The Star Woman/Book 3

 

CHAPTER I

IT DOES NOT PAY TO BE MERCIFUL

NOW the story passes to a mid-afternoon of spring in the far northwest, where as yet spring was only a name of bitter mockery. Hal Crawford and his men, with the terrified Cree guides who led them, staggered over the snow crust of a tree-girded valley, along the open space which held a frozen stream hidden beneath its ice and snow.

Far in the lead went the Cree trail-breaker. Crawford followed him, and behind Crawford came Frontin. The others, Indians and white men, straggled along as best they could, Sir Phelim Burke bringing up the rear and driving them on. As he wearily followed the Cree on between the lines of dark trees, Crawford began to feel the grip of hopeless despair—and with reason.

"Can do no more, lad!" rose the voice of Phelim Burke. "Two men down."

Crawford glanced back to the group of men and halted.

"Make camp and a fire," he called. He met the eyes of Frontin, but neither man spoke.

This valley ran from northeast to southwest. Crawford looked back in the direction whence he had come, and in his mind's eye reviewed all the vast country across which he had struggled during the winter months, working from village to village, from tribe to tribe. Just behind him he saw the country of the Crees; beyond that the villages of the Savanois or plains folk, those of the Monsaunis or swamp tribes, and finally the scattered groups of the Wenebigonhelinis or seashore people, who lived about the edge of Hudson Bay. How far away now seemed that bay, and the dead Moses Deakin!

Into the crawling wilderness had come this masterless master of men, working ever to the west and south. Still he heard new tales of the Star Woman, that half-mythical person whom none had seen but of whom all knew, and who was said to rule somewhere beyond—always beyond; and as he quested forward, slowly winning his way from tribe to tribe, from frozen swamp to frozen hills, the wild tales gradually settled into more sober legends. Now it appeared that the Star Woman was no ruler of vast regions, but a woman of mystical power and influence, a sorceress who lived somewhere near the country of the Dacotah or Nadouisioux; yet even among far peoples, her name was mighty. Ahead of Crawford flitted the word that he sought this Star Woman, protecting him and gaining guides. More, the Star of Dreams that hung upon his breast had swiftly won him the respect and fear of the tribes. To them it was medicine of the strongest, obviously connected with the Star Woman, so that they held Crawford as a man to be aided on his way to her and furthered in all things.

Thus, at least, had gone events; but now he encountered check.

He had sent ahead to get guides from the Stone Men, or Assiniboines, but these had not met him; day after day, only emptiness and bleak snow-desolation greeted him, with no signal smokes on the horizon. The Crees had brought him into that debatable land which they termed the abode of dancing dead men, where the blood of slain folk and the power of devils made all things desolate, where Cree and Stone Man disputed roving bands of Sauteurs or Dacotahs from the south.

It was the dread seventh year, the year of famine, and during the past four days the party had found no game, not even a lone rabbit. Yet, on all sides of their line of march, were recent snowshoe trails, so that the Crees whispered of spirits and were sore adread. His little band were weak with hunger and fatigue. The Englishmen were terrified by this drear land, while the Irishmen talked of banshees and good people. The Cree guides were now held only by fear of Crawford and the dark Frontin; when their fear of spirits bore down their fear of things physical, they would decamp. Then what, in this drear region which Crawford thought himself the first white man to visit?

While Crawford stood there staring bleakly along the valley, the answer came with unexpected suddenness. The Cree trail-breaker had returned, passing Crawford and Frontin, and rejoined the weary men about the fire. From the trees just ahead, there rose a deep voice that spoke in English.

"Crawford! Come forward and talk wi' me."

Frontin's jaw fell. Crawford stared at the trees, utterly aghast for an instant, until he saw a man step from the trees and start forward, across an open space of a hundred yards. A man—a white man!

"Devil take me! Is it real or a dream?" murmured Frontin.

"Real." Crawford came to life abruptly, recovering from his astounded surprise. "Come."

He started forward, and the other followed, staring. The stranger was confidently forging toward them across the snow, and was alone, apparently unarmed.

"Look at his ears!" said Frontin suddenly. "There's an animal for you, cap'n!"

The stranger was bareheaded, wore woollen shirt and trousers, no furs. He was not tall, but very wide, thickly built, long in the arm; his head was well set between broad shoulders. His hair, cut close and ragged by a knife, was a bright flame-colour, and his heavy features ended in a pointed red beard. His skin, too, was red and high-blooded, while his ears were set very high on his head. He had all the look of a vigorous animal alive with power, and his eyes were of a light grey, whitish and almost colourless, but extremely sharp and alert.

The three came together. The stranger stood gazing at the other two—Frontin, hawk-nosed and saturnine, dark and grimly cynical; Crawford, thin and hatchet-faced, his heavy-lidded blue eyes somehow expressing his indomitable spirit. The stranger spoke abruptly.

"Which is Crawford? Workin' for the French company?"

"I am Crawford, but I'm working for myself. Who the devil are you?"

"My name's Maclish, agent of the English company." Maclish spoke with a slight Scots burr. "I've had word of your coming, and I'm here to send ye back."

"Oh!" said Crawford. The other showed yellow fangs in a laugh.

"Don't understand it, eh? Thought you could come up-country for the French and nobody know about it, eh?, Well, you'll learn different."

"I'm not for the French," said Crawford.

"Don't believe a word of it," retorted Maclish cheerfully. "After Iberville swept the north end o' the bay last year, I was at Albany with Kelsey. Lucky Iberville couldn't make a clean sweep o' things! Well, we heard that a fur-pirate named Crawford was heading inland in French employ, so Kelsey sent me along to stop the game. And I'm here. You know about Kelsey, maybe?"

Crawford shook his head.

"Kelsey broke out o' bounds years ago and came up among the Stone Men. He married a red princess and brought down all the trade, so the company made him a blooming lord in high command. And with a bit o' luck, I'll be the same one o' these days."

Maclish paused to stuff a pipe. Crawford stood immobile, his brain racing. So this man had overreached him—had got ahead of him in the dead of winter! Amazing as the fact was, bitter as it was, Crawford instantly gathered himself to face the situation.

"So I'm not the first white man in this country?" he asked, to gain time.

"Devil a bit of it. Kelsey's first, I'm second, and next year the company starts inland. The old orders are dead. No more keeping the company servants cooped up! Iberville's cut us off from the north o' the bay, so we'll work the East Main and the up-country. When your messages came to the Assiniboines, asking for guides, I got 'em." Maclish puffed and chuckled complacently, obviously pleased with himself.

"Pawky devils, those chiefs!" he went on. "They're afraid o' the Star Woman, but they're more afraid o' losing their trade—and not a cursed bit afraid o' you and your Crees! Besides, I've got the young warriors all with me. I've heard tales about that Star Woman myself, and I've an exploring commission from Kelsey; so here I am—and back you go!"

Had not Maclish been so entirely self-satisfied, he might have taken warning from the deadly cold manner of Crawford.

Crawford, however, was far from sure of his course. Had the Crees taken him south to the Lake Superior country, he would have avoided the trap; instead, they had brought him into this disputed region just south of the Assiniboine country, declaring that the Star Woman lived in that direction. While the Assiniboines, or Stone Men, were in much awe of the Star Woman, they stood in no fear of a strange white man seeking her. They had long since been bound to the English cause through Kelsey, and Maclish was clever enough to play his cards well.

"So I go back?" said Crawford.

"If you're wise." Maclish showed his yellow teeth. "And I go on."

"Eh? You go on?" Crawford's eyes narrowed.

"Just that—to find the Star Woman my ain self!" Maclish chuckled. "Until I learned of her, I thought to follow Kelsey's example and take a young squaw from among the Stone Men; but not now. It's a big chance, ay! How much d'ye ken of her?"

"Little," said Crawford shortly. His gaze was stabbing at the trees around, but he could discern nothing at all. Either Maclish had come alone, or had a force of men hidden. Now Crawford understood those strange snowshoe tracks that had been seen. He saw, too, that in this red-faced agent of the English company he had to do with a savage and resolute enemy. This fact cheered him up somewhat, for Hal Crawford had his own way of dealing with enemies.

But now Maclish waxed garrulous. No doubt the sound of his own voice was good to him, after this winter spent among the Stone Men.

"They've uncommon queer tales of her," he went on. "It seems that her people are the Dacotah, but she lives somewhere on holy ground; any place where she is, I gather, is holy. That's the lay of it. A fine bonny lass, I hear, wi' blue eyes and a star of blue stones. White blood in her, most like. Ay, it's a big chance, and ye may be sure the young men are all with Maclish!"

"What's a big chance?" queried Crawford, anxious to keep the man in talk.

"To marry her, o' course! Ye ken, maybe, there's war between the Dacotah and the Stone Men? Ay. All those western tribes down below are at war wi' the Stone Men, while the Sauteurs hang neutral. Those Dacotah, ye ken, are kith and kin to the Stone Men; and they're not so far from here, neither. Well, I'll marry her and then we'll drain all the trade out o' French hands to the bay. All those Lake Superior tribes will obey the Star Woman. And then who'll be the company's lord, eh? Maclish, ye can lay to that! We'll make peace among the tribes, and Maclish bringin' down the beaver!"

Crawford sensed only vaguely the tremendous purpose behind the man, the far-reaching scheme which this Scot had so shrewdly plotted. He was more actively concerned with this actual news of the Star Woman. He had heard much, during the winter, about those fierce tribes who termed themselves by the proudly simple name of "The Men," and were known to others by the generic Algonquin word Nadouisioux or Sioux, meaning "enemies." Between the Iroquois in the east and these Dacotah in the west, the lesser red tribes were as corn between the grinders.

"So you intend to find her, do you?" asked Crawford.

"Ay. Only a few hours' march from here is a place they call the Spirit Lake—some sort of holy ground, it is. The Stone Men tell me a message can reach her from there; just how, I don't rightly ken. But if a message can reach her, then so can a man! So that's the lay of it. You'll go back, and I'll go on."

Only a few hours' march! Crawford laughed suddenly, and his laugh brought crafty guile and alarm into the eyes of Maclish.

"You fool!" said Crawford, a sudden blaze of anger in his face. "You think to stop me, do you?"

"Right, cap'n," said the voice of Frontin, and the dark man smiled terribly. "Now's the time to do the stopping."

Maclish took a backward step, hastily.

"No, no! Will ye ha' patience?" he cried out. "It's only a warning I'm giving ye, no more! If ye go for'ard, it's your ain fault, not mine! I ha' naught to do with it."

Frontin thrust his dark features out.

"Hark to the liar and rogue!" said he. "Cap'n, there's bad guile in this fox. It's in my mind to put a knife in him here and now."

Maclish, who had lost his swaggering confidence, held out his empty hands.

"If I meant ye harm," he said, "would I ha' come without a weapon to meet ye? If ye mean to murder me, go ahead, then. If not, we'll part on it and no more said."

"Right," said Crawford, with sudden decision. "Go your way, and don't cross my road again. I'm no murderer, so be off."

With this, Maclish turned and started for the trees up the valley.

"Devil take me, but we did wrong to let him go!" said Frontin.

Crawford shook his head. The two friends went side by side toward their staring band of men, who had witnessed this amazing meeting without having been able to hear its import.

"No. The rascal changed his tune in a hurry, if you noticed—and why? Because he must have few men with him. He does not dare oppose us. Now, think! If that Spirit Lake is only a short march away, we'll be there to-morrow. You heard what he said about reaching the Star Woman. With luck, we'll not need the Assiniboine guides after all."

"I don't like it," muttered Frontin. "I don't like the very name of these Stone Men!"

Crawford laughed shortly, and they met Sir Phelim Burke and walked with him to the fire, telling of what had passed. Sir Phelim wrinkled up his nose and eyed the trees.

"My word is to get out of this valley," he declared. "We'd best make no night camp with red dogs hanging around. Here, ask the guides if they know about this Spirit Lake!"

Crawford nodded. "Break camp!" he commanded sharply, and beckoned one of the Crees. He was just putting the question to the red man, when from the fringe of trees there roared up the voice of Maclish.

"So I can't stop ye, eh? Then take it, ye lousy rogues——"

A musket crashed, and the Cree beside Hal Crawford plunged and thrashed in the snow like a stricken partridge.

From the trees all around shrilled up a wild chorus of yells. Another musket and another spoke out from that encircling ring of unseen foes; then came a buzz and a hum of loosened bowstrings, and shafts began to pour in from the trees. It was not battle, it was murder. With guns all fur-cased against the frost, unable to sight an enemy, Crawford and his men could strike scarcely a blow. The wild yells of the Stone Men, fierce cousins of the fiercer Dacotah, pealed up in triumph and hideous mockery.

The five Cree guides died where they stood. An Englishman coughed with an arrow through his gullet, and lay reddening the snow. Sir Phelim Burke reeled up to Crawford, a shaft protruding from his side.

"Got us, Hal!" he cried. "At them, lad——"

Crawford caught him as he fell, saw his helpless men dropping, heard the black curses of Frontin, knew that he was utterly lost and all his men. Then, sudden as it had burst, the treacherous storm was stilled. The voice of Maclish lifted again from among the trees.

"There's stoppage for ye, Crawford! Now sit ye down, and I'll talk a bit more with ye presently, when I get these red devils quiet."

Then fell silence, and ghastly horror on the valley where the snow lay reddened. So suddenly had it all passed, that save for the dead men the thing seemed like a dream.

It was Frontin who took charge, his frost-blackened lips cracking out oaths and commands, making the men pile arms and gather around the fire. There was naught else to do, for they were caught in the open and ringed around with foes. Hal Crawford, for once, was incapable of action, as he gently let Phelim Burke sink into the snow, pillowed his head, and sat gazing into that scarred and branded face which was now greying in death.

In this bleak land, with the great silence of the snow barrens pressing down on the white horizon, Phelim Burke's broken body had come to its last peace. Crawford chafed the cold hands, looked once at the dark wound, and could say nothing. Then, presently, Burke's eyes fluttered open; a wistful smile came to his pallid lips, and his fingers pressed those of Crawford.

"Hal! Nay, leave the arrow be. It hurts not."

Crawford choked. This man was more to him than his own father had ever been.

"Take it not so hard, lad; why, lad, what matter?" said Burke. "I go joyful enough, be sure! The leg they broke on the rack will hurt no more. And, Hal, have ye ever known any man to live for ever? Not I."

"Oh, Phelim! If you'd not followed me here——"

"Nonsense!" Phelim Burke smiled again, though sweat dewed his cheeks. "I'll wait for ye over the last horizon, lad. Tush, now! It's little enough to die—what else ha' we lived for? If it was you, lad, ye'd go with a laugh."

"But it's you, Phelim—and I love you!"

"Ay, it's me, save the mark! And if the blessed saints will maybe lend me a hand, Hal, I'll stay with ye till the Star Woman's found. Oh, lad, I'd like to see over that horizon! Ay, I'll stay with ye, for maybe she's the woman for ye after all. Mind ye keep the Star o' Dreams safe, since it's in my mind that your fate lies in the jewel——"

His jaw fell for an instant, and he gasped. Then his eyes opened wider, and he loosed Crawford's hand and reached out at the air in front of him. His childhood's tongue came back to him for the last moment.

"It's not you that will be leaving me a long while alone, Hal—and look—look! The sun's growing brighter—duar na criosd! Oh, the bright glory of it, and little Eileen beckoning to me—oh, and she so beautiful, so beautiful——"

So Phelim Burke, smiling and with the soft Gaelic on his lips, put out his hand into the air and touched fingers with life that none other could see.

Presently Crawford looked up, and saw the Irishmen who had loved Sir Phelim standing around, tears running down their ragged beards, with Frontin and three Englishmen beside; the others were dead. "Mhuire as truagh!" burst out the Irish voices, but at that wail, Crawford came stiffly to his feet and cut short the keen cry.

"Phelim na Murtha is at peace—see you not the smile on his lips? Mourn not. Instead, divide among you what food is left. Frontin, are all the others dead?"

"All warm now, cap'n. Four of us wounded." Frontin showed a rag about his arm where a shaft had torn the flesh somewhat. "Load the guns, break for the trees—eh?"

"No," said Crawford curtly. His gaze swept around, but found only silent trees and bleak white solitude. He was trapped and helpless. "Dig a grave in the snow—it's the best we can do for poor Phelim. Wrap him in the spare furs."

"There comes that red devil down the valley, cap'n."

Crawford looked, and saw the burly figure of Maclish. Then he saw Maclish stop and fling back his head, and caught the insolent call.

"Come ye out and talk, Crawford! Bring your black dog if ye like—there's guns all trained on ye. No talk now of putting a knife in me, eh?"

Crawford beckoned to Frontin and walked out toward where Maclish stood. Desperately, he fought down his raging anger; he must keep cool at all costs. It would do no good to strike down this murderous rogue and then die at the hands of the hidden Stone Men.

"Well, say your word!" exclaimed Maclish, baring his yellow fangs. "Those young men of mine are impatient. Do you go back to Albany, or shall we finish you off?"

"I don't go back, that's certain," said Crawford, eyeing him steadily. "All I ask you is to spare those men of mine. Let them go in peace."

"So!" Maclish laughed at this. "You'd sooner stay under the snow, eh? Have it any way ye like, man. I'll be going on to find the Star Woman—hey! What deil's business is this?"

He swung around, the agile movement betraying that his brawn was all corded sinew. From the trees, near and far, were sounding sharp staccato yelps, indicating the large force of men concealed; then appeared figures leaping into sight, shouts flinging back and forth. Even Crawford comprehended that something eventful had occurred.

After a moment two Indians left the trees, starting forward toward the group. One of them was stumbling, exhausted, his snowshoes draggling as he walked. The other was obviously a chief—the chief of the Stone Men with Maclish. The Scot, who must have comprehended what the shouting meant, spat an oath and then stood frowning. Crawford, alert to snatch at whatever might turn up, waited in silence.

The two redskins came forward across the snow. The messenger panted out swift words, accompanying them by pantomime which showed that he had been drawn to this place by the smoke of Crawford's fire. That he was not one of Maclish's party was fairly evident from his manner. Maclish heard him out, heard a word from the chief, then swore fervently and looked at Crawford.

"The deil's luck! A message for ye, Crawford," he said, snarling. "This lad and two others were hunting, were caught by some Dacotah, and the others were killed. This lad was sent back with a message, and the chief says ye must have it."

"What's the message?" demanded Crawford. Maclish eyed him sullenly, but delivered it.

"That two chiefs sent by the Star Woman expect to meet ye at the Spirit Lake. News of you has gone on, eh? Now, what d'ye know of it?"

