The period of bright, calm weather seemed to be over. The next morning was dark and cloudy, with a raw wind. In accordance with Louis’ plan, he and Walter climbed Buffalo Head again. At the foot of the bare rock slope, they succeeded in picking up the trail from the painted skull. Two men, Louis concluded, had come and gone that way. He traced the trail easily enough for a short distance, but in the woods it became confused with that of several wolves. Probably the beasts had followed the men at a safe distance. Where the snow lay deep the men had taken to snowshoes.

By the time the lads had reached a puzzling spot, where the tracks seemed to branch into two trails, the threat of the morning had been fulfilled. Snow was falling. Selecting the more distinct trail, Louis led on, but the thick-falling flakes were rapidly obliterating the tracks. He grew more and more doubtful of them, until at last he was sure that he had lost the trail entirely. After circling about, attempting in vain to pick it up, he gave up the chase.

“It is of no use to go on,” he said to his companion. “If this snow had waited a few hours, – but no, it comes at just the wrong time.” With a resigned shrug of his shoulders, he turned back.

For a time the snow came thick and fast, but before the boys were half-way home, it had almost ceased. When they reached the cabin, the wind had changed and the sun was shining. The storm had lasted just long enough to defeat their purpose. Their hard tramp had been for nothing. The stay-at-home, however, had news; news he was impatient to tell.

“I have had a visitor,” he burst out the moment Louis opened the door.

“A visitor!”

“A visitor?” echoed Walter, entering close behind his comrade.

“Yes, and I have found out about the new skull on Buffalo Head.”

“That is more than we have done,” Louis admitted, shaking the snow from his capote. “There have been Indians here?”

“No, a white man.”

Louis and Walter were too amazed even to exclaim. They stared unbelievingly at Neil.

“A white man,” the Scotch boy repeated. “He came a little while after you left. I didn’t know he was anywhere around till he knocked on the door. I was surprised, I can tell you, when I heard that knock. An Indian would have walked right in, so, even before I opened the door, I knew there must be a white man there. And there was, – a broad-shouldered fellow with a shaggy beard. He said ‘Bo jou’ and I said ‘Bo jou, come in.’ Then we stood and looked at each other. Just as I opened my mouth to ask him where he came from, he began asking me questions.”

“What kind of questions?” Louis interrupted.

“Who I was, and what I was doing here, if I was trapping or trading with the Indians. He could see the pelts all around the room. He was so sharp about it, I thought he might be a Hudson Bay man out on the track of free traders. I told him we hadn’t seen an Indian since we came and didn’t expect to see one. Then he wanted to know what we were going to do with our furs. Of course I said we were going to take them to the Company at Pembina.”

“Did that satisfy him?”

“It seemed to. He isn’t a Company man, it appears.”

“A free trader?” questioned Louis.

“He didn’t say. He is on his way from Portage la Prairie to Pembina.”

“Portage la Prairie is on the Assiniboine. Why did he come this way?”

“He said it was shorter and he wanted to make speed.”

Louis shook his head doubtfully. “Shorter? No, I think not. He must be off his course. How many are in his party?”

“No one but himself. He didn’t even have a sled, only a pack and his snowshoes.”

“But that is strange. You are sure he had no comrades?”

“I asked him if he had come all the way alone,” Neil explained, “and he said that at first he had traveled with two others. Yesterday or last night, he left them. He had quarreled with them I think. When he went away, he warned me to look out for them and not to trust them. I asked if they were coming this way. He didn’t know where they were going, he said, but they were somewhere around here in the hills.”

“What about the painted skull?” inquired Walter.

“I told him about our finding it and the tracks. He said the other fellows put the skull there. One of them is an Assiniboin.”

Walter was puzzled. “If that is true, – if those men really did that, they must have reached the hills two or three days ago. We found the skull yesterday.”

“That’s so.” Neil rubbed his red head thoughtfully. “That rather spoils his story of making speed straight through from Portage la Prairie, doesn’t it?”

“He lied,” concluded Louis emphatically. “Somewhere he lied, either about himself or about the placing of the skull on the Tête de Boeuf. What was he like, that fellow, and who is he? What is his name? Where does he belong?”

“He didn’t tell me his name, but he is a DeMeuron from St. Boniface. He asked so many questions that I didn’t think till afterwards that he hadn’t mentioned his name. He asked mine and yours.”

“He knew you were not here alone then?”

“Oh yes, I told him I expected you two back any moment. He kept looking at our furs, and I thought he had better know we were three to one.”

“Three to three perhaps,” said Louis thoughtfully, “if the others are still near here. They may not have parted at all.”

“I’m sure they have quarreled. He was telling the truth about that. You should have seen his face when he spoke of those other fellows, and he warned me against them, you know.”

“That is true,” Louis conceded, “but his stories do not agree and we had best not trust them too far.”

One of the trap lines had not been visited for two days, so Neil went out to examine the nearer traps while daylight lasted. Doubt of the white traveler’s story made Louis decide to remain at the cabin. The boys had a fairly good catch of furs, and Louis knew that wandering trappers and free traders were not always above robbing weaker parties. If the stranger returned or his former companions happened along, Louis wanted to be at home.

The sun was sinking behind the hills as Walter, accompanied by Askimé, went down to the creek. He found the water hole frozen and was chopping it out when the dog began to growl uneasily. The boy paid little attention, thinking Askimé had scented some wild animal. Suddenly Askimé threw back his head and howled. His fellows replied from near the cabin. Then, as all three were silent for a moment, there came other answers from farther away; up the creek somewhere. In doubt whether the answering voices were those of dogs or wolves, Walter filled his kettle and hastened back to the cabin.

