Cree’s whole aspect changed. He crouched, muscles tense, then leaped forward, like a forest cat, knife raised. But Nangotook was ready for him. His arrow was on his bowstring. Before the Windigo’s knife could reach his unsuspecting victim, the bowstring twanged, and the flying arrow pierced the murderer’s back a little to the left of the spinal column. He sprang back as if recoiling, then fell forward on his face.