Crawford shook his head in negation. Looking from the angry Scot to the Assiniboine chief, he swiftly weighed and sifted the matter, while Frontin muttered behind him. He saw suddenly that Maclish no longer dared murder him; this direct message from the Star Woman had disturbed the Stone Men in most singular fashion—they regarded it as an interposition at a critical moment. Though foes of the Dacotah, these Stone Men greatly dreaded the Star Woman, and would not dare prevent Crawford going to meet her emissaries. At the same time, Maclish was not a man to be easily cheated of his prey.

"I'll trade with you," said Crawford. "Now listen, ye redbeard Scots rogue! For the work ye've done this day, I mean to put ye in hell—mark that well! Your Indians won't stop me now, for fear o' the Star Woman. Shall we make a bargain, or fight it out between us, here and now?"

Maclish was furious, but held his temper back. With a trade in view, no canny Scot has ever been known to lose his head.

"What's the proposition?"

"I'll go on to the Spirit Lake with you and ten of your men. We'll get this message, then settle our own quarrel. Meantime, my men are to be let go unhindered, back to the bay. They're not to be prisoners——"

"Ay." Maclish fingered his red beard, angrily. "Ay, we ha' sore need o' men at the south posts, after the way Iberville stripped us. If they'll take company service, they'll be gladly welcomed. H'm! So you and I go on alone, then?"

"And I," spoke up Frontin. Maclish darted a glance at him.

"And who are ye?"

"My friend," said Crawford. "Take the trade or leave it. After we get the message from the Star Woman, we'll settle our quarrel. I'll put ye in hell for this day's work, mind that!"

Maclish blew on his fingers and pondered. If Crawford were in a trap, Maclish certainly was in a quandary. The Scot had laid out a great programme—alliance with the Star Woman, all the Dacotah and southern trade drawn up to the bay posts, himself a great man after the manner of Henry Kelsey, a lord of the north! And now he was within actual reach of this Star Woman, provided he did not lose his head. Offend the Stone Men he dared not, and to kill Crawford now would certainly offend them.

"I'll do it," he said. "And to-morrow at the Spirit Lake I'll break your bit neck wi' my two hands! The Assiniboine chief and nine men go on with us. The others take your men back safe to the Cree country."

"Agreed."

"Then I'll talk it over wi' this pawky bird of a chief."

Maclish turned his back, beckoned the chief, and drew him somewhat to one side out of earshot. Frontin straightened up, and his hand dropped to his belt. Crawford checked him.

"No."

The dark hawk-face swept around. "Eh? With him dead——"

"No."

Crawford looked at Maclish and the chieftain, who were talking; then the Scot turned and waved his hand.

"All agreed," he said curtly. "We'll start in an hour and reach the lake by noonday to-morrow, or before."

Crawford and Frontin walked back toward their men. Presently Crawford smiled bleakly.

"With that man dead," he said, "who would pay me for the murder of Phelim Burke?"

Frontin looked a little astonished. "Death of my life! Do you want to see him at the stake, then?"

Crawford considered this. "After a fashion, yes. I want him to see himself at the stake."

"You err in the man, cap'n. I know that type, with ears so high set! He has no imagination. He is purely animal."

"Exactly," said Crawford. "Does an animal fear death? Not at all. An animal, however, invariably possesses one high quality, and that is pride!"

"Oh!" Frontin whistled softly. "Well, perhaps you are right. All the same, I tell you that this animal is dangerous."

"So am I," said Crawford. "By the way, does it occur to you that this message reached us just in time? I begin to think that the Star of Dreams is invincible."

"H'm!" Frontin scratched his chin. "Nine men back at Hudson Bay in an English post—now I wonder what's brewing in that devil's brain of yours, my friend?"

"Cortez burnt his ships behind him—I build mine," said Crawford. He clapped Frontin on the shoulder. "Well, the fool has let us live; now let him rue it! We have work to do, you and I. Let's lay Phelim Burke away—poor gallant gentleman who loved his king too well! Damnation to all kings and to all men who inherit what they have no power to earn or take!"

"That," amended Frontin cynically, "is an excellent key to the Scriptures, applicable to heaven as well as to things of this world, since one gains no free passage thither. To those who do not earn, damnation! I have no desire to be critical, my dear cap'n, but it is a pity that you do not turn your talents to theology. Heigh-ho! A queer world."

None the less, as he approached the wrapped body of Phelim Burke, Frontin crossed himself and his lips moved a little. There were gentler things inside this dark man—and crueller things too—than most other men would guess. When Phelim was laid away under the snow, and none could think of what to say above him except perhaps a paternoster and an ave, it was Frontin who spoke a few soft words which Crawford held long in his memory.

"Seigneur," said he, looking up at the sky, "where is Thy guerdon for what hath not been? Receive the soul of this man, and let the stars sing him welcome, and bid St. Michael make a place for him beside Thee; it was not his to seek the grails of pomp and power, for like Thee he knew how weak is strength, and how truth and justice fare not with the strong. Welcome him, Seigneur, for his sure faith in all the things that are not seen; and let the troublesome winds be hushed for him who was a better man than we here left behind. Curam teneamus."

"Ay," murmured Crawford. "We'll remember you, Phelim—and so shall Maclish!"

So there slept Sir Phelim Burke na Murtha, and the long ululation of his Irishmen lifted in a doleful wail of mourning among the trees.

CHAPTER II

A KNIFE DOES DIFFERENT THINGS IN DIFFERENT HANDS

IN the heart of this northland wilderness, set amid trees like a green crystal jewel, was a hard-frozen little lake, solidly rimmed in by heavy evergreens, its ice blown clear and smooth by the keen winds. To-day it was calm and deathly still; the very air seemed heavy, bitter with the doom of men, chilled by the unseen breath which struck so terribly. In the centre of the lake thrust up a tiny islet of bare and jagged rock, now blown partially grey and naked, now cloaked with masses of ice. About the edge of this islet the first ice of winter had been flung up to form fantastic ridges and caverns.

This was the Spirit Lake. In this spot, to-day, was being enacted a singular and frightful drama, the more terrible because of its uncanny certainty, its mystery, its silence and absolute precision. The lake and islet were not sacred to peace, for no spot in this land was untouched of blood; but the islet, being the abode of spirits, was shunned by common consent. The red men did not like the looks of it on general principles.

No canoe furrowed this lake in summer. Around it for league on league were to be seen neither lodge-poles of the living nor tree-scaffolds of the dead. To north and northwest roamed the Stone Men; when they came down into this country of lakes and streams to seek game, they encountered the parties of Dacotah upsurging from the south. To the east, yet keeping careful distance, roved the Crees. The Sauteurs or Chippewas also came up from the south, but these kept out of strife, standing neutral between Stone Men and Dacotah. While this islet in the Spirit Lake was a good place for young warriors to seek medicine and dream dreams, most of them preferred other quarters for this work.

It was still morning when the heavy green rim of the icebound lake gave birth to the figure of a man clad in wool capote and sash, short wide snowshoes slung over shoulder; he was followed by a second in like guise, both carrying French fusils. They were Sauteurs, belonging to a band out on winter hunt. They had no enemy to fear, yet approached the islet warily. Their reason for this approach was a faint trail across the smooth ice, a trail as of sharp caribou hooves which here and there had slipped or left distinct marks on the glassy surface.

These two hunters gradually drew closer to the islet, toward which ran the trail in a direct and undeviating line; that actual hunger drove them to follow such a trail was evident in their gaunt and famished aspect. Their eyes searched the jutting mass of ice and rock with sharp suspicion and wonder. To all appearance the islet was empty of life. Now the leading warrior drew near to the ice-rimmed shore, his brown features wrinkled by some indefinable perplexity, by a half-sensed warning. He came to the fantastic line of icy hummocks, looked down to be sure the caribou trail led into them, then slowly strode in among their masses. He vanished instantly. The second warrior stopped short, uttered a low word, put hand to fusil. Something flashed red in the air, a streak of vivid scarlet cutting athwart the blue sky. The Sauteur clutched at his throat and toppled over; he lay motionless, dead ere he struck the ice, the shaft of a crimson arrow protruding from his gullet.

Some little time elapsed. Then, although no sign of living men appeared, there was a movement at the islet's verge—something uncoiled, mounted in the air. Out toward the prostrate figure shot a thin hide rope, unlooping and flying with the certainty of a darting snake. Its noose caught on the upturned foot of the dead man. The rope drew taut, the body slowly slid in toward the shore, still tightly gripping the fusil, and there vanished from sight. All was silent again, motionless, breathless.

Presently, at a point around the lake shore where the fringe of trees opened out a little, thirteen men appeared. They doffed snowshoes and made camp, their fire-smoke rising greyly against the sky. Three of these were white men, the others Assiniboines or Stone Men; and almost immediately these latter scattered out to hunt, leaving Crawford and Frontin alone with Maclish. The three stood gazing about, scanning the lake, the quiet sky, the silent trees.

"No sign of 'em," said the Scot, scratching his pointed red beard. His whitish eyes probed the shores around, and the treetops. "Likely they'll come to us when they see our smoke. Let's find some wet wood and make a good signal."

The three turned in among the trees.

After a time, at another point around the lake, a man emerged upon the ice. He, too, was following the trail of sharp hooves; it was quite singular that such a trail should have been left, running straight to the little islet, and so he found it. He was the Assiniboine chief, and alone. Had he known that there were more than one of these caribou trails, all converging on the islet, each made with great cunning to simulate the stagger of a hurt or wounded beast, he might not have followed on—but he perceived only the one trail.

All the same, he was uneasy. He stared from ice to islet, paused now and again to touch a medicine bag at his throat, examined the open ice around him as a fox scrutinizes the openings about a bait. He slowly drew in toward the islet, showing on this side the naked rock to face the wind-blown north. He was taking no chances, either on angry spirits or maddened beasts. As he approached the shore he primed his musket afresh, narrowly examining the rocks. Little by little he drew closer, and presently leaped up to the nearest rock. One instant he stood there peering around, his figure sharply outlined against the sky—then he was gone, dragged down by some sinuous, uncoiling thing. A long cry started up, the death-yell of a chief; it was quenched midway. After that, the islet was silent again.

For some time the three white men waited about their built-up fire, which now sent a goodly column of smoke drifting upward. They were not at ease, however. Frontin was dark and snarling, Crawford moody and depressed; this contact with the man who had murdered Phelim Burke was something hard to endure. Maclish knew this, and watched them narrowly, and after a bit rose. He went to the lake shore and stood gazing out at the island. The other two exchanged a glance, then joined him.

"Shall we have a look at it?" asked Frontin. "I'd like to see the spirits there."

"Ay, let's have a look," grunted Maclish. Crawford assented silently.

The three men started off across the smooth, glistening ice. All three were bareheaded, having doffed their furs, for now the winter chill was out of the air.

If this were gone, there was another sort of chill which reached them before half the distance to the islet was covered. Crawford, in the lead, felt it and knew that the others were also touched by the same perturbation. Perhaps it came from the tales of the red men, perhaps from some sixth sense; at all events, that silent mass of rock and ice imparted a strangely weird and uncanny impression. The feeling that unseen eyes watched them was acute. Two-thirds of the way to the island, Frontin suddenly halted.

"Me, I do not like this," he exclaimed. "If the trail were covered, it were better. Prime your gun, cap'n."

Crawford half turned. His moccasined foot slipped on the ice, and he fell heavily on hands and knees. Maclish grunted with swift malice.

"A bad omen for ye." Then the words died in a gasp of surprise.

Crawford rose. He fumbled at his breast, where a splendid thing now glittered. That fall had shaken from inside his coat the star which he wore there on a thong. He held it up, examining it to see if the jewel had suffered; the raw gold, the massy emeralds, glinted and glimmered in the afternoon sunlight. Maclish stared in speechless wonder; it was his first sight of the thing, his first indication that Crawford bore such a treasure.

Maclish was not the only one to stare. From the islet ahead rang out a sharp exclamation, and the three men looked up. They saw a queer creature standing there on the rocks gazing at them—a tall Indian, over whose head was flung the skull and robe of a bison, the fur cloaking his body. At that grotesque and horned apparition all three gazed, transfixed.

"Come!" To their still greater astonishment, the crested figure spoke in French. "Smoke the calumet. Come!"

Crawford could not tell whether this were an invitation or not, but he comprehended that sight of the star at his throat had brought the apparition.

"Kola! Friend!" said that singular creature perched against the blue sky, and flung out empty hands. "The Star Woman sent us to meet you. Come."

Then the figure vanished. The islet was bare and empty again.

"No spirit, but a trap," said Frontin, first to recover speech. "There are our messengers—and have a care, cap'n!"

"Deil take me," snorted Maclish, "but yon man spoke French! From the south, belike."

"Of course," said Crawford quietly. "Frontin, wait here with the muskets. It's no trap, but we'll not take chances." He passed his musket to Frontin. "Coming with me, Maclish?"

"Oh, ay."

Crawford resumed his course, Maclish at his elbow. Between these two men had passed few words since the previous day. Hatred lay between them, and fear. Maclish was a subtle and a canny man, but he could not fathom the stern silence and self-control of Crawford. Nor had the latter missed certain indications which warned him that Maclish was even now carrying on some treacherous game. The Stone Men had sent up lengthy smoke-signals which he could not read, and messengers had departed. It was tacitly understood that after meeting the Dacotah envoys, the quarrel between the two men would be settled—Maclish doubtless counting on murdering both Frontin and Crawford.

Now, gaining the shore ice, Crawford passed in among the hummocks, gained the rocks beyond, and mounted them. He heard Maclish coming to his side, and then jumped down. It was a hideous scene which greeted the two men, a scene which could not fail to give the impression intended.

Here was a hollow among the rocks, and in the centre of it a blackened space of old fires showing that the Dacotah envoys had been camped here for some little time. In the centre of this blackened area now blazed a fire of a few dry sticks—a very tiny fire, without smoke or heat, serving only to keep the red spark of life in being. Across from this fire sat in grave silence the man who had summoned them, his face streaked with white and vermilion under the horned bison robe; with him was a second man who wore the head and pelt of a grey timber wolf in similar fashion. Both of them regarded Crawford and Maclish with steady scrutiny—but the two white men were staring hard at the lifeless things behind the two Dacotah.

These had been men, all six of them. Two Sauteurs, three Crees, and the Assiniboine chief of Maclish's party; they were dead, sitting in frozen silence as though watching the council fire, cunningly placed soon after death so that their rigid bodies assumed the sitting posture naturally. They had not been scalped. Only the horrible fixedness of eye and sinew betrayed their condition. A cry of fury broke from Maclish at sight of the chieftain.

"I'll have your scalps for this, ye rogues!"

"My brothers are welcome," said the bison-chief in French. "We do not understand the strange talk that is like the crackling of dried leaves."

"You'll understand it soon enough," retorted Maclish, in groping and barbarous French, and added an oath. "You've murdered the chief!"

Crawford, inwardly laughing at all this, struck in smoothly. The fact that these chiefs spoke French, which was obviously difficult for Maclish, was a godsend.

"This man is an Englishman," and he gestured toward Maclish, who was purple with fury. "He is my enemy, and leads the Stone Men. He seeks the Star Woman, and so do I. Presently he and I will settle our quarrel. We await your message."

"That is good," said the Dacotah. "Standing Bull and Yellow Sky have brought belts from the Star Woman. We are of the nation of The Men, the Issanti clan of the Dacotah. The Star Woman ordered us to meet in this fashion the white man who came to seek her, and to give him the belts. We have waited long. Now we do not understand who is to receive these belts. It was said that the white man was an Englishman, having red hair."

At these words Crawford started slightly. It was true that his hair was a reddish brown.

Maclish did not comprehend all that was said, between his poor command of French and his overpowering rage. Crawford, however, made a swift and shrewd guess that the message from the Star Woman was not a nice one; remembering the token she had sent Moses Deakin, he resolved to gamble heavily on this presumed fact. Now, as Standing Bull produced a calumet and a bag of willow bark, Maclish spat hot words at him.

"I will not smoke with you! Am I to smoke with you while the eyes of that dead chief reproach me?"

"The calumet has not been offered you," was the calm response. "We do not smoke with Englishmen, who are enemies of our brothers the French. Which of you is to receive the belts?"

Crawford intervened with precision.

"This man Red Bull seeks to marry the Star Woman and to carry her off among the Stone Men. It is to him that your belts are sent. I am an Irishman. With me is my friend, who is a Frenchman. I will call him."

This drew an approving grunt of surprise and pleasure. "Was-te! Was-te!" The burly Scot, with the game thus taken out of his hands, scowled. Crawford touched his arm.

"Watch yourself, Maclish! There may be other Dacotah stationed among the rocks, so go slowly. Their message seems to be for you." He lifted his voice and called. "Ho, Frontin! Leave the guns and come along."

"You will see that I speak truly," he said to the two chiefs. "My medicine has sent me to meet you, that you may take me with you to seek the Star Woman. I shall go with you, and her heart will be glad. Look, here is my medicine!"

He laid bare the star of gold and emeralds, and at closer sight of this Star of Dreams, astonishment seized the two red men. Obviously, they had heard that the man seeking the Star Woman carried this jewel; they were visibly shaken by sight of it, knowing not what to say or do. Its effect upon them was profound, and it also plunged them into perplexity.

Now Frontin came scrambling over the rocks, and their eyes shifted to him. When he spoke in French, they grunted in recognition.

"Death of my life!" said he coolly, looking at the dead men. "This is a pretty scene!"

"Join me and smoke." Crawford seated himself opposite the Dacotah. The younger of these leaned forward and pointed at the star.

"What is the name of this medicine? Why does not the Red Bull wear it?"

Crawford laughed slightly and evaded. "It is the Star of Dreams, and it came to me from afar, in order to lead me to the Star Woman."

There was in his voice a certain surety which was impressive—for he himself had now come to believe in this jewel. This sincerity made itself felt as no mere words would have done.

Yet the gamble was a stiff one; and had not Maclish been so fumbling with his French, the affair might have gone otherwise, for the Scot was nobody's fool. He, however, comprehending that the message had somehow been turned to him, mastered his anger and once more became the coolly dangerous rascal. Seating himself, he growled that he would accept the belts which had been sent.

Crawford now waited to see whether the calumet would be offered him. He was confident that this acquiescence from Maclish had settled the matter of the message, but he depended on the two Dacotah to get him and Frontin safely away, as he had implied to them. Sight of the Star of Dreams had confused the whole issue for the two chieftains.

They were in no haste, those redskins; this affair was so extraordinary that they were somewhat at a loss. Finally Standing Bull got the pipe stuffed, and held a brand to it. When the pipe was lighted, he puffed ceremoniously to the winds, the sun and the earth. His companion did likewise—and the pipe was then handed to Crawford.

So far, the game was won.

While Frontin smoked in turn, then handed the pipe back, Maclish sat waiting, intent and narrow-eyed, fully aware by this time of his own impotence. The pipe was refused him, and he knew what this meant; It was doubtful if the Stone Men were yet aware that the three whites had gone to the islet. Maclish would be in sharp jeopardy unless he were careful, so the burly Scot bottled up his anger and settled down to play his game.

Laying aside the pipe, Standing Bull now came to his feet. He put a hand beneath his robe and produced a belt of ordinary porcelain trade-beads, which he dropped at the feet of Maclish.

"This belt," he began, "says that the Star Woman has heard of your search for her. It says that her manitou does not love Englishmen, who are allies of the Iroquois and enemies of our father Onontio at Montreal."

Standing Bull produced a second belt of the same material, turned to the circle of dead men, and laid that belt across the knees of the Assiniboine chieftain, whom he addressed.

"This second belt is for the Stone Men; let their eyes look upon it, let their ears be opened to it! It says that their manitou is bad, and therefore the Star Woman has punished them. It says that they have done wrong to befriend the English, for the Dacotah people have a French father."

Now, turning back to Maclish, Standing Bull produced a third belt—not of white porcelain this time, but a flaming crimson belt of valuable wampum shells, which he dropped before the Scot.

"This third belt is for you, Red Bull. It says: 'You cannot go farther; the trail is closed against you. The Star Woman knows your people for bad men and does not desire to look upon your face. Go back. If you come farther your scalp will be dried in the lodges of The Men, your skin will be stretched on the bark wall of the council house; your manzakawan, your iron tube in which dwells a spirit, will sit in the lodge of the above the lake of many stars, and will spit no more bullets.' I have spoken."

Standing Bull seated himself and drew his robe about his knees.

For a long moment, Maclish was absolutely beyond words with torrential fury. He saw now that he had been tricked into receiving these belts, which had been meant for Crawford. More, the Dacotah were openly hostile to him and friendly to Crawford, while he himself was trapped and helpless on this islet. A slight stir among the rocks betokened that at least one other redskin lay hidden. His red features whitened and became almost livid, then crimsoned again. His breath came hoarsely. Yet he tried to master himself, his big bearded jaw jutting forth, his hands clenched until the knuckles showed white. The effort succeeded.

He moved, stirred his broad bulk, opened his wool coat and flung it off. One hand went out to the red wampum belt and drew it in; the other went to his belt and produced a long knife. With a swift motion he drove the knife through the centre of the wampum belt, which he twisted about the haft; he flung belt and knife at the feet of Standing Bull.

"There is my answer to the Star Woman," he said, and with an angry laugh rose to his feet. "So her lodge is pitched at the lake of many stars? Good. I shall come and take her as my squaw. The Stone Men shall dance with your scalps and put you into the kettle, taking your women as slaves. That is my response. As for this rascal," and he whirled on Crawford with a baleful glare, "stand up and fight, ye vagabond rogue! Settle our affairs, as ye said, and I'll crop your ears for ye."

Crawford rose, his face very bleak and hard.

"Fight? Who said fight?" he demanded, giving Maclish a cool stare. "I've no intention of fighting with you. I said we'd settle our business—ay! But we'll not fight."

The Scot stared at him, amazed, jaw fallen in sheer astonishment.

"Eh, man? But——"

Swift as light, his careless attitude giving no warning of his intention, Crawford swung on his heel and drove his fist into the pit of the big man's stomach. It was a terrific blow, with body weight behind it. Caught all astare and unsuspecting, Maclish grunted as the breath was smashed out of him. An expression of mute agony swept into his face, and he slowly toppled forward, gasping and senseless.

"Was-te!" came the guttural approval of the two chiefs. Crawford, standing above the unconscious Maclish, looked at them for a moment.

"The star fights for me. Will you take us with you or not?"

"Our brother Wandering Star shall go with us, and his friend."

"This is a red bull who never gives up," and Crawford stirred the senseless Maclish with his toe. "He will lead the Stone Men after us."

"Let my brother drink his blood," said Standing Bull.

"The time for that has not come. Later on I shall kill him, but first I shall put my mark upon him, so that all men may know that he belongs to me. If he does follow us, the Dacotah will capture him, then I shall take him and kill him."

Crawford did not scrutinize the brown faces as he said this, or he might have noted that the chiefs showed no great delight in his prediction. He took out his knife and stooped over Maclish. With deliberation, he slit the skin on that sweating, agonized forehead; when he had finished, the Scot was branded with a five-pointed star. It bled copiously.

"He has lived well, the bleeding will give him strength," said Frontin cynically. "You mistake, cap'n, not to put the knife into his heart. He promised to crop your ears."

"Let him live with this brand on him," said Crawford. "I shall find him again."

Frontin shrugged. The two red men rose and bestirred themselves. From among the rocks came a third warrior, bearing a pack of dried meat. When the three had obtained snowshoes and warbags, they took the short forest snowshoes belonging to the two dead Sauteurs, and gave these to their white companions. Frontin retrieved the muskets he had left at the shore.

"Come, my brothers!" said Standing Bull. "Even if they see us go, the Stone Men will not follow us—until after they have found their chief."

Crawford followed them to the edge of the islet, on the side farthest from the camp of the Stone Men. There, as all five came to the open ice, with the islet to cover them from sight of Maclish's men, Frontin suddenly halted.

"I'll be along in a moment, don't wait," he said, then darted back and vanished among the rocks.

The others went on. They were halfway across the open ice to the shore, when Crawford saw Frontin running and sliding after them. He was wiping his knife as he came, and Crawford turned upon him with an angry look. Frontin laughed and made answer to the tacit question.

"No, my cap'n! I did no more than crop the rogue's ears," and with this he flung two small objects on the ice. "I, too, loved Phelim Burke a little."

There were strange things beneath the shell of this dark Frontin.

CHAPTER III

TWO TRAILS MAY HAVE THE SAME END

DURING the following week, Crawford's knowledge of the Star Woman remained exactly where it had been. The Dacotah refused to talk, being troubled and uneasy in spirit. All five men were in fast and furious flight, acute peril pricking them on; although they had left the Spirit Lake safely, the Stone Men were hard on their heels. That Maclish had tricked them all, was fully appreciated.

The Dacotah envoys were not happy in the event; perhaps, under the leaden skies, they suspected that their belts had been delivered amiss. With the passing days, they began to regret some things and to ponder others. Storm had been gathering for days. The last of winter was in the air; the moon of the carp passed into that of the crane, the snow-crust was disintegrating underfoot, and the black tempest might be of either snow or rain. The Dacotah were praying for this storm to burst and save them, yet it held off—and they now considered their peril as a punishment for bringing Crawford with them.

It was not until after this week of hard marching that they took counsel with Crawford and Frontin. Both these latter were thoroughly alive to the situation. The sudden changes of direction, the spurts of speed, the stratagems, all showed that the Dacotah were desperately striving to fling off the encircling enemy whose signal smokes rose now and again into the leaden sky. Hampered by their slower companions, the efforts of the Dacotah were futile.

When Standing Bull broke his silence, it was at the evening camp after a stiff day of marching. Overhead was lowering storm, with pines and cedars all amoan in the darkness. Crawford had lost all sense of direction, had not glimpsed a soul outside their own party, and had no idea of his whereabouts; but about noon he had seen two signal-smokes to their right, and was not blind to the angry nervousness of the red men. And Standing Bull, having come to the point of speech, delivered a word that was blunt enough.

"Let my brothers open their ears," he said abruptly. "We have helped them; without our aid the Stone Men would have danced their scalps. We have done as we promised. If Wandering Star had killed the Red Bull, the Stone Men would not now be on our trail."

Crawford shrugged. Standing Bull gravely continued.

"Among the hills at the sacred lake of many stars, lives the Star Woman. She has spent the winter there with five lodges of my young men, who seek medicine before being admitted to the brotherhoods. Here is the lake," and to represent it, he drew a circle in the snow. "That lies half a moon's journey from this place." To indicate their present position, he drew a cross, orientating the diagram. "The Spirit Lake, where my brothers came to meet us, lies here." He completed his map with a black cinder, which formed a rude triangle with the other points.

This mute witness in the snow spoke eloquently enough. Crawford saw that instead of heading straight from the Spirit Lake to the Star Woman, they had come far to the south. The reason for this circumlocution was now shown by a flint which the chief took from his French firebag and laid down—the flint standing for the Assiniboines or Stone Men, who had driven the party well off their direct course.

"Death of my life, but he should be royal cartographer!" exclaimed Frontin admiringly. "I thought that accursed Maclish was a tricky rogue. When he agreed to take us to the Spirit Lake with ten men, the sly fox tricked us—he brought down the whole pack of Assiniboines on our heels!"

Crawford nodded, and caught an assenting gleam in the eyes of the chief. Standing Bull resumed his exposition of affairs, and swept a brown finger in the snow, well to the southward.

"Here is the country of The Men. The Spirit Woman lives far from us; she is a friend of all people, and many tribes send to her for healing or counsel. I have spent the winter in her lodge with my young men, hunting for her needs and trapping castor for the French posts. Now I must go to her swiftly with Old Bear, here," and he indicated the third Dacotah, who was a young man despite his name. "The trail must now be forked in three ways. I go ahead with Old Bear, because my brothers cannot travel fast. Here to the south must go Yellow Sky, seeking the villages of my people, to bring a war-party against the Stone Men."

"Oh!" Crawford perceived that he and Frontin were abandoned. "And what about us?"

Standing Bull touched Crawford's shirt, beneath which hung the Star of Dreams.

"My brother's manitou is strong. It will protect him."

Crawford's lips twitched ironically. Frontin broke into a gay laugh of mirth.

"Well touched, cap'n! Those buccaneers of Joppa said the same thing when they pitched Jonah overboard, eh? Well, they were right; and I am not so sure but that the chief here is also right!"

Crawford ignored this comment, and also disdained to argue with the Dacotah. These, obviously, were determined to abandon the white men and flee. Since one was heading south to raise a war-party, the danger must be pressing indeed. Their resolve angered him, yet he was helpless before it.

"Very well, I'll trust to the star," he said. "How shall we find this lake of many stars, since we do not know this country at all? According to this diagram, it lies northwest of us; but there are no trails in the wilderness."

"Your medicine is very strong, it will whisper in your ear," said the chief sententiously. "It will confuse the Stone Men and throw them off your trail. It will guide you——"

Crawford lost his temper at this.

"You are not warriors, but women; may the foul fiend fly away with you! Go, and the sooner the better."

Somewhat to his consternation, Standing Bull and the other two redskins instantly took him at his word; they were very close to panic. The three caught up their packs, pulled their snowshoes from the snow, and in two minutes had melted away into the darkness.

Frontin, slow to comprehend that the Dacotah were actually departing, stared after them, then burst into a storm of bitter oaths.

"Why, the scurvy rogues mean to follow along the ice of that little river below us—leaving the enemy to swoop down on our trail in the snow! Unless we go the same way."

Crawford nodded. The Dacotah, frightened, were leaving the whites as a scalp-gift to the Stone Men; the danger, then, was imminent. He stared with sombre eyes over his pipe into the tiny fire-glow, then began to study that diagram in the snow.

"At least, they got us away from Maclish and his men," he said. "See, now! We must strike to the northwest until we reach hills; that's clear enough. This frozen river below us comes from the northwest or runs that way—sink me if I can tell which. We must take to the ice."

"And trail the Dacotah?"

"No; they'll cover their trail. Undoubtedly Maclish tricked us smoothly. When Standing Bull laid that belt over the knees of the dead Assiniboine chief, he declared war. Crafty Maclish will make the most of that, be sure! If he can persuade them to capture the Star Woman and bring the Dacotah to terms, he may yet win his game and be a second Kelsey. Well, I wish we were out of this accursed ice and snow! Winter lasts forever in this land."

"We'll be out of it when the storm breaks——"

"Unless the storm brings snow. Sly fellows, those Dacotahs! If snow comes, their tracks are covered, while we are lost. Suppose we dine."

The decamping redskins had left a fair share of dried meat, with two rabbits which hung over the fire. Crawford and Frontin quieted their hunger, then lighted pipes and smoked in silence. Crawford fully realized the difficulty of finding the Star Woman in this wilderness; the very thought was oppressive, hopeless. A fortnight of snow-travel was not only vague, but implied great distances.

"I made a mistake," he said, and at this admission Frontin shot him a look. "When I left Maclish alive, I took for granted that the Star Woman lived among the Dacotah, or close to them. So, as Maclish was bound to follow us, the future looked safe. As it now turns out, nothing is certain. Well, no matter! Have you any idea of what the month might be? I've quite lost track."

Frontin held a brand to his pipe. Then he held his hand up in air and waited a moment.

"The month is April," he said, so positively that Crawford regarded him in surprise.

"How do you know?"

"A snowflake came down on my hand, and was rain before it more than touched the skin."

A slight hiss from the embers emphasized the words, and Crawford straightened up. The storm was indeed close at hand. From the dark forest was coming a queer stir and rustle, then Crawford felt the touch of snow on his cheek. He leaped to his feet.

"Quick—our chance! If those rascals had only waited! In another hour it will be raining. Get our stuff together; we must travel along the ice until we can't lift a foot! If we go fast and far enough, the trail will be covered."

"Ah!" said Frontin. "I have just recollected something important."

"What, then?" said Crawford impatiently.

"When Standing Bull delivered that belt to Maclish, he stated where the Star Woman lived—and the red Scot caught the words."

"What of it?"

"Nothing." Frontin rose, shrugged, and smiled thinly, "These stiff moccasins! But better stiff shoes than stiff toes. Ready—belay all! I'd give a year of life to be on the ocean again."

The two men started into the darkness, feeling their way by the broken trail which the Dacotah had left. Ten minutes later they had gained the open sweep of the river below, while slushy rain pelted them and the storm burst with a rush and a wild howl.

Until past midnight they pushed on, following the river-ice; then, too spent to crawl another rod and soaked to the skin, they curled up beneath a dripping spruce and slept in utter exhaustion until the grey dawn broke. Once more forward, along the trail of the river under driving squalls of cold rain, until by afternoon they were forced to leave this easy road. The heavy rainfall, combined with sluices of melted snow from the hillsides, formed a knee-deep stream above the ice and sent them staggering through slushy snow toward higher ground. There, amid a thick copse of trees, they dared to kindle a fire with the rusty heart of a dead birch and some dry wood from beneath an old stump; and made a shelter of boughs.

Here for two days they remained, miserable and half starved, having lost part of their meagre supplies. Further progress was impossible; the storm continued with unabated fury, pouring down wet snow or flooding all things with blinding rain. Every ravine was a foaming torrent, the lower ground was a vast morass; muskegs had become lakes, and the higher ground was still sticky with half-melted drifts of snow. A six-month of winter does not vanish in three days of rain. Their sole consolation was that the trail was swept away, and the enemy could be in no better situation. No sign of human life was visible. Finally, on the fourth morning the skies had emptied themselves, the sun came out strong and glorious, and the soaked forest began to steam. With their last food gone, the two men broke camp and set forth.

All that morning they pushed steadily toward the northwest, following a long rolling ridge which walled the valley. Sharply as they scanned sky and horizon, closely as they searched the green-banked treecrests and the farther slopes, they could detect no indication of life, no greyish trickle of ascending smoke. Yet it was unthinkable that Maclish would give up his pursuit.

Early in the afternoon Crawford, desperate for food and confident that the enemy were left far behind, knocked over a rabbit with his musket, the shot sending mighty echoes from the trees. Half an hour later the two men built a cautious fire and made shift to cook the rabbit in the heart of a fir-thicket. Hunger partially appeased, they lighted pipes and rested while their outer moccasins, moss-stuffed, dried by the fire embers. Over his pipe Frontin evinced a growing uneasiness, and at last growled out an oath.

"I think the loneliness of this accursed wilderness has crept into my brain. I have the feeling that eyes are watching us."

Crawford flung him a sharp look. "Any reason for it?"

"None."

"We've scouted well, and the woods are open enough. If we were in Mohawk land," added Crawford thoughtfully, "it would be different; but these northern Indians are not Iroquois, and don't know how to work in Iroquois fashion."

"But they are no fools, as we know to our cost." Frontin swept the trees around with his fierce hawk-like gaze. At this instant Crawford caught the distinct "click" of a fusil brought to cock; and from close at hand a voice addressed them in French.

"Have my brothers never heard who taught the dogs of Iroquois how to hunt? Let them look through the forest. Perhaps they will see the chief of the Wolf nation."

Both men leaped to their feet. They stood gazing about, searching the trees yet finding nothing. Save for the shadowed leaf-play of the evergreens, nothing moved in the sunshine. A low laugh sounded; then, not twenty feet distant, appeared the tall figure of an Indian who stood carefully uncocking his fusil. For a moment he regarded them in amusement, keenly gratified by their puzzled alarm, then advanced toward them. He was an old, gaunt, erect redskin of great dignity. He was unpainted, naked to the waist save for crossed baldricks which carried firebag, bullets and horn. His head was shaven to a grizzled scalplock.

"My brothers are Frenchmen; that is good," he said gravely. "My father Metaminens, who is ill, heard the sound of a gun. He sent Le Talon, a war-chief of the Wolf nation, to see who fired that gun. Come! Metaminens will smoke with you, if he is awake."

Crawford was pardonably astonished. He knew that the Loups, whom the English called Mohegans, were an almost extinct tribe, divided in allegiance between Iroquois and French. What any of them were doing in this country was problematical; also, this Le Talon conveyed in his manner an extraordinary impression. He was no common warrior.

"He wears a crucifix at his girdle," commented Frontin. "You'll go?"

"Of course." Crawford addressed the Mohegan chief. "Has Le Talon seen anything of other men near by?" A shake of the head made answer, and Crawford continued. "We are pursued by the Stone Men. The storm has thrown them off, but if they pick up our trail, it will mean danger to you and your father Metaminens."

The wrinkled brown face of the old warrior flashed in a quick, scornful laugh.

"One who has taken many Iroquois scalps does not fear wandering dogs of the west. Our camp is not a mile from here. Do you come?"

Crawford nodded, and signed for the chief to lead the way. As he and Frontin fell in behind, he flung a quick word at his friend.

"All these Mohegans are wandering devils, loving intrigue and war above aught else, and we can't afford to pass by the chance. They may know this country, or may be glad to come with us. Besides, there is an air of mystery about this chief."

"And who has more curiosity than a woman—unless it be a man?" said Frontin ironically.

Crawford soon found himself hard taxed to keep the pace set by the old Mohegan chief, who glided among the trees like a shadow, making no more sound than a shadow, and whose flitting figure had all the mottled impermanence of a shadow as it passed from opening to opening. These Mohegans were beyond question friends; probably hunters or traders who had wandered up from the French posts on Lake Superior or the Mississippi.

When it came to fighting or trailing, two of them would be worth more than a score of Crees.

Presently the old chieftain lifted his head and flung up a sharp wolf-howl.

"That is my brother Chaudiere Noire," he grunted, as a response came from farther ahead. "Black Kettle waits at the fire of our father Metaminens."

Three Mohegans, then! So much the better, thought Crawford, knowing what grim warriors were these men whom even the Mohawks deemed worthy of adoption and alliance. Their very presence in this wilderness was proof of their worth.

Presently they came to a rivulet which ran thigh-deep with icy water. Plunging through this torrent of melted snow, Le Talon came to an abrupt halt on the farther brink. From the bushes above him emerged a figure, stripped to the waist, scalplock greased, face painted; this was Black Kettle, a younger man than his companion. He spoke briefly to Le Talon.

The sickness is on Metaminens. He sleeps. Be careful not to waken him."

Crawford made a sign of assent, then followed Black Kettle and Le Talon into a marshy thicket of spruce saplings, where the muskeg quivered like jelly underfoot. In the midst of this thicket, perfectly screened from all discovery, was a brush shelter covering a blanketed figure. Caribou meat hung drying over a small fire. Packs of goods were near by.

All four halted to gaze at the sick man. Crawford stepped forward—then repressed an exclamation of amazement. This man, whom the Mohegans in their own fashion of speech had termed "father," was a white man! Now, in the midst of his amazement, Crawford caught a mutter of feverish delirium from the invalid, and turned. He drew Le Talon to one side and spoke quietly, swiftly, Frontin joining them.

"What does this mean? Who is this man?"

"He is Metaminens," was the surprised response. "In the great lodge of Onontio at Montreal he is called Sieur Nicholas Perrot, but throughout the frontier he is Metaminens—Little Indian Corn—the bringer of peace whose canoe is always filled with ransomed captives. Who are you, that you have not heard this name?"

"I have heard it," said Crawford, and dark Frontin whistled softly.

Heard it, indeed! Who had not heard that name, so blackly cursed by the English, so adoringly reverenced by voyageur and engagé of the French! And here, delirious and helpless, beyond aid or comfort, lay the explorer and first opener of the west, the man who had saved to Canada all her western empire—the famous Nicholas Perrot.

"We must get him out of here at once," said Crawford decisively. "In this marsh he will die, for fever is on him. Give us some food and we will talk."

They were soon wolfing some of the caribou meat. Crawford had already made up his mind what course to take, for it was impossible to abandon Sieur Perrot. So the four men squatted at one side of the little opening among the trees, and Crawford talked.

He told the Mohegans how he had come hither and what he sought, showed them the star at his throat, spoke briefly as possible—for the afternoon was fast drawing on. He was startled by the utter stupefaction of the two redskins at his words; sight of the Star of Dreams brought a wondering awe into their eyes. They were far too courteous to interrupt him, however, and sat in grave silence while he told them the present situation; none the less, a certain blaze of excitement was in their eyes.

"We must take instant decision," he concluded. "Sieur Perrot is in grave danger here, both from fever and from the Stone Men. Are other men with you? Is any post near by?"

"No," said Le Talon. "We are in strange country. We came from Montreal, with Metaminens."

"Last summer?"

"No. We came by canoe to the Nottawasaga, for the streams were open. Here in the north they were closed, and we came on by the ice to this spot."

Crawford stared at them. "A journey before the rivers were open—why, it was madness! What caused your trip? What is Sieur Perrot doing in this country?"

The two Mohegans glanced at each other, exchanged a nod, and Le Talon continued. In the brown faces was a quiet excitement, an air of keen suspense.

"Long years ago, before my father Metaminens carried a grey scalplock, he met a woman in the lodges of the Dacotah. In those days Metaminens was Commandant of the West, and ruled for Onontio. Also, he was a chief among the Dacotah; he was the first white man to visit them and bring them trade. Now Metaminens is old, and his scalplock is grey. His manitou has whispered to him that he must seek this woman again. We, his children, came with him. That is all."

Crawford frowned, guessing that the chief was leading up to some surprise.

"A woman? But the lodges of the Dacotah are not in this direction!"

"Metaminens seeks the Star Woman," said Le Talon bluntly.

A sardonic smile touched the lips of Frontin. Crawford, after a slight start of surprise, regarded the Mohegans; in their intent gaze he read a vivid eagerness, a breathless suspense—for they were waiting to see how this tale would affect him.

That they told the truth was indubitable. He could not question the fact, incredible as it seemed—Perrot, like himself, had come seeking this Star Woman! More, it appeared that Sieur Perrot had actually known her in days past. Well, that was possible enough; he knew that this explorer had been the one to tell Iberville about the Star Woman. And at this, a sudden wonder seized upon him.

"Metaminens told about this Star Woman to Pierre le Moyne d'Iberville," he said slowly. "And Iberville told me—hence I am here. A strange business, a strange business!"

The Indians stared at him in awe, knowing well the name of Iberville and the man himself; but Frontin laughed softly, thinly.

"Strange? Not at all, cap'n! Mort de ma vie, we are going to have some interesting times ahead, you and I and Perrot—and Maclish!"

Crawford frowned darkly.

CHAPTER IV

HE WHO DENIES THE INCREDIBLE DENIES GOD

IN the silence that followed spoke up Black Kettle, who was less restrained than the elder chief.

"If the Star Woman knew that Metaminens came to seek her, then her heart would be glad. She would send her spirit to make him well. She would send her young men to meet him."

At this hint, Crawford woke up. Why not, indeed? He seized the opening and asserted himself, for that was Hal Crawford's way. His orders were decisive, and were entirely unquestioned, for the Mohegans were accustomed to the guidance of a white man.

"Good. Two of us must remain here to move camp and tend Sieur Perrot; that will be perilous enough. The other two must travel to the Star Woman and send back her young men to help, and this will be equally dangerous. Settle between yourselves which is to go. Frontin, you understand the affair? Clip two sticks and arrange it. Long stick goes, short stays here. There must be no delay."

Frontin comprehended perfectly. There was no question of abandoning the helpless Perrot, the Mohegans were invaluable allies, and a separation was inevitable. Either of them, with one of the Mohegans, could reach the Star Woman in half the time it would otherwise take them.

Frontin whipped out his knife, clipped two twigs, and prepared them. He enclosed them in his hand with the ends showing even, and held them out. Crawford leaned forward and drew one. Frontin opened his hand and showed the other—and both were of equal length. At this, the two Mohegans laughed softly.

"All right, old friend," said Crawford. "I choose to stay."

Frontin leaped up. "Which of you goes with me, Loups?"

"I go." Le Talon rose. "My brother Black Kettle has hurt his foot. Come!"

The two shook their powder-horns, examined firebags, divided meat and bullets. In five minutes they were ready.

"Take care of the star, cap'n," said Frontin. Then he added, in his assumed cynicism, "Ora pro nobis!"

The next moment, with a wave of his hand, he vanished among the trees in the wake of Le Talon. The two were gone.

Crawford and Black Kettle fell hastily to work, since there was much to be done ere nightfall. Perrot, fast bound in fever, was tossing and moaning. After locating a sheltered and hidden spot on a hillside, they carried him to it; there was a bed of pine boughs to be laid, a shelter to be constructed, precious dry wood to be uncovered and collected. The packs had to be moved and the fire-embers transferred. In all this Black Kettle was at a disadvantage, for he had twisted his ankle badly and walking was painful.

Crawford resigned himself to this delay, the more easily because of the singular coincidence which had brought him and Perrot together. Or was it coincidence? He had come from the northeast, Perrot from the southeast, roughly aiming at a mutual point; why, then, should they not have met before reaching that point? It was natural enough.

During two full days he devoted himself to caring for the sick man. Black Kettle scouted and reported no sign of any foe in forest or on horizon. During these two days, Crawford pondered the reason for Perrot's presence here. The Mohegan explanation, that his manitou had impelled the action, was absolutely accurate; but Crawford was slow to accept it. Sieur Perrot was an example of the ingratitude of princes, since he occupied no position in Canada. He had no official reason to be here, then.

These thirty years, Nicholas Perrot had sowed where other men had reaped. No other Frenchman had his influence among the western tribes. His very name of Little Indian Corn spoke of the godhead with which the Green Bay tribes had endowed this first white man to come among them. Since 1665 he had blazed the trails where others walked to wealth and fame. To the red men, he was always known as the sun-bringer. Where others fanned hot sparks of wrath, Perrot had made peace, composed quarrels, kept the tribes in alliance to Onontio. And now he sought the Star Woman—why? In the end, Crawford renewed this question to Black Kettle, and received a story whose implications left him thoughtful.

"My brother, I will tell you what I know," said the Mohegan gravely. "It is now more than thirty winters since my father Metaminens went among the Iowa and the Dacotah nations. There he met this Star Woman, who saved his life. What passed between them, I do not know. My father Metaminens saw her only once or twice, yet he has often spoken of her. My brother, there are two roads open to every man, of which the one ends always, soon or late, at the grave; but Metaminens has never followed that road. Does my brother understand?"

Crawford nodded. He was startled by the unexpected depth of thought in this redskin, by the dignified significance of these last words. Black Kettle continued.

"Always the Star Woman has sent her manitou to watch over Metaminens. Perhaps he met her again in the west, when he was Commandant; I do not know. He has often told of how her spirit saved him from danger, how her influence was exerted to help him in time of trouble, how her power among the western tribes aided him. No other white man has seen the Star Woman. This is all I know."

Was this some old romance, then? Crawford frowned thoughtfully.

"Do you know what this Star Woman looks like?"

"She has hair of gold, and blue eyes, and wears a great star of blue stones."

An exclamation of astonishment burst from Crawford. Thus had Moses Deakin described his vision in the witch-fluid! Yet it was impossible that he should have seen her thus, exactly as Perrot had seen her thirty years ago. No, undoubtedly he had heard Perrot's description of her—this would account for the seeming wonder.

Crawford slept upon the matter, and in the morning found himself still perplexed. He looked at Perrot, found the latter sleeping easily and naturally. Black Kettle had been gone for an hour or more, seeking fresh meat, and Crawford now stole away to get a new stock of wood, which had to be chosen carefully if the fire were to be smokeless.

In half an hour he returned with his burden. He dropped this by the fire, straightened up—and found Perrot on one elbow, staring at him. Those clear and penetrating eyes, looking out at him from the white-bearded face, were sane. Crawford poured out some hot broth, and knelt beside the invalid.

"This first, then talk if you must," he said. Perrot obeyed, then sank back and scrutinized him in frank wonder. Crawford lighted his pipe and sat down.

"Where are the Mohegans?" demanded Perrot.

Crawford puffed and considered this question, which contained many unuttered queries. His patient was weak, but well enough to talk, and would only fret if left unanswered. So Crawford began to speak, and went on to relate the most essential parts of his own tale. While he talked, the gaze of Perrot devoured him and mirrored the man's inner mind; the Frenchman passed from amazement to incredulity, and then to a slow but still more amazed credence.

In his younger days this man, who by dint of his personality alone had conquered whole tribes, who had walked unarmed into a council-lodge of hostile Ottawas and had taken captives from the very torture stake, had shown himself a very Odysseus in craft and guile; but he had also shown that he could be all things to all men in a most astonishing degree. So it was now. Once convinced of Crawford's story, comprehending what manner of man this was, he attempted no dissimulation but met frankness with frankness. When the tale was done, he uttered a shaky laugh and asked to see the Star of Dreams. Crawford displayed the jewel, and Perrot nodded.

"Thanks be to the saints!" he said slowly. "I perceive now why I came into this land. You see, my friend, I knew not the reason. Something urged me to the trip, something forced me despite myself. With men like you and me, men who obey the hidden voice of the spirit, some reason always discloses itself. Me, I am a religious man, as the good fathers at Green Bay have cause to know, yet I also have some belief in the manitou of the red men. I thought it was only a desire to see the Star Woman again which drew me, but in truth it was something greater and more definite. And the same with you."

Crawford smiled, not comprehending this very clearly.

"Not in the least, Sieur Perrot. I am here only because of my whim."

"No, my friend." Perrot spoke gravely. "We are agents of the unseen destiny which guards this empire of the wilderness—remember that! It is a stern taskmaster, this destiny; it demands much of one's spirit and body. Me, I believe in this unseen destiny."

"I do not believe in the incredible," said Crawford.

"He who denies the incredible," came Perrot's voice, "must then deny God."

Crawford started slightly. "I cannot answer that, Sieur Perrot," he said simply. "I think you may have the right of it. What, then, do you assign as the reason for our presence in this place?"

"Ah, but we are here for France!" Perrot's voice gathered strength, and a swift flash leaped into his eyes. "I struck axe into earth at Michillimackinac and took all that region for France. I did the same at Saint Anthony's Falls, in the far west. With your help, I shall do the same here——"

"Not with my help," intervened Crawford coolly. "I take no land for France, and I have no interest in the matter. I shall stop Maclish because he murdered Phelim Burke; I was a fool not to kill the dog when I could have done so, but we all make mistakes. I desire to find the Star Woman—why? Because she is unknown, inaccessible, a mystery! That's all. So you have come to do the errands of King Louis, eh?"

"Not at all," replied Perrot, studying him. "I came because I was drawn by the spirit; and now I see that work is awaiting me. Maclish—Maclish! This man must be defeated in his aim. The Stone Men and the Dacotah must be restrained from war. You, who know not why you came hither—oh, the mad humour of it! Have you, like Maclish, some dream of marrying the Star Woman?"

"Heaven forbid!" Crawford laughed a little. "If you knew her thirty years ago, she's no slender lass now. Besides, I've put the world behind me, Perrot. I've rotted in irons, I've had my moments of happiness and of tears; now it's dead. I want to go over the horizon, wander on to the end while there are things to be done and seen. That's all."

Perrot eyed him with a singular expression, partly cynical, partly sad. Then it seemed as though a veil dropped over the man's thoughts. There was something deep in his mind, some mystery, which he had been about to explain; he refrained. Instead, he came to one elbow.

"Look!" he exclaimed. "Play your own hand; you are a man whom I could love, and you do not interfere with me. As for me, I shall do what is given me to do. Here is my mission—I must turn Maclish's game back upon him. Maclish, the blind fool, has an awakening ahead of him! He thinks to seize the Star Woman, make peace between Stone Men and Dacotah, and get all the inland trade for the bay. It is an idle dream, but I shall utilize it, you comprehend? Me, I shall prevent the seizure, confirm the peace between these tribes, and draw the trade of the Stone Men to the Lake Superior posts. France shall have a new empire here in the northwest!"

"Another idle dream." Crawford shook his head. "They are too firmly wedded to the English—but play your own game, and I'll play mine. So the Star Woman is not young, eh?"

Perrot veiled his gaze. "How should she be?" he said evasively. "I saw her thirty years ago, and again a few years later. Are many of the Dacotah with her?"

"A few lodges only."

"She is a great medicine woman, living off to herself by this lake of many stars. She is a healer, a communer with the good God, to whom the chiefs and medicine men go for advice. It may be blasphemous, but I think she is little short of a saint, my friend."

Crawford did not reply.

He began to perceive why this man, despite his great deeds, was still simple Sieur Perrot instead of being a great seigneur. Here was a man of action, yes; but behind that a dreamer, a visionary. He had now conceived a vague scheme not half so coherent as that which Maclish was pursuing. Perrot was a fanatic on the question of winning the west to France; and those who sat in high places, having all the wilderness country they could well handle already, wanted none of his plans. So now, driving off into the northwest, Perrot was only too eager to grasp at the work which he conceived to be awaiting his hand.

Suddenly and without a sound, Black Kettle appeared in the clearing and set down the hind quarters of a caribou. He stood erect, his eyes flickering to Perrot, and grunted.

"My father Metaminens is awake—good! I crossed the trail of three Stone Men and heard them talking. One they call Red Bull is following, with three-score young men. They have English muskets. They are going to take the Star Woman as a wife for Red Bull."

To this Perrot sat up. "Give me food, for to-morrow we must abandon our packs and travel."

Crawford shrugged, deeming travel on the morrow an impossibility.

Yet, incredible as it seemed, Sieur Nicholas Perrot was on his feet the next morning; before breakfast he was shaven, dressed and ready to depart. Crawford held his peace, for he realized that Perrot would regard no reason, and in this he was right. He was not right in thinking Perrot's ambitious scheme impossible, however. Crafty old Perrot knew the redskins better than any other white man alive, knew his own ability, and was entirely competent to bring his dream to fruition if he had the chance.

For thirty years Perrot had been encountering men like Maclish, and had one by one left them defeated behind him. For thirty years Metaminens had ruled the western tribes, compelling them from war to peace. No other man was like him or would be like him again, in this singular influence which he exerted.

The packs were cached away and the three men set forth, carrying only arms and food. Perrot started off gaily enough, but within two hours he was staggering from exhaustion. Deaf to all protests, he drove ahead by dint of his iron will alone. The woods were silent and deserted, no sign of life appeared, but now Crawford knew that Maclish and the Stone Men were not many miles distant.

It was close to noon when Perrot silently collapsed in his tracks. And now Crawford, aiding the Mohegan to cut pine-boughs and make camp, felt his last hope gone. For days to come the old rover could only nurse back strength, and was out of the game. Even did Standing Bull send help, even did Frontin and Le Talon reach the Star Woman, what could be expected from them? Nothing. Crawford felt that in this vast wilderness three wandering men could not be located. The immensity of the country smote him and weighed him down. And meantime, he knew, Maclish was sweeping the war-party forward.

So, when he had done what he could for Sieur Perrot, Crawford lighted his pipe and stared gloomily through the smoke, being tempted of the devil to leave his companions and plunge into the wilderness alone. He had no sympathy with Perrot's ambitions. He wanted to be on his way to Frontin, pushing his quest for the Star Woman; to sit here doing nothing was maddening. The spur of freedom was goading him roughly. When he was playing a lone hand, dependent only on himself, he was happiest—there was his tragedy, if you like. Yet he could not gainsay the urge, and this news of Maclish was like a thorn in his flesh.

Now, while Crawford smoked and pondered temptation, and the Mohegan picked over dry wood, and Perrot lay in exhausted coma, there came quavering up through the trees from far away a thin, queer cry. That high cry sent a shiver over Crawford, for it was foreign to his limited northland experience, with its uncanny cadence of shaking mirth, its hint of weird and unearthly laughter. He had never before heard the call of a loon. Black Kettle stood like a dog pointing birds, but for a very different reason; the Mohegan had never before heard the call of a loon at high twelve.

"What was that?" asked Crawford. Black Kettle wrinkled up his nose.

"That," he said, putting hand to powder-horn, "was the cry of a bird, which came from the throat of a man."

Crawford saw that the redskin was puzzled and alarmed, so asked no more questions. He loaded and primed his gun, and came to his feet. Once again that strange cry reached them, and this time it was much closer. Crawford distinctly saw the Mohegan shiver to the sound of it, as though reading something singular and terrible in the cry.

Black Kettle gestured. Crawford followed him out from camp among the trees. He soon realized that the other was retracing their trail of the morning; it was an easy one to follow, because of Perrot's heavily plunging tracks. A third time lifted that quavering call, now so close upon them that Black Kettle made a startled gesture and vanished from sight among the trees. Crawford waited, peering through the dead brown masses of a fallen pine.

A moment of waiting—then a man came into sight, following the trail. But what a man! He was a misshapen Indian, with a huge head set between wide shoulders, a shaven scalp, and a fearful caricature of a face; it was the distorted countenance of an idiot. His dress was peculiar and remarkable, being composed of snake-skins sewn over hide, the heads hanging intact. Once seen, this hideous creature could never be forgotten—and perhaps this fact was the reason for such a costume. The wilderness is a stickler for simple and logical causes of apparently remarkable effects.

Although he certainly could not see either of the hidden men, the demented redskin now came to a sudden halt. He peered around, lifted that horrible countenance, and sniffed the air. A loose grin came to his lips. He spoke aloud in a mingled Cree and English which was comprehensible to Crawford.

"Where are you, Wandering Star? I bring you a talking bark, a message from afar. I am Singing Loon, and no man harms me because my medicine is very strong. The Stone Men are afraid to hurt me. Where are you, Wandering Star? I can smell you close by. I have followed your trail a long way from the lodges of the Crees."

This, in effect, was one of those unhappy beings whom the red men believed touched by the Great Spirit, and from whom they shrank in fear and awe; none of them, at any cost, would lift a finger to harm this man. Crawford did not hesitate, but laid down his gun and stepped out to face the messenger.

"So here you are, Wandering Star!"

The idiot grinned. How he recognized Crawford was a mystery; yet, at the creature's girdle, Crawford saw one of his own old and cast-off moccasins, and caught that sniffing gesture again. Did this imbecile, then, have some remarkable gift of scent? Perhaps.

"Here is my message for you." Singing Loon fumbled beneath his snake-skins and produced a roll of birchbark. "I smell another man hidden, but he will not hurt me. You should have seen how the Stone Men ran away when they saw me yesterday! Now I shall go and frighten them again."

Giving the birch roll into Crawford's hand, the chuckling idiot turned and disappeared at a shambling but rapid run.

Crawford stood transfixed, gripped by the wonder of it—the way this creature had come straight to him amid the wilderness! It was almost past his comprehension; but to the Mohegan it was not at all incredible. Black Kettle came into sight, crossed himself twice like the good Christian he was, and stepped forward.

"I did well not to fire. That man has a powerful spirit. What did he say?"

"He brought me a message."

"His spirit knew where to find you. Good."

Crawford unrolled the stiff bark. Words had been scrawled on the inner surface of the bark, scrawled there with a sharpened bullet. They were not easy to decipher, some of them were lost; but he knew that Art Bocagh had been one of Phelim Burke's Irishmen, able to read and write in English.

"The Kriqs have us saff. The Saxons are dead. The Scots red men slue themm. Fower of us live. Wee goe to Ft. Nue Sevann. Art Bocagh."

Keen news, this, from Art the Lame! Instead of sending Crawford's men to the coast, Maclish had ordered the Assiniboines to slaughter them. Four of the Irish had somehow escaped and were safe among the Crees, on their way to New Severn—one of the two posts remaining to the English on the bay. Art Bocagh had sent this word that Crawford might be warned against Maclish, and might know where to find the remnant of his men if ever he returned.

"The murdering hound!" said Crawford. A swirl of hatred swept up in his heart. Something burst within him—all his restraint was gone, all his self-control, all his cold caution. He whirled on Black Kettle, a blaze in his blue eyes. "You shall look after Metaminens—he needs only food and rest. This message says that Red Bull has murdered my men. I am going on ahead of him, past him, over him, to find the Star Woman—and to find him, also!"

The Mohegan regarded him steadily, then made indirect protest.

"My white brother is very angry. Does his manitou tell him that anger is a good companion on such a trail?"

Crawford snarled an oath. The murder of his men was the last straw. Every atom of his cold reserve was swept away.

"If I find that dog Maclish I'll slit his throat instead of his face, this time! What about you and Perrot? Will the Stone Men follow that idiot here?"

"No," said the Mohegan. "They are not coming this way. They are north of us."

"You'll be safe if the Dacotah war-party finds you, then?"

"My father Metaminens is a chief of the Dacotah."

"Then farewell."

The Mohegan grunted in reply. Pausing only to retrieve his musket, Crawford plunged into the trees, with hatred of Maclish burning like a living flame in his heart.

CHAPTER V

VENGEANCE RUNS A RED ROAD

IT helped much that Hal Crawford had hunted with Mohawks and had worked his way during these frozen months across an unknown wilderness. Now, heading into the northwest, he had need of all his woods lore, all his hard iron strength, all his sheer righting frenzy.

Of this last he had no lack; indeed, his mood was little short of actual madness, and the more he thought about that note from Art Bocagh, the more infuriated he became. He cared much less about himself than about the men who trusted him. The murder of Phelim Burke had formed his resolution to torture Maclish to the uttermost; but the treacherous slaughter of his men smashed this resolution, wakened in him a furious resolve to kill the burly Scot at the first chance, and in default of him, those who followed him.

During two days and nights he pressed through unbroken woods, throwing caution to the winds, driven by the insurgence of cold fury which had become his reckless master. With the third morning, all the sky was black with magnificent stormclouds massing up from the south—huge silver-edged billows, pile upon pile and turret upon turret, ranked before and behind as though spelling the immensity of the heavens and spanning that awful depth into the infinity beyond. Stillness abode in the air that morning, a dreadful and expectant stillness of nature, though now and again the cedars shook to the distant mutter of crepitant thunder.

Midway of the morning, Crawford struck into the trail of the Assiniboine war-party and followed it furiously. Toward noon, lightning began to streak across the dark heavens, and rain threatened at every moment. Just as the first breath of the rain-bearing wind was felt, a tremendous thunderbolt crashed into the trees a half mile distant. Hard upon that pealing reverberation, Crawford loped into a small opening and ran slap upon two Stone Men standing above a dead deer; the roar of the thunderbolt had drowned the sound of the shot.

They saw Crawford ere he sighted them. One of the two flung up musket and let fire, the second hurriedly reloading empty gun. Crawford had no time to prime and fire. Dropping his own gun as the slugs whistled over his head, he whipped out knife and tomahawk, and the keen little axe whirled in air like a streak of vivid light. This was a new weapon-play to the Stone Men, and the Mohawk cast split scalplock and skull of the first. The second warrior was ready with his knife, but Crawford smote him terribly; and two men lay under the singing pines with a reeking five-point star slit in each brown forehead.

The pines were singing now, sure enough; the storm hurtled down with a howl of wind to shake the high trees, torrents of rain blurring the horizon, thunder volleying and rumbling over the black sky. The back of winter had broken in storm, and now was come a second and greater upheaval of nature to complete the work. Through the thick of it drove Crawford, on his trail, disregarding all precaution, until in the midst of the afternoon he was brought to swift sanity. Somewhere wood smoke fought against rain and wind, and catching the pleasant reek of it, he regained his lost caution.

He sniffed the fragrance of birch and cedar, paused to get direction, found the richer scent of fresh meat abroil, and scouted the nostriled warning until he came upon the camp of the Stone Men, lying below him on a long hillside. There were the sodden warriors huddled about fires, others bringing in game, muskets piled near by with powder-horns protected against the wet by blankets. Over all lifted the roaring blast of the storm, the thundering pæan of destruction that swept earth and sky, and between the bursts of rain and wind broke livid and ghastly leven-flashes.

Men paused cowering in this stour, and Crawford might have circled the camp and gone on his way had he not caught sight of Maclish stalking about. Sight of the man brought up Crawford's gun, but he found that by some carelessness his powder-horn had come unstopped and was empty. With an oath he flung it away, hurled the musket after it; and settled down to wait.

The storm raged on more fiercely, then gradually lessened as evening approached. When twilight fell the rain had become a steady downpour, the thunder had crept across the horizon, and Crawford was stealing down toward the glimmering fires, the noise of his approach drowned by the streaming swish of the rain. All too well was it drowned, in fact. Crawford was not a rod from the fires and the piled muskets, when an Assiniboine coming in with a load of wood went stumbling over him, and let out one startled howl ere the tomahawk took his life.

Upon this, Crawford leaped down the hillside, a wild and dripping figure streaking down the slope in great bounds. The redskins raised frightened yells and broke in mad panic. In this confusion of shouts and rain-blurred figures, Crawford lost all sight of Maclish. Fury spurring him, he gained the nearest fire, scattered it, and sent the brands whirling in among the powder-horns—brand after brand, whirling and smoking and bursting into flame again with the fall. Next instant Crawford was away, heading blindly into the darkness, while the bellow of Maclish was drowned in the bursting explosion of the black sands of death. Then, as Crawford darted into the gloom, he lifted his head and sent up the fearful blood-yell which even to these far redskins was known in all its dread implication—the Mohawk war whoop.

"Sassakouay!" he shrilled it, and again. "Kouay! Sassakouay!"

Leaving that token to chill their blood, he struck out across the wet night. No man could follow this unseen trail with any speed; dripping branches slapped him as he ran, trees were thick, the darkness was impenetrable; yet Crawford kept going after a fashion. He had failed to smite Maclish, but in the destruction of their powder he had dealt the enemy a shrewd enough blow.

Hour after hour he kept going forward, until toward dawn he halted and burrowed for shelter. He wakened with sun in his eyes and found the day clear as crystal, windless, incredibly warm; spring was at hand in the north, and the snows nearly cleared from the ground.

Now Crawford made good progress, unarmed save for knife and axe, intent upon keeping ahead of the Stone Men, speeding toward the northwest. With afternoon, however, he made a frightful discovery. A musket-shot crashed out somewhere to his left, and two minutes later a wounded deer broke cover almost beside him, swerved in hot panic, and darted off. Crawford dropped from sight, in time to see an Assiniboine warrior pass on the trail of the beast.

Crawford followed, driven now by hunger. When he heard the finishing shot, he ran in swiftly and caught the warrior with empty rifle. The axe-throw missed, the redskin sent up a long yell among the trees, knife clashed on knife; the end of this matter was that the body of the slain deer tripped his slayer, which was crude justice enough. Presently Crawford took up his trail again, bearing a load of fresh meat.

He was now cognizant of his danger—knew that he was between the main body of the Stone Men and their outflung advance parties. By next morning, these had picked up his trail. Smokes went up far and near, while Crawford fled steadily on into the northwest, gaining rougher and more open country, covering ground rapidly. The signal smokes died away. During two days he pressed on at top speed, saw no further signs of the enemy, and began to feel certain that he had flung off all pursuit.

Then, abruptly, fate tripped him.

Crawford was following a steep hillside and came to a broad scar where earth and trees had been riven away to form a drop of twenty feet. As he skirted the verge of this little chasm, a stick flew up between his legs. Crawford fell forward, the loosened earth gave way, and he was sent plunging headfirst with a small avalanche of earth and boulders. His descent came to crashing stop, and the senses were knocked out of him.

When he wakened, it was hard upon sunset, and a stunning sense of unreality oppressed him, for voices were sounding close at hand. Crawford found himself unable to move, buried nearly to the shoulders in loose earth and gravel. He looked up, and a species of paralysis seized on him at what he saw—not ten feet from him were five men, four of them Assiniboine warriors, and the fifth Maclish!

Crawford stared. He saw that all five were weary and hard-run, and realized that they had been following his trail. Thus far, they had not seen him, but discovery was inevitable. Sight of Maclish somewhat gratified him. Those cropped ears did not show for the long hair that now covered them, but the starry scar on the forehead was ineradicable. Phelim Burke was somewhat avenged, for Crawford could clearly read the changes in the face of Maclish, the things stamped there since his last sight of the man. Bestiality had come forth, stark animal fury—that branded star had stung him deeper than any other wound could have done. Spent as were his four warriors, he still seemed vigorous. He was striding up and down, as they tore at their food, and shook one red fist at the encircling forest.

"I'll have ye yet, ye souple deil!" he muttered. "Mark Maclish, will ye? I'll put marks on ye that the fiend himsel' will look twice at! I'll——"

The whitish eyes of Maclish fell upon the head and shoulders of Crawford protruding from the hillside talus. For one moment the man stood petrified—then, with a bellow to his men, hurled himself forward.

And thus was Hal Crawford trapped and taken.

Now, Maclish was not a man of wisdom, but of mere animal cunning. Into the Stone Men he had injected his own dream of capturing the Star Woman and thus forcing the Dacotah to a humiliating peace. That is, the younger men were so minded, for the older men of the tribe did not care to meddle with the Star Woman; but the smashing personality of Maclish drew all the more reckless warriors after him in torrential enthusiasm.

Had Maclish been wise, he would have sent back for his main force and awaited their arrival to attend to his prisoner. He could not do this. He was wildly exultant, striding back and forth, cursing Crawford furiously, roaring forth orders and raging like a madman in his triumph. The four Stone Men with him, nothing loath, readily gave up their rest for a more exciting pastime, and were glad to have the sport all to themselves. They gathered wood and heaped the fire until it became that rarest of things in Indian country—a crackling pillar of light, illumining all things distinctly, the ruddy reflection glinting against the carpet of the sky until it was visible for miles. Perhaps Maclish counted that it would bring his outflung scouting parties to the scene.

Crawford was dragged forward to two saplings standing six feet apart. He was lashed by each wrist to one of the saplings. The thongs about his ankles were then cut—and a warrior went staggering with a howl of agony as Crawford's foot caught him squarely in the throat.

"So ye had to give a blow, eh?" Maclish came forward, pawing his red beard, and those glittering eyes of his devoured the captive. "Ye'll dance for that! Try a kick on me if ye dare, and I'll punch out an eye for ye!"

He bared his knife. Knowing the threat would be made good, Crawford stood quiet. Maclish came to him, ripped with hand and knife, and stripped Crawford naked to the waist. Then, with a chuckle, Maclish grasped the Star of Dreams and snatched it savagely away.

"A bonny toy!" he said softly, gloatingly, and thrust it into a pocket. Then he looked at Crawford and grinned. "You'll have more than a pair o' cropped ears when I'm done with ye. Put your mark on me, eh? Now, ye dog, I'll have payment!"

He turned, bellowed an order at his redskins.

Crawford stood in silence. He had felt the thongs give slightly about his right wrist, guessed that he had been lashed with frayed snowshoe lacings, and took heart. After all, he might yet go down fighting! Phelim Burke's words came back to him, and the warning of Frontin, "Keep the Star safe!" The Star was lost now, and it seemed that this loss spelled his ruin. Hopelessness surged in upon him—then he cast off the feeling and became again himself. What was the Star, after all, but a thing of metal and stone?

The Stone Men were gathering more wood, and gleefully laying it in a circle about the captive and the saplings—a wide circle, not too close, as Maclish directed them. Crawford worked at those right-hand thongs, unobserved, and presently felt them snap. His wrist came free, so that he swiftly gripped the sapling to keep the fact from being noticed. This small freedom gave him no advantage, for he was weaponless and could not release his other hand, stretched high to the left-hand sapling. His heart sank, and hope fled again.

With their circle of brush completed, the Stone Men now brought flaming brands from the blazing pyre and set them into the brush, which crept into quick flame. They stood off, and with jeer and taunt began to goad the captive, using the few English words they knew, while Maclish held up the Star of Dreams and bellowed imprecations.

The flaming circle grew, and became a torture-ring that surrounded Crawford with hot radiance. Not waiting for the victim to be roasted, one of the eager redskins now came leaping in, bearing a longer brand from the fire, and began to buffet the helpless man with this. The other three joined in this play, leaping in and out of the fiery circle. Their brands smote Crawford across breast and back, and set sparks to his woollen breeches. He clung to the saplings, half suffocated, his body flinching from the brands, fire sweeping through his veins; the circle of brush was all clear flame, the heat of it intolerable.

Then one of the redskins came close—and he had his chance. Loosing his frenzied grip on the sapling, Crawford sent his free right hand to the red throat. A howl went up, a chorus of wild yells and oaths; the others stared at the sight of Crawford gripping their comrade. He did more than grip, however, for he brought up his knee in a furious blow, and the red figure went limp. Crawford dropped the body headlong into the flames, and two others darted in to rescue the senseless man. Maclish bellowed astounded curses, and Crawford fumbled to get his left hand clear, but could not. He was helpless to free that hand, and so stood waiting, arm above head.

The three remaining redskins now abandoned their senseless comrade, obeyed the roars of Maclish, and brought in more wood. At this instant there occurred a singular and almost incredible thing. Across the firelit space glittered a swift flash of steel, gleaming more quickly than eye could follow. From the sapling which held Crawford's left wrist bound, came a slight thud. Crawford, startled, looked up to see a tomahawk sunk into the sapling—and his wrist was free.

The darkness gave birth to a horrible scream, the Mohegan war whoop. Already Maclish and the Stone Men were leaping for their weapons. A musket roared, and one of the warriors pitched down. Across the open space flitted the painted, half-naked figure of Le Talon, knife in hand, whoop rising into the night. Then Maclish roared at his men.

"Alone! He's alone, fools——"

A musket crashed. The two remaining Stone Men hurled themselves at the old Mohegan. By this time Crawford, well clear of the fire, had been guided to Maclish by that roaring bellow, and rushed at him barehanded, hurts and agony forgotten in a lust for blood. The frightful pain of his cracked and seared body only goaded him into more maddened fury.

Maclish had descried that blackened figure, and whirled to meet it. He drove in a blow to the burnt body that stopped Crawford with sheer shock of the pain; then lunged forward to finish it, knife glittering. In this play Maclish was too slow. Crawford, recovering, struck the steel aside and launched a staggering blow which crushed lips and teeth and dyed the red beard a darker scarlet. Then the knife bit into him; in agonized frenzy of pain, he struck again and again, went staggering down with Maclish beneath him, and found his enemy limp and unresisting. Somehow, he had driven a blow home.

Crawford, impelled by a mad urge, tore at the man's clothes and next instant had the Star of Dreams in his hand. Now he groped for the fallen knife, seized it, and came to one knee for the blow. He paused, glancing around. One of the two Stone Men was motionless, Le Talon was locked with the other in grunting combat. So the old Mohegan was actually alone! A laugh shaking on his lips, Crawford lifted the knife to drive it home into Maclish—no silly thought of mercy now!

In the motion, darkness came upon him, and he pitched sideways. For an instant, as his hurt body rolled on the earth, his brain wakened to the sharp pain; then it was dulled again.

Five minutes afterward, he came to himself. His head was in the lap of Le Talon; the chief, still panting, was pouring water over his face. Crawford sat up, groaned sharply, then fought off the overmastering weakness and struggled to his feet.

"Maclish—where is he?"

"The Red Bull is gone. Careful! My brother is hurt and badly wounded." The Mohegan rose, put out an arm, caught Crawford as the latter reeled.

"Gone!" Fury roused Crawford anew. He still held the Star of Dreams, but the body of the Scot had disappeared. "After him, quickly! He can't go far—after him, Mohegan! He must be destroyed at all costs——"

Calmly, Le Talon showed his right thigh, where a great knife-gash had ripped across the muscles in a hideous wound.

"The chief of the Loup nation is alone," he said. His grave and impressive manner steadied Crawford at once, gave him immediate poise. "He cannot run through the woods after the Red Bull. His friends the Dacotah are not close; we must hurry to reach their camp before the Stone Men come upon us."

Crawford swayed, then sank down weakly; Maclish had escaped him this time, and with good reason. He felt the chief running deft hands over his body, rubbing bear-grease from a little pouch into the burned skin, binding up a knife-slash across his ribs whose flow of blood had ebbed out his strength and robbed him of his prey. Presently Crawford rallied and returned these services, bandaging that frightful slash across the chief's thigh and learning how Le Talon had come to intervene at so opportune a moment.

The Mohegan had come with one party of Dacotah, while Frontin led another, sent by the Star Woman to meet Perrot and Crawford. Sighting the glow of Maclish's fire on the sky, the Mohegan had left his party to investigate. There had been no time to return and get the Dacotah—therefore he had acted after his own fashion. Now, rising, the chief collected the trophies which were his. One Stone Man had fallen to his musket, two to his knife. When he came to the groaning warrior whom Crawford had gripped, he calmly added the fourth scalp to his belt. Then he limped back.

"Ready! My brother's medicine is very strong. Where is Metaminens?"

Crawford rose, steadied himself under the giddy swirl of pain.

"I left him with Black Kettle and came on—they are behind the Assiniboines. He is well, but too weak to travel."

Crawford broke off in curses at thought of how Maclish had escaped him. Hopeless abandon came upon him, and with every movement sending fresh torture through his body, he made a brief gesture to the redskin.

"Leave me. Go on by yourself. No use trying to get away."

Le Talon, in one fierce glance, comprehended the situation. He smiled grimly.

"Very well, my brother shall see that a chief of the Loup nation does not fear to die with him."

"Plague take you!" Crawford laughed suddenly. "Lead the way, Sagamore, and I'll follow. You're right; I'll not whine like a sick dog because my hide is sore. After all, I have the Star of Dreams again!"

The chief picked up a musket, used it as a staff, and set out into the darkness.

The words of the Mohegan had summoned up all Crawford's iron will, and he drove himself onward. His upper body was a mass of sears and blisters, his skin cracked and blackened, his flesh scorched; the least movement sent quivers of agony through every complaining muscle and the knife-wound across his ribs had let out much of his strength. He set will to conquer flesh, and succeeded, though every slash of whipping tree-limbs and bushes in the darkness brought new pain. Old Le Talon was scarce in better shape. That one knife-slash had nearly hamstrung his leg and each step was dragging torture, yet the grim chief forged ahead in silence, feeling his way by instinct toward the distant camp he had left.

For an hour the two men stumbled on, staggering, limping, slowly reaching the limit of mortal endurance. Then it was the Indian, whose fountain of strength was more severely drained, who gave way. Le Talon leaned on his musket and uttered a low groan.

"The eyes of Le Talon are dim," he said faintly.

"Send up a yell," gasped Crawford.

The chief lifted his head, drew a deep breath, sent a cry quavering toward the starry splendours above. Crawford, leaning weakly against a tree, suddenly started erect; to that cry came an answer, a response in a voice that he knew. A hoarse shout broke from him.

"Frontin! Au secours!"

"Ay, cap'n," came the faint reply.

Thus heartened, the Mohegan got out his firebag, got a spark in his tinder, got a tiny blaze running into the heart of a dead birch. In five minutes the fire was being hastily stamped out again, and Frontin was rushing up to them in the darkness, with him a dozen eager young Dacotah warriors—comprising both his own party and that of Le Talon. Frontin was bursting with news, and poured it out hurriedly in the darkness.

"We found the Star Woman, cap'n!" he exclaimed. "That's Le Talon with you, eh? We ran onto his camp and were waiting to get his report on the fire-glow in the sky. That rogue Maclish has a cursed big force of men—we caught one of the Assiniboines and made him talk. Eighty or ninety warriors all told. We can't break through to reach Perrot."

"He's safe enough behind them," said Crawford.

"Death of my life! What's the matter with your voice, cap'n? You croak like an old raven. And there's a most devilish queer odour around here, like burned meat——"

Crawford broke into a laugh.

"Burned meat! For once you spoke a true word——"

Frontin caught him as he fell, still laughing, and passed into unconsciousness.

CHAPTER VI

SOME PROBLEMS ARE BEST LEFT UNSOLVED

ADREAM came to Crawford. It seemed that he lay beneath a huge pine, wind-twisted and curiously crooked, at the very brink of a dizzy cliff. Below and before him was outspread a magnificent panorama; a blue lake, blue as the sky, still and deep and very clear, and out beyond this mile after mile of green forest running up to the horizon, until green merged imperceptibly with blue.

As he lay here, it seemed that Phelim Burke came and stood before him. This was not the scarred and broken man he had last seen, but the laughing, gallant gentleman of earlier days, sword at side and joy of life sparkling in the gay eyes of him. Phelim stood there and smiled, took a pinch of snuff, chuckled at Crawford's astonished ejaculation.

"Faith, lad, did I not say I'd stay with ye? So here ye are, Hal, and here am I."

"Where?" asked Crawford in his dream.

"The end of our trail together, lad. Ye may deny the world, but escape it ye cannot. What's over the horizon for all men, Hal?"

"Death," said Crawford.

"Divil a bit of it," said Phelim cheerfully, and then walked away and was gone. So the dream passed, and though others followed it, Crawford remembered only this one.

Therefore, when he opened his eyes and found himself conscious, he lay for a long while in perturbed wonder. There above him was the same contorted, twisted pine tree with its wide boughs; there was that same blue outspread lake, far below; and he looked out afar upon that same green forest that climbed the distant leagues to the horizon. He was softly couched on furs and fragrant pine. As he turned his head, he saw Frontin sitting there, watching him.

"Ah!" Frontin started to him, caught his hand. "Awake, eh? She said you'd wake this morning."

"Where's Phelim Burke?" demanded Crawford. "I tell you, he was just here——" and he swiftly related that dream of his. Frontin stared, then abruptly crossed himself.

"Dream? I'm not so sure. We're with the Star Woman. Here, you're to drain this cup, then I must tell her you're awake."

Crawford found a birch pannikin held to his lips, and drank. He lay back and fell asleep once more, but no further dreams came to him.

When he next wakened, it was in a glorious sunset that flooded the lake and outflung forest below with a mellow golden glow. Frontin was again with him, and gave him meat and corn, since his hunger was sharp and avid. Crawford sat up to eat; to his new astonishment he found himself, if not healed, at least able to move without pain. Frontin nodded curtly.

"Ay, you're well enough, cap'n. A week we've been here—carried you and the chief. She has tended you both with simples and herbs; a wise woman, and beautiful to boot. There below us is the lake of many stars. Here's tobacco and your pipe."

"Give me your hand," said Crawford.

Frontin lent him a pull, and he gained his feet. Except for some weakness, and the sore stiffness of his hurt body, he was well enough. Something struck his breast; and, feeling beneath the leathern shirt that clothed him, he felt the Star of Dreams. A smile touched his lips. He leaned back against the bole of the twisted pine tree, took pipe and tobacco.

"Good. Can we talk with her?"

"Easily. She speaks French as good as my own—though devil take me if I understand how she came by it! She is but a girl."

"Why hasn't she left here? Has Maclish been stopped? What has happened?"

Frontin shrugged. "My faith, she is past my comprehension! She refused to run, and Maclish is upon us. She is like all saints and holy folk—a trifle blind in the material eye, and inclined to place more emphasis on the heavenly host than the occasion warrants. If you could see over the trees here, toward the west, you'd see the smoke of Maclish's campfires. His whole force is drawing in. Well, I'd better let her know that you're awake. She thinks that Perrot will bring the Dacotah hosts and prevent a fight. See if you can put any reason into her head."

With an air of sardonic gloom, Frontin departed, and disappeared in a thick grove of trees. Crawford perceived that this cliff was a blunt point on the end of a long promontory jutting out above the lake. The little open space at the end, where he lay beneath the twisted pine, was solidly closed in by trees.

Crawford was staring out over the lake again when a quick, soft step made him turn, brought him to his feet. So he saw the Star Woman for the first time and stood astounded, silent; the sunset glow softened the sharp contour of his face, kindled a flame in his hair, quickened the deep blue of his eyes and the vibrant energy of him, so that she stared likewise as though beholding him for the first time.

To his absolute bewilderment, Crawford saw in her the actual person visioned by Moses Deakin, and the memory stabbed him. This was no ancient sorceress, no Indian hag nor even woman—but a slender girl, a creature all blue and gold, her skin white and golden, her eyes great pools of gold-flecked lapis, her hair brighter than the flame of sun, her fawnskin dress a rich unbeaded yellow. Between her breasts hung by its thong a huge star of hammered silver, all set with turquoise, stones of purest unflecked blue. Yet it was not the sheer beauty of her that held him awed, but the calm serenity that shone from her.

Suddenly her face changed, as though her astonishment was past. Crawford became sensible of the peculiarly piercing quality of her gaze, and he was disconcerted to find it not entirely friendly. When she addressed him in French, he could not mistake her attitude of quiet aloofness.

"I am glad you have recovered."

"You are—you are the Star Woman?" murmured Crawford. "Impossible! Perrot said——"

"Perrot—Metaminens!" For an instant her face softened, became radiant and glorious; a sudden deep eagerness leaped in her eyes, an eagerness not untouched by pain. Then again she regarded him with that cool and aloof gaze. "How does he look? He is old?"

"Some men never grow old." Crawford was confused, staggered by all this. Surely this was not the woman Perrot had seen thirty years ago! He stood silent, wondering.

"What is your errand here?" she asked quietly. "I have talked with your friend Frontin, I know how you tricked Standing Bull into delivering my message to the wrong man, I know with what obstinate pertinacity you have fought across the wilderness to reach me—but why?"

"To see you," said Crawford, and under her steady gaze, words failed him for an instant. Then he rallied. "That is to say——"

"You are a hard man," she said, ignoring his stammer. "I quite understand why you have fled into this land from your own people. I know what you seek—and you will not find it. There is no peace over the horizon. Listen!" She held up one hand. Crawford, listening, heard the sound of distant gun-shots, saw swift distress flit into her face. "They are killing my friends the animals," she said in a mournful tone. "This has been a sanctuary for man and beast alike, until now; those Stone Men are murdering my friends. And are you better than they? There is no love in your heart, for I can see into it—I have seen into it while you lay sick and muttering. You do not love your country, your fellow-men—anything! Have you ever loved, indeed? Have you any capacity for love? Or are you, too, one of the Stone Men?"

Crawford was taken terribly aback. Here, in the presence of this woman, he was suddenly speechless—he, who had dared call a king a poltroon to his very face!

He had never looked forward to his actual meeting with the Star Woman; he had left that to the future. Now he found himself indescribably impressed by the quiet poise, the splendid personality of this girl, who was hardly yet a woman. Her age, he guessed could not be much more than twenty—within a few years of it, at least.

He found himself strangely moved. It was as though she had some power which broke down all his hard shell of materialism, touching the very spirit within him. He suddenly understood why she was a person reverenced by all the red tribes. He felt that a touch of her hand would be a benison. Yet that final question of hers went straight down into the depths of his soul with its hurt, and the pipe fell unheeded from his hand. Once he had loved, indeed, and had seen his young wife stricken down by a bullet from Dutch William's troopers. And he had loved Phelim Burke——

"I am what God and man have made me," he said, but the proud words faltered. Upon that, as he met her intent gaze, his face changed; the harshly masterful lines of it softened, and a swift glitter of tears stood in his blue eyes. And she, seeing these things, was startled. "You," he went on softly, "you who ask—what then do you know of love?"

She put a hand to her breast, and Crawford was dimly aware that he had given blow for blow. Somehow, this question had hurt her. A heartache sprang into her eyes.

"Ah! I think that there are two different men in you," she said quietly, and Crawford was astonished that she spoke of him, not of herself. "I have been angry because, had it not been for you, Maclish and those Stone Men might have stayed away. But I have been wrong, very wrong. You are not what I thought—you see, I have not looked into your eyes before this! After all, I think that you are an agent of destiny, which we cannot escape——"

Crawford started. "Perrot said that! And now you!"

"Perrot said that? Metaminens? All my life I have hungered to see Metaminens." Her voice lingered on the name with swift tenderness. Then she put out her hand and took that of Crawford, and a smile touched her lips gloriously. "And now he is coming, and it is you who bring him to me! Ah, I was wrong to be angry against you."

Crawford was astonished and bewildered. Perrot had seen this woman thirty years ago, and again ten years afterward—yet the thing was impossible, rankly impossible! She herself implied that she had never seen Perrot! Looking into her eyes, he could think only of Perrot's words: "I think she is a saint!" Upon him rushed the feeling that he was in touch with some deeply poignant mystery, that he was treading holy ground, that from enmity he had somehow won her to friendliness and confidence; and he was awed before her clear eyes.

"I do not wonder," he said slowly, "that men look up to you as a being apart!"

She smiled slightly and loosened her grip of his hand.

"And I do not wonder that men follow you gladly," she returned. "But no, no! I am only a woman, and to protect myself I manage to rule the tribes as I have been taught. I love them, I help them, I bring common-sense and what I have learned of healing and spiritual aid to their help—that is all. Because they believe in me, they find the help they seek."

"But who, then, taught you?" Crawford could not check his words. "Who showed you this trail? Where did you come from, you who are no Indian but a white woman?"

Her eyes widened a little. He saw that same hurt look come into them, that look of heartache and pain.

"Ah, I do not know!" she said softly. "I do not know, my friend. There is only one who could tell me; and some day my mother said he would come to tell me—Metaminens! There, look on the other side of this crooked tree, this sacred tree which the tribes worship as holy—you will see who taught me."

Crawford obeyed her gesture, and rounded the bole of that great tree. There, carved in the bark, he saw a cross, and below this a little mound of grassy earth.

His eyes were opened suddenly; a rush of emotion seized upon him, as he comprehended all that this girl did not comprehend. He understood that it was not she whom Sieur Nicholas Perrot had seen in past years, but another; now he remembered that veil which had dropped over Perrot's words, that swift checking of too impulsive speech; and he knew that he had been given to understand something which must not pass his lips. He silently took the girl's hand again and bowed over it, and as he touched his lips to her fingers, they tightened on his. It was between them a tacit exchange of sympathy, of friendliness——

A burst of shots sounded, and the Star Woman twisted about.

"Oh! Come quickly."

The magic spell was broken; the shots of the Stone Men were drums of materialism, grimly recalling Crawford to the present. He drew a deep breath and turned to accompany her toward the thick trees that fringed in the little point of rock. He brought himself to face what he knew well must be a desperate situation.

"How many men have you here?" he demanded, his thinly chiseled features tensed and alert once more. The Star Woman gave him a curious look, sensing the change.

"Standing Bull has fifteen of his young men here; Old Bear brought five warriors from the Teton clan, to the west. With you, Frontin, and the Mohegan, that makes twenty-five."

"Have you healed Le Talon, then, as you have me?"

A sad smile touched her lips. "I cannot do more than is humanly possible. The chief's leg will always be crippled, for flesh and muscles are shrunken."

Now, in among the thick trees, the Star Woman pointed out her own lodge, a bark structure dimly visible to the left; Crawford gathered that this was some sort of a sacred grove, where she lived inviolate. Presently the trees thinned and they came to a clearing; here were the bark lodges of the Issanti Dacotah, and two hide tepees of the Teton clan.

Now Crawford understood the lay of the land, and for a little there glowed within him a sudden flash of hope. All this abode of the Star Woman lay upon the apex of a rude triangle of rock—the lofty brow of a cliff that jutted out into the lake like a ship's prow, shielded on either con- verging side by precipitous descents to the land and water below. Across the base of this triangle the higher ground ran down steeply to the forest beyond; yet here there was a natural defence formed by a deep ravine which ran in from either side, leaving at the centre an open space of barely twenty yards in width. Crawford eyed all this with immense satisfaction, then saw Frontin approaching and turned.

At the edge of the grove, flooded with golden glory in the sunset light, were gathered some of the Star Woman's defenders—a number of Standing Bull's warriors, fitting thin iron heads to shafts for the bows; Old Bear and his handful of Tetons, wild and fierce men who carried round shields of hide; and seated against a tree was Le Talon, dressing his scalplock with grease and looking over his paint-pouch. Frontin came up, bowed with a certain air of deference to the Star Woman, and spoke to Crawford.

"How like you the situation, cap'n? Standing Bull and some of his warriors are scouting the enemy. We'll hear from them before dark."

"Things might be worse," and Crawford pointed to the narrow space between the ravines ahead. "There's the point to defend, with the ground falling away in front. Excellent! Who is in charge?"

"Ask madame," said Frontin, and Crawford turned to the Star Woman. To his surprise, she hesitated, anxiety in her face.

"I should like you to be in charge," she said. "And yet—there must be no fighting if it can be avoided! Blood must not be shed in this place. It is sacred to me, and to the red men——"

As though to resolve her doubts, a thin, high yell arose from the forest below, where the green trees ran into hilly country. At sound of this yell, a delighted grunt went up from the Dacotah. One of them spoke out.

"That is the scalp-yell of Standing Bull; he has counted coup. Was-te! Good!"

"I leave everything in your hands," said the girl hastily, an expression of despair flitting across her face. She turned to the warriors, ordered them to obey Crawford, and then walked in among the trees and vanished in the direction of her own abode. Frontin glanced after her with his darkly sardonic gaze, and shrugged.

"The olden fanes fall crumbling, the chatter of priests and the mystery of woman alike are withered and desolate in the breath of ambition," he murmured. "That crooked pine-tree under which you lay, my cap'n, was a sacred tree among these people; blood must not touch this ground. Well, all that is ended! The white man has come into the land, and oddly enough he reveres the same symbol—a crooked Tree. The difference is, that his is stained with blood——"

Frontin broke off abruptly, as though fearing to trace his thought farther.

"Forget your moralizing and get to work," said Crawford curtly. He walked over to Old Bear, and the Teton chief grinned at him in recognition. "Old Bear, put your warriors to work! A barricade must be laid across this narrow ground to-night. Frontin, have we any guns?"

"Half a dozen," said Frontin. "Standing Bull and his scouts are using them. Will you have the barricade laid with bastions and chevaux-de-frise in approved fashion——"

"Any way at all, so it be laid," said Crawford. "What water and food have we?"

"A spring, and a fair stock of meat and corn."

The warriors fell to work, with Old Bear and Frontin ordering them. Crawford walked across to the Mohegan, who met his eyes and chuckled.

"My brother is well again; that is good! His medicine is strong. To-morrow he shall see how a chief of the Loup nation dies, that he may tell Metaminens the story."

"We'll not die to-morrow," said Crawford. "No word has come from Perrot or from the Dacotah to the south?"

"None. The place here is surrounded and cut off. Ah! Here is Standing Bull!"

Across the neck of ground appeared the old Dacotah chief, a number of warriors following with shrill yelps. He came to where Crawford stood, and a flash of exultation was in his eyes, as he touched the red object at his belt.

"We have taught the Stone Men a lesson," he said. "My brother is well? Good. Did I not say that his medicine would bring him here?"

Crawford laughed. "You old rascal! I half believe you were right about it. You have left scouts to watch the enemy?"

"Yes. The Stone Men are making camp and cooking meat. Red Bull is with them."

Crawford nodded. He knew that nothing short of death itself would stop Maclish.

CHAPTER VII

"AN ARCHER DREW BOW AT A VENTURE"

LATE that night, while the thin crescent of a new moon hung in the sky, touching the twisted limbs of the pine-tree above him with faint silver radiance, Crawford wakened to a lightly humming voice. It was Frontin who sat beside him at the tip of the promontory, and gaily voiced words which were half-sardonic, half-sad, fitting them to a tune of Old France which ran lightly and merrily enough—

"God made a little crooked tree
And set it on the shore,
A thing of wondrous sanctity
To paynim folk! But presently
Came white men full of charity,
Who gave the redskins eau-de-vie
All up and down the shore.

They built a chapel on the shore
Beside the crooked tree,
And taught the paynim to abhor
The gods by which his fathers swore—
It proved a simple labor, for
The Cross they gathered to adore
Was but a Crooked Tree!"

There was a bitterness in Frontin's voice that made Crawford sit up sharply.

"Anything wrong?"

"No. Go to sleep again, cap'n."

Instead, Crawford got out his pipe, borrowed fire from the other man, and they smoked together. After a little, with the peaceful solitude of the far-flung water and forest below acting upon him, Crawford broke the silence.

"See here, Frontin! If I don't get out of this, you make for the bay. Those Irishmen will be at New Severn——"

"Devil take you, be silent!" snapped Frontin roughly. "Listen! You hear the wind singing in those branches above us? Well, that is our requiem mass. We have failed in the world, and now God brings us to an end of the trail in this place—we have gained the glory of such a tomb as few men know, and the choral requiem of a sacred tree!"

"What the devil has put you in this mood?"

"The devil that is in me. Oh, I am sick, sick at heart!" broke out Frontin. "When I look into the eyes of this Star Woman, I am frightened. She is not of this earth. She is a fairy. She has been put here by magic—oh, the devil! I cannot understand it at all."

Crawford, who felt that he could understand it perfectly, held his peace. Suddenly a sharp sound drifted to them from somewhere far below, and was repeated.

"What is that noise?" Frontin started.

"The bark of a wolf," said Crawford.

Frontin jerked to his feet. "Then I have learned something," he said drily, "for until now I have never heard of a wolf swimming."

He strode away into the trees, and presently returned with Standing Bull and two Dacotah warriors. They joined Crawford and listened. Once more that long wolf-call came up from the water below. At this moment another Dacotah hurried to join them, with eager words.

"Le Talon says that he hears the voice of his brother Black Kettle!"

Standing Bull uttered a sharp exclamation, and the three Dacotah vanished.

"There is a path down to the water," said the chief. Let us wait. If the Stone Men are down there, the path must be closed."

The three remained silent. They heard nothing more for a long space. The dark star-glinting lake, where all the constellations of the sky were mirrored in placid glory, gave up no further sound—until, abruptly, a musket crashed out from the shore below. Two made answer from the water, with ruddy flashes, and then pealed up a sharp chorus of yells. Again silence ensued, until Standing Bull spoke up.

"The Stone Men are on the lake in canoes. Fear not, my young men will close this cliff trail——"

A rumbling crash of rock, a yell, and then a triumphant Dacotah whoop came close on his words to show their truth. Again silence. Crawford waited, with hope tugging at him. If Black Kettle had arrived, Perrot and the Dacotah warriors under Yellow Sky must have come up!

The Star Woman and most of her men were hastily gathering to the scene, when the three Dacotah came climbing to the cliff-verge again, and with them two weary, wounded men. One was the Mohegan, Black Kettle; the other was a sub-chief from the southern villages of the Dacotah. These came to the Star Woman and made report, while all around hung on their words.

"Yellow Sky and a hundred Issanti warriors are on the trail. They have Metaminens with them. He sent Black Kettle and Wounded Crane on ahead. Fifty others of The Men have gone around by the eastward of the lake, to cut off the Assiniboine retreat. It is the word of Metaminens that Red Bull be detained for two days. Before the second sun has set, Metaminens will be here."

Crawford caught a significant grunt from Frontin, and gave up hope. Two days would see a different end to this story! The Star Woman sent the new arrivals away with the other braves, and came to the two white men.

"You heard?" she exclaimed, a thrill in her voice. "Tell me, what is in the mind of Metaminens? What does he mean to do?"

"Save you from Maclish," said Crawford, "make peace with the Stone Men, and win them over to the French cause. How he can do that, remains to be seen."

"You do not know Metaminens, if you doubt him!" was her flashing answer. "So he needs two days? Then we must stop all fighting until he arrives."

"But Maclish must not know that he is coming," said Crawford, unwilling to dispel her confidence. She laughed softly and was gone in the darkness. Frontin uttered a low laugh.

"She wants peace, Perrot wants peace, Maclish wants peace—what beautiful irony! All three lose. She is too proud to pay the price of peace, Perrot will be too late to save us, and—who, then, will win the game?"

"Who, then?" demanded Crawford.

"Death," said Frontin gloomily. "We are the only ones to win, you and I! We win what we came here to seek. Meantime, go back to sleep, for to-morrow we work."

Crawford obeyed.

When sunrise broke, Crawford wakened much his old self, save for an unavoidable soreness. He interviewed Black Kettle and learned that Perrot was still too weak to travel fast, and the Dacotah would not go on without him; neither he nor they dreamed that the Star Woman was in acute peril.

The scouts reported that the force of Maclish was encamped without any immediate sign of attack. Crawford, after disposing his available force along the one assailable front, now protected by an excellent breastwork, joined them at breakfast and awaited the next move. Ere the meal was finished, the Star Woman appeared and came to Crawford and Frontin.

"We must send a messenger to Maclish at once," she said.

"Maclish is already sending one to us," rejoined Crawford. Her dark blue eyes widened upon him.

"How do you know?"

"I don't; but I know Maclish."

While she was still staring at him perplexedly, one of the scouts came leaping in across the breastwork with news. An Assiniboine chief had left Maclish's camp and was coming toward the spot. He was unarmed, carrying only belts and a roll of birchbark. Crawford smiled at these tidings, gave orders that the chief be brought in, and met the startled gaze of the Star Woman.

"You see, I spoke truly. Do you imagine that we are masters of this situation? Not at all, I assure you."

"I will go out and see this man Maclish——"

"Then, understand what will happen!" Crawford spoke sternly, gravely, his tone startling her anew. "He will seize you, and will then have everything. Do you imagine that he has any respect or reverence for you? He is an animal, an animal! If you do not believe me, ask Frontin, who knows him."

She believed him and said no more; only a perceptible pallor crept over her face as she waited, and deepened there.

There was no long delay. Presently the chief of the Stone Men was led forward by two of the Dacotah scouts. He was a young man, naked to the waist, bearing two long bead belts around his neck and carrying a rolled strip of bark. He came to the Star Woman, met her gaze with grave dignity; then, removing his belts, he delivered them. He spoke in the Dacotah tongue, which Standing Bull translated for Crawford and Frontin.

"I bring you a belt from our father Maclish, called Red Bull," he said, handing the first belt to the Star Woman. "It says this: 'Place yourself in my hands and avoid the shedding of blood. I will take you into my lodge and you shall have honour among the Stone Men. The Dacotah and their brethren the Stone Men shall dwell in peace together, and their nation will become great, A tree of peace shall be planted whose branches will overshadow all the western country. If you assent to this, return yourself with my messenger.' Thus says the first belt.

"Here is the second belt," and the envoy held out one composed of black beads. "This is what it says. 'If you do not return with my messenger; if you do not come to me at once, then I will come and take you. All those men with you shall go into the kettles of the Stone Men. You cannot escape me, and the blood of your young men will be upon your head.' Thus speaks the second belt."

Now Crawford had on this morning hung the Star of Dreams outside his shirt, since the metal irked his tender new skin. The Assiniboine glanced around, saw the jewel, and in silence held out his roll of birch to Crawford, who took it. The Star Woman came to him, bitter anxiety in her eyes, yet with a proud anger flaming behind the anxiety.

"You have heard those belts? I cannot give myself to this man—sooner would I leap into the lake below! How can we gain time?"

"We cannot," said Crawford grimly, and unrolled the birch. "Now let us see what message the Red Bull has sent to me."

He studied the scrawl in the fresh-peeled bark, and then read it aloud, translating it into French that all might comprehend. To the woman who listened at his elbow with bated breath, to the dark warriors standing around, that message came with a blunt shock—a shock which betrayed the whole truth to them.

"Make her yield to me, and I will spare you and Frontin. I have you surrounded and will grant no quarter to others; not one of the Nadouissioux must live to tell of this matter. If she will not yield, then persuade her out to speak with me, and you shall still be spared. Refuse, and I finish the torture that I began a while back."

The red men standing around uttered a low chorus of grunts and waited. Crawford looked up, met the lapis eyes of the Star Woman, found them wide with horrified comprehension.

"You understand?" he said gravely. "This fool thinks me coward enough to buy my life with you; yet he means to keep no promises. It is essential to his scheme that none of your warriors should remain alive to tell the Dacotah the truth—and he means to murder me as well, despite these promises."

The Star Woman tried to speak, and the words died on her lips. Then, at the third attempt, she made hoarse response.

"But Metaminens! We must gain time—if I went out to meet this man——"

"You would be seized, your men would lose heart, and be slain. There is only one way in which we can gain time."

Crawford touched his knife significantly, and a grunt of assent broke from the braves. Then all were silent, awaiting her response.

This was slow in coming. Despair swept the face of the girl, followed by a swift flush of anger; but this ebbed away instantly, and was succeeded by a deathly pallor. Now, beyond all evasion, the Star Woman perceived that she must abandon everything, that peace and temporizing were alike impossible, that there was but one issue. Crawford spoke again, since he dared not risk any misunderstanding in her mind.

"Maclish knows better than to trust himself among us. You can still win the whole game—at a price. Yield to his terms, go to his camp, put yourself at his mercy; and peace will follow. True, we others will be slain none the less—yet there will be peace until Perrot comes to take vengeance. Then what?"

To this bitter speech, Frontin added cool, sardonic words which bit far deeper than he could know.

"Madame, this affair is perfectly simple—it is as logical and dispassionate as a problem in geometry! Look you, now. Our only possible hope is in Sieur Perrot, is it not? Well, Perrot's only possible hope is in us likewise! This Maclish will attack, and then what happens? With luck, we shall kill him; certainly, we shall do our best. Perhaps he will kill us. In any case, neither he nor we can win this game. But if we can hold out a little while, Perrot may yet find you alive. So the only one who can win this game is Perrot—voilà!"

In the startled silence that ensued, the Assiniboine envoy, who spoke no French, stabbed with curious eyes at Crawford, the Star Woman, the chiefs around. Frontin's words brought home to them that there was only one wild, desperate hope left—not for them, but for Perrot. If they chose to die here, then the Star Woman might or might not remain alive until Perrot came. In any case, Perrot and the Dacotah host would strike Maclish like a thunderbolt, all unperceived, and could dictate his own terms. Crawford laughed a little.

"And I thought Perrot's dream was impossible!" he murmured.

A swift glory leaped into the lovely face of the Star Woman. She, who all her life had heard so much of Perrot, yet who did not know the true reason of her longing to see that man, suddenly leaped at this one forlorn hope.

"I play the hand of Metaminens!" she exclaimed, her eyes flashing around the circle of dark faces. "That is my decision—yet I cannot command you to die, my friends. Wandering Star, I leave this matter to you. Return a belt to Maclish in my name."

Then, not awaiting the issue, she turned and passed among the trees toward the grave that lay beneath the crooked pine. Crawford, in turn, spoke to Standing Bull.

"I choose to fight it out, Dacotah. Make what answer you like to the Stone Men."

Standing Bull had no need to ask the temper of the warriors around. Teton and Issanti and Mohegan, all fastened upon him a fiercely exultant regard. Le Talon alone was quite indifferent; seated against his tree, he was calmly streaking his features with vermilion as though quite certain of the outcome. Standing Bull took from his belt the grisly trophy which he had fetched in the previous evening, and handed it to the Assiniboine.

"The scalps of the Stone Men are like the feathers of crows," he said. "A chief of The Men does not care to keep them. Take this to your chiefs as a belt from the Star Woman. To the Red Bull take this message." And unstopping his powder horn, he sprinkled on the scalp a few grains of powder."

"We have kettles for you all," returned the Assiniboine. "To-night we shall feast upon the hearts of the Dacotah." Then, stalking away, he leaped the barricade and was gone with a shrill yelp.

"Quick, now!" Crawford was at the side of the Dacotah chief with swift orders. "Put ten of your men at the breastwork with all the muskets. Frontin, take a gun! Black Kettle has his own. Send out the other warriors to oppose their advance; tell them to fall back on the position here and to save themselves so far as possible."

While these directions went into effect, Crawford, who knew himself still unable to endure the heavy recoil of a musket, provided himself with several tomahawks and took post at the center of the barricade, where Frontin and Black Kettle joined him. Standing Bull himself was gone into the trees beyond with his scouts. Now Crawford heard the voice of Le Talon, and saw the crippled chief limping to him. There, his injured leg bolstered up, Le Talon stood facing the clearing beyond, his voice rising and falling in a weird monotone as it lifted to the morning sky the recital of his deeds and trophies.

Then, suddenly, a musket banged in the forest, followed by others. The Stone Men could have little ammunition left, and what they had was now being rapidly expended. Bullets clipped the high trees, while Crawford and his men waited for the battle to be broken upon them; and on the ground in little sheaves lay the scarlet arrows which were the peculiar token of the Star Woman. Yells resounded, and among them Crawford thrilled to the bull-like roar of Maclish.

Now came Standing Bull, darting from the trees and leaping over the barricade, reaching for arrows to fill his empty quiver.

"Wah!" he panted, fiercely exultant. "They come—all of them!"

Among the trees appeared other of the Dacotah, fighting as they retreated, arrows flashing around them. Man by man they came in—but not all of them. Five had fallen. A long yell shrilled up from the trees as the enemy sighted the barricade and paused.

"Fire one at a time, and low," commanded Crawford.

On the word, the Stone Men came bursting from cover in one wild charge, as though to overwhelm the defenders in a great wave, with the roar of Maclish to spur them on. Stripped and painted, arrows and bullets hurtling over them into the barricade, the solidly massed redskins came pouring across the clearing, converging on the narrow line of felled trees.

"Let fire," said Crawford, and Frontin dropped a chief who was in the lead.

The muskets spouted white flame and smoke; at that short distance even the Dacotah could not miss, and their bullets ploughed furrows of death through the enemy. The hum and twang of loosened bowstrings, the whistling song of feathered shafts, the panting grunts of men, rippled down the line; those short, powerful Teton bows, which could send a shaft through and through a bison, uttered a deeper and more vibrant note. The Assiniboine whoop changed to a death-yell. Their vanguard stumbled, melted away, plunged headlong. A red wall of the dead formed up, across which mounted the living ranks behind, only to catch anew the full sweep of those scarlet shafts which pierced two men at once.

None the less, they swept forward in stubborn fury, rolled on to the barricade, paused there like a breaking wave and then crested above it. As that tide of men burst high and fell inward, Crawford gave up all for lost.

He drove out with his keen little axes, sending each through the air like a lane of living light, each one driving home relentlessly and surely. A Dacotah beside him gasped and fell under a stone club; Crawford axed the slayer, saw Le Talon engaged with two stocky Assiniboines, heard the Mohegan yell volley up. No sign of Maclish caught his eye. Behind the storm of tumultuous figures, the Tetons drove out with their long lances, though Old Bear was now down, stabbing and stabbed in red ruin.

Then, like a flash, all was changed. A new yell arose—men paused, staring. Crawford turned, to see the Star Woman coming from the trees, coming forward to the barricade. At sight of her the Stone Men hesitated—then the reloading was accomplished, the muskets began to roar again, bowstrings twanged, scarlet shafts pierced swift and deep. Those of the enemy who had mounted the barricade were swept away, and upon the others poured a deadly rain. These could endure no longer. It was not their mode of warfare, and their fanatic exultation was blasted by the fearful toll of death. Their ranks melted, and they were gone.

Crawford glanced down the line, lips compressed. Le Talon was dead, with his two assailants. Old Bear was gone. Four Tetons remained, with Standing Bull and five Issanti. Crawford turned to the Star Woman.

"Back!" he said sternly. "We cannot risk——"

Her eyes met his gaze steadily, and a smile was on her lips.

"I remain here with you and with my men," she said quietly. Crawford knew better than to oppose, and changed his tactics instantly.

"Very well," he said. "But we cannot hold this barricade now—the next rush will end it. Back to the trees, all of us! We must make ready to hold the point of the cliff. That will be our last defence."

She comprehended, and turned back to the grove. Crawford sent Standing Bull and the Dacotah after her, then turned to Frontin and Black Kettle, who were unhurt.

"Load all the muskets and hold this barricade," he said quietly.

"Ay, cap'n," rejoined Frontin, laughing a little.

Crawford waited. Already the arrows were singing in from the trees, and presently he saw that which he had feared. The Stone Men were taking advantage of the ravine at either side the clearing; sheltered there, they began to pour in a steady fire upon the barricade, in the centre of which remained Frontin and Black Kettle. As the muskets began to crash out their message, Crawford withdrew to the trees of the sacred grove, an arrow burning his arm ere he reached the cover.

He passed in among the trees. Then, ahead of him, he saw the Dacotah grouped, saw them open out as he approached. Amid them, half hidden by the hanging limbs of a cedar, he saw something fair and yellow. An oath dashed from his lips, and he leaped forward to kneel beside the Star Woman.

From the centre of that star of silver and turquoise which hung against her breast protruded the feathered shaft of an arrow.

Crawford looked up at Standing Bull. "Carry her back there, beneath the crooked pine; the turquoise star has deflected the arrow—she may live. I will come to her. Set your men to work felling trees. Hurry!"

The Dacotah obeyed in dark silence.

CHAPTER VIII

SOMETIMES SUNRISE CAN COME TOO LATE

NOON passed into afternoon, and still the outer barricade remained untaken, for Black Kettle and Frontin held it. They were excellent shots, and with two Dacotah to keep the muskets loaded, they twice checked half-hearted charges and searched the farther trees and the lips of the ravine with deadly bullets. Maclish could not prod his men to face that barricade again, after the fearful loss of the first attack. Having fired away their last powder and exhausted their initial ardour, the Stone Men kept up a sullen discharge of arrows and would do no more.

The Star Woman, who had lost much blood but was in no danger, lay at the verge of the cliff under the crooked tree, near the sleeping-place of her mother; and she, too, slept in an exhausted slumber. Crawford, who had tended her wound, was glad enough to have it so, for his hands were full.

He laboured with the Dacotah, though in grim certainty of the end; the Star Woman's wound from a chance shaft had filled them all with deadly fury. Standing Bull sent up repeated signal smokes, hoping that Perrot's warparty would see them, but as the afternoon drew on, no response came from those leagues of silent green forest outspread beyond the lake of many stars. And, now and again, to the musketry of Frontin and Black Kettle rang out the death-yells of the Stone Men.

Where the sacred grove thinned out toward the sacred tree, Crawford laid his second breastwork, enclosing the tip of the craggy triangle. Tree after tree crashed down and was laid in position, wide boughs projecting. When this had been done, the warriors fell to work collecting old shafts or making new ones, inserting sharp flints into the ball of each warclub or casse-tete, stoically preparing for the last fight here at the crooked tree.

The wounded warrior squatting beside the couch of the Star Woman sent a call to Crawford. He came to her quickly, knelt beside her; in his bronzed features was a great tenderness, and his fingers touched her brow, smoothing back the golden hair.

"You must stay quiet, Star Woman!"

She smiled a little. "Fear not, Wandering Star. In my sleep I have called Metaminens, and he is coming."

"Can you reach him where signal-smokes have failed, then?" asked Crawford bitterly. She put her hand to his, gripping his fingers.

"I am sorry that at first I did not understand what sort of man you are, Wandering Star; I did not guess what tenderness could be in you. I am only a weak woman, fighting the world with what weapons are mine, as my mother taught me. Now—I have thought of how to prevent more bloodshed, to save you and these others."

Crawford's steel-blue eyes hardened slightly. "How?"

"Maclish does not know that Metaminens is coming, and he will be trapped by to-morrow. Send him word that I am dying; let one of his men come and see me wounded. The Stone Men will be frightened, and Maclish will not know what to do——"

"No," said Crawford. "Maclish means to have you alive or dead; he has gone too far to draw out now. If he knew that the Dacotah host was coming, he and the Stone Men might flee—but he would refuse to believe it, from our lips. Even if he believed it, he would attack us at once, in order to seize you and so buy his safety from Perrot. There is no way out of this imbroglio, Star Woman—except to hold out while we can."

The eyes of the girl closed.

"You are right. I will send out my spirit to reach Metaminens, as my mother used to do. It is our only hope."

Crawford stood for a moment regarding the girl, wondering at her words. He remembered how Perrot had spoken of the Star Woman's influence in his life. Could it be that Perrot was the father of this girl? Then whence had come her mother—a white woman, certainly? That would never be known now, for this girl herself knew nothing of her past.

As he stood, those glorious lapis eyes opened, swept up to meet his gaze, and a smile touched the lips of the Star Woman. In this smile, this look, there passed between the two something more than words could have told—a touch of the spirit beyond any speech. Then Crawford found the Dacotah chief at his elbow.

"My brother Black Kettle is calling!"

"Come." With Standing Bull, Crawford turned to the trees of the grove, and rapidly passed among them, suddenly conscious that muskets had been banging all this while. When they sighted the outer barricade, Frontin saw them, wiped his powder-blackened face, and shouted:

"Four charges left, cap'n!"

"Come in, then."

Followed by a hail of shafts, Frontin and the Mohegan came bounding across to the trees, carrying a musket each. From the outer forest was ascending a din of shouts, yells, long chorused chants, pierced by the bellow of Maclish. Crawford understood that the Stone Men were working themselves up to battle fury, singing the scalp dance, preparing for one final assault. He turned to Standing Bull.

"Call up your men. When the enemy come, let them take the outer breastwork, but hold the grove, falling back on the last defence. Frontin, go back to the crooked tree with the muskets. We must check them there until morning."

Hardly had he spoken, when an up-pouring yell and a whistle of shafts betrayed that the Stone Men were advancing. Now the Dacotah came darting forward to occupy the grove, and as they did so, the enemy poured into sight from the farther trees, sending a hail of shafts over the breastwork into the grove, and Crawford caught a glimpse of Maclish urging them on from the rear.

Now the bows thrummed, and the long shafts sang down the level sunlight of waning afternoon. Men stumbled and died, or leaped in midair like stricken deer; but the defenders were all too few. Up to the outer barricade swept the yelling flood, paused for an instant, and then came surging over. Crawford shouted his men back, hurled his axe into the brain of the nearest Assiniboine, then went leaping for cover. Pealing up yells of triumph, the Stone Men burst across the barricade and flooded in upon the grove.

There again the bowstrings twanged, and shafts whistled fiercely into naked bodies, but there was no checking this assault. Through the grove swept the Stone Men, scarcely checked by the Dacotah arrows. Crawford gained the breastwork, defending the last bit of ground around the crooked tree, and was joined there by Standing Bull and four warriors. The others were gone.

No orders were needed. The Dacotah caught up fresh arrows, Frontin and Black Kettle lay with matches alight. As the grove vomited forth the oncoming Stone Men, the four last charges of powder roared out one by one, arrows flew as fast as fingers could work the strings. Smitten by this blast of death, dismayed to find a fresh barricade facing them, the Assiniboines paused, wavered, broke back abruptly to cover. The storm abruptly ceased, the bellow of Maclish quelling the arrow-flight. The sun was just sinking from sight behind the western trees.

"Habet!" With a wild laugh, Frontin pointed to Standing Bull. The old chief quietly fell forward, with the point of an arrow emerging from his back, and was dead. "Seven of us left in all, cap'n. Hurt?"

"No."

"Then I am. Come and cut out this shaft."

Startled, Crawford sprang to Frontin's side and saw that his friend was pierced through, below the right shoulder. With his knife, he slashed at the crimsoned arrow-head; Frontin gripped the feathered shaft and drew it out. At this instant the voice of Maclish roared up from among the trees of the sacred grove.

"Ahoy, Crawford! Art there yet?"

"Aye, Maclish," returned Crawford. "Come out and settle it with me, you devil!"

"Not I." Maclish laughed jeeringly. "We're going to burn two of your men to-night. With sunrise we'll finish it. Tell the Star Woman that I'll take her in the morning!"

Silence fell. Frontin grinned and put the message into French for the redskins, while Crawford tied up his wound.

"We have a respite until morning, cap'n! And well earned and dear bought, say I. He's got two of our wounded men and will burn them to hearten his devils. Well, this time to-morrow night we'll be burning too."

In the last lingering light, two of the wounded warriors built up a last forlorn signal-smoke; but from the silent forests across the lake, now purpling in the twilight, came no response, and the horizon was bare. The darkness fell. Behind the barricade now remained Crawford, Frontin, Black Kettle and four Dacotah braves. They had a little water, not much; this was saved for the Star Woman. Crawford took it to her with a scrap of food, as she lay beneath the crooked tree. She had just wakened, and her voice in the darkness thrilled him.

"Let the food wait. I have summoned Metaminens, called him; he is coming now. When the sun lifts over the east, he will come."

"And except that two men are burning, we would be gone," thought Crawford, but did not voice his thought. Nor did he seek any explanation of how she could summon Metaminens; there was in this girl more of mystery than he could fathom—and in the touch of her hand more of allure than he dared admit.

So as he sat beside her in the night, they talked a little space of the mother that she had lost; and Crawford spoke of the Irish girl whom he once had loved, and the name of Metaminens arose between them.

"He will be here at sunrise, and I shall see him!" said the Star Woman, and sighed. And at this Crawford leaned over and touched his lips to her forehead, and so left her. The Dacotah came and built up a little shelter of pine boughs above her, and she slept.

To the little group of wounded and desperate men who waited there by the crooked tree, the dark hours drew on terribly. From the sacred grove gleamed the lurid glow of fires, while the fierce laughter of the Stone Men told of the grim work going on there; and once the sharp scream of a man in mortal agony came wrenching through the darkness, but only once. Then, after midnight, silence fell, and Crawford slept a little.

In the rustling greyness of dawn, when mist-shadows were stealing up from the lake and the contorted shape of the sacred pine hung black against the paling sky, Crawford was wakened by Black Kettle.

"My brother, it is time. The Star Woman is awake, also."

Crawford rose, shook himself, went to the little shelter of boughs.

"It is certain," said the Star Woman quietly, looking up at him. "When the sun lifts, Metaminens will be here. Tell the others."

Crawford told them, but they only grunted; those redskins had no illusions now.

The dawn increased, and up the eastern sky pierced the first reddened lance-tips of the day. Black Kettle divided with the four Dacotah the remaining arrows, and waited. Frontin and Crawford smoked. From the sacred grove beyond the breastwork arose a murmur of voices, among them lifting the deep tones of Maclish. One of the Dacotah, listening, uttered a curt laugh and translated.

"They say the Red Bull is a coward; they will not attack unless he leads them."

As though in response, a burst of yells lifted from the trees.

"Coming!" said Frontin, and knocked out his pipe.

The seven ranged themselves behind the fallen trees, arrows on string, long war-clubs ready, tomahawk and knife at belt; Crawford stood in the centre, Frontin and the Mohegan to either side of him. The pealing whoop of Black Kettle made fierce answer to the yells, and then across the opening came a rush of dark figures.

Now the Dacotah bows thrummed and sang for the last time, and the biting shafts flew fast; no arrows made answer, for Maclish wanted to take the Star Woman alive. The eastern sky was all aflame with scarlet and gold, and full day was breaking. Stumbling across their dead, the Stone Men flooded onto the breastwork, crashed amid the boughs, and came storming over it. And at their head, hurling himself madly forward, was Maclish, axe in hand.

Crawford waited, crouching, laughing softly to himself. He did not move as the burly Scot smashed into the tangle of tree-limbs, until he saw that red-bearded animal's face lift into sight not three feet from him—then, rising suddenly, he flung himself out and grappled his enemy.

It was axe to axe, fist to fist, man to man, while about them the tide of battle rolled unheeded and unheeding. Crawford flashed his axe, felt it torn from his hand, and whipped out his knife. Steel was biting him, but he felt it not. He bore the Scot backward, laughed into the contorted face, drove home his knife again and again until he was amazed to find that his work was done. Before the wild ferocity of the attack, Maclish crumpled up and gasped, and died cursing.

Scarce realizing the fact, Crawford scrambled back across the barrier and stood to wipe the blood from his face. Then he went staggering under the knife-thrust of an Assiniboine who struck him from behind, following the blow with a leap. Crawford met the leap with his knife, dashed the warrior aside, and stood reeling. The last Dacotah was down, still struggling under a heap of bodies, while Frontin and Black Kettle fought their way toward the crooked tree at the point of the cliff.

Black Kettle gave his death-yell to the crashing impact of a war-club, and vanished. Then Crawford, forgotten, picked up a fallen club and rushed into the thick of the mêlée. He reached Frontin, struck aside a leaping warrior, and together they reached the crooked tree beside the little shelter where the Star Woman lay. There against the twisted pine they stood back to back, while the Stone Men surged in upon them and drew away again, awed by the dark man who laughed as he wielded crimsoned knife, and the other man with blazing eyes and the great star shimmering at his throat as the club swung. Awed for a moment only—then they closed in.

Knife bit delicately, with the deadly precision of a rapier; club thudded and crashed; men died and lay broken, ringing in the pair who fought. The flood surged in again and again, only to be beaten back, shattered, hurled aside from that ring of dead. In again it came, relentless and maddened. Frontin, staggering under a smashing blow, went to his knees, reeled back gasping against the tree-bole. Crawford swung his weapon, but blood was on his hand and it slipped away. He dragged at his knife, drove out with it again and again at the rimming circle of faces—and for the last time that flood drew back. Frontin staggered up.

"Can ye see Phelim Burke now?" he croaked, with a ghastly laugh.

A vibrant note made answer and Frontin lay back against the crooked tree, pinned to it by a shaft whose feathered end stood out of his breast. A stone axe hurtled in air, and Crawford staggered. He threw out his hands and fell forward, and lay across the little arbour of the Star Woman, who caught him in her arms as he fell.

Then the sun rose, and Metaminens came.

CHAPTER IX

WHEN A STAR FALLS, A SOUL HAS PASSED

SIEUR NICHOLAS PERROT came along, making his way among the strewn bodies, to the crooked tree; he wavered a little as he came, for weakness was still heavy upon him. No other was in sight, but from the depths of the forest around came the stabbing reports of guns, the yells of men, the fierce warcry of the Dacotah warriors, rolling afar in a gradually lessening rout of receding slaughter. None of the Stone Men would return to their own villages from the lake of many stars, and from this day forward the enmity between Dacotah and Assiniboine would never die down. So the dream of Sieur Perrot had ended, after all, in failure.

Perrot came to a sudden halt, aghast at what he beheld and heard. Of the Star Woman he could see nothing, for she lay unconscious beneath Crawford's body. But there in the morning sunlight stood Frontin, bleeding from a dozen wounds; having torn himself from the shaft that pinned him to the tree, Frontin leaned on a broken musket, laughing horribly at Perrot. Now, lowering an almost useless hand, Frontin stooped and picked up an object that lay beside the silent figure of Crawford. It was the Star of Dreams.

"Dead!" said Frontin thinly. "Dead!"

Perrot crossed himself and tried to speak, but could not. With a shuffling step, Frontin came to the verge of the cliff and swayed a little, the musket escaping from his grip. The man was dying where he stood, and Sieur Perrot was frozen by the sight.

"Well, M. Crawford was right!" Faint as was the voice, it was Frontin's old cool, sardonic tone. "He followed the Star of Dreams—and it led him across the horizon to which all men must attain. Yes, he was right; he alone has won this game! If you will regard the smile on his lips, my dear Perrot, you will see that he is happy. I think you are Sieur Perrot? Of course."

An inarticulate word escaped the older man, then he checked himself. Frontin held up the Star of Dreams, so that the level morning sunlight striking across the far forest leagues below drew from it a shimmer of flame. He swayed suddenly, then caught himself.

"Ah, my captain, my captain!" he said mournfully. "What was it—an agent of unseen destiny? Eh, bien! You played the game, you won your fight. Fall, my star, fall! When a star falls, they say, a soul has passed——"

Frontin jerked his hand. The jewel flew out into the air, blazed for an instant with a swift sheen of green and gold, then was gone with a long flash to the lake below. Frontin staggered for the second time, and looked sideways at Perrot.

"My dear Sieur Perrot," and his words were little more than a whisper, "when you go to court, and they ask whether you have encountered M. le Marquis de Sazerac in the New World, you may say to them that—he followed—the Star of—Dreams——"

His knees were loosened, and he suddenly pitched forward and was gone from sight. The echo of his wild laugh floated up from the depth, and that was all.

Sieur Nicholas Perrot clutched the crucifix at his breast, and closed his eyes, trembling. His lips moved silently—then he suddenly lifted his head and looked up. A sound came to his ears. He started violently.

"Metaminens!"

Now, suddenly seeing what he had failed to see, Perrot threw himself forward and a cry broke from his lips. He hurled the brush aside, and met the gaze of the Star Woman. Eyes distended, he caught her hand, stared at her, babbled frightened words.

"You—you—ah, it is not you at all!" he exclaimed incoherently.

The Star Woman sat up. With one arm she held the body of Crawford, which lay across her knees, the other hand she extended to Perrot.

"Metaminens!" A glory was in her eyes. "It is you! Here, look to him quickly—he is not dead—I can feel his heart beating——"

Perrot awoke to action. He turned Crawford over and swiftly examined the hurt body.

"No—he is not dead. He will not die if——"

His eyes fell upon the star of silver and turquoise that hung across the bandaged breast of the Star Woman. A deathly pallor came into his face. He reached out and touched the star.

"You—yes, it is you after all——"

"Look to him, quickly!" cried the girl, and then fell back, her eyes closed.

Perrot glanced at Crawford and shrugged. "You are far from death, my friend," he murmured. Leaning forward, he touched the breast of the girl, nodded reassuringly as he felt her heartbeat, then looked for a long moment into her quiet face.

When he rose and stood erect, the grey-bearded cheeks of Sieur Nicholas Perrot were sparkling with tears. In his eyes lay a great wonder, and a greater heartache.

"Her daughter—her daughter!" he said softly. "And I never knew! Now I have come too late—she will never know, and how can I tell her? Metaminens is no more—his work is done, his heart is broken and dead, his body is outworn, his spirit is weary. Oh, Star Woman, you who have gone across the horizon—wait for me! Your daughter has found her destiny in this man—leave the future to them, and wait for me, Star Woman! I shall not be long in coming to you. Not what has been, my Star Woman, but what will be—what will be——"

So Perrot stood there, with bowed head, until Crawford groaned and stirred. Then, brushing the tears from his grey beard, Sieur Nicholas Perrot knelt to his work. And above him the morning breeze lifted the singing pine-needles of the crooked tree, as though up there a voice whispered back to him—

"What will be!"

THE END

This article uses material from the Wikipedia article  Metasyntactic variable, which is released under the  Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License.