Outside the house, Louis was trying to quiet his beasts. “We shall have visitors soon,” he announced. “You heard?”

“Yes, but I wasn’t sure whether they were dogs or wolves.”

“Dogs,” Louis asserted confidently. “Those men have heard ours. They will come this way.”

Louis and Walter tied their dogs at the rear of the cabin, and lingered outside, watching for the strangers. It was not long before a howl from the opposite direction, together with the voice of a man shouting, as he belabored some unfortunate beast, announced the arrival of the visitors.

Through an opening in the woods, into the cleared space before the cabin, came a tall fellow in buckskin leggings and blue capote, the hood pulled low over his face. He was followed by two lean, shaggy dogs drawing a toboggan. It flashed into Walter’s mind that these were the very men and sled he had seen upside down against the sky during the mirage.

“Bo jou,” called Louis in a friendly tone, as a second man appeared and the sled came to a halt.

“Bo jou,” returned the tall fellow in a deep voice.

At the sound of that voice Walter started with surprise. The newcomer pushed back his hood, and the boy found himself gazing into the face of the half-breed voyageur Murray. The sun was down behind the mountain, but even in the waning light, there was no mistaking that face; that dark, aquiline, beardless, hard, cruel face, that he had seen day after day during the long journey from Fort York to Fort Douglas.

If Murray recognized the two lads, and he must recognize them Walter knew, he made no sign. He merely stood impassive, looking at them, until Louis recovered his wits sufficiently to act the host. Under the circumstances he could do no less, even though the guest was an unwelcome one. After all there had been no open breach between Murray and the boys, and what had happened at Pembina was not their business. It would be better to show no knowledge of that affair.

At Louis’ invitation, the newcomers entered the cabin and were given the stools by the fire. They had unhitched their dogs from the sled and tied them to a tree to keep them from Louis’ beasts, but Murray was hardly seated when the noise of battle sounded from without. Louis ran out and Murray followed to find that one of his dogs had broken or gnawed off his rawhide rope and was engaged in a fight with Askimé who had broken his rope also. The beasts were separated, Murray’s dog, after being well beaten by his far from merciful master, was tied more securely, and Askimé was taken into the cabin.

Walter was already getting the evening meal, which, as a matter of course, the visitors would share. The second man, it was evident, was not the one who had been with Murray at Pembina. This fellow was an Indian, a young man, slender, well built, but insignificant beside the Black Murray. He understood scarcely a word of French or English, and spoke only when addressed in his native Assiniboin. It seemed to Walter, as he covertly watched the two, that the young Indian was completely under Murray’s domination, and stood in fear or awe of him.

Before the meal was ready, Neil returned. He had heard unfamiliar dog voices, as he approached the cabin, and had seen the loaded sled before the door, so he was not surprised to find strangers sitting by the fire. He it was who first mentioned the visitor that had come earlier in the day.

“I suppose,” he said, “you two are the ones that fellow was traveling with.”

Murray grunted an assent. After a moment he asked, “How long ago he here?” He grunted again at Neil’s reply.

The warm meal, eaten for the most part in silence, seemed to thaw Murray’s sullenness somewhat. Suddenly he began to talk; his usual mixture of bad English, worse French, Cree, and Dakota. Like the DeMeuron, he asked questions about the boys’ trapping, and inquired if they had seen any Indians and had done any trading. Questioned in return, his replies were brief and evasive. He and Kolbach had been to the west. They had come back to the hills expecting to meet a band of Assiniboins. “We waited,” he said, “but the Assiniboins not come.”

Walter and Louis were not surprised to learn that Murray’s former companion was Fritz Kolbach. They had guessed that already.

“It was here at the mountain you expected to meet the Assiniboins?” Louis inquired.

Murray shot a keen glance at him, and nodded.

“Then you camped near here for several days?” persisted Louis.

“To the north, other side Tête de Boeuf.”

“You left the fresh buffalo skull on the mountain?” put in Neil.

Murray silently pointed to his Assiniboin companion, who apparently understood nothing of the conversation. Then the half-breed asked abruptly, “Who told you that? Kolbach?”

“We found the newly painted skull and your tracks,” said Neil. “I spoke to him this morning about them and he said you put the skull there.”

Le Murrai Noir’s face had darkened at every mention of the DeMeuron. He demanded savagely, “What else he tell you?” And, before Neil could answer, added a string of violent abuse of his former companion.

“Kolbach told me nothing,” the boy hastened to reply, “nothing except that he had been traveling with you, but had left you and was going on alone. He seemed to be in a hurry.”

Murray’s eyes were fastened on Neil’s honest, freckled face. His only reply was an abrupt grunt, he turned to Louis. “You stay here long? I sell you bag pemmican, good pemmican, for furs.”

Louis ignored the question. “We thank you for your offer,” he said, “but we have no need of pemmican. We have plenty of food.” This was not strictly true, but he wanted no dealings with Murray.

Murray cast a look about the cabin, dimly lighted by the fire on the hearth. “We go now,” he said abruptly.

“You’re not going on to-night?” Neil asked in surprise.

“You are welcome to spread your blankets here by the fire,” Louis added, he would not break the rules of hospitality even though he felt the guest to be an enemy.

Murray did not even thank him. “The moon is bright. We go on.”

The Indian had risen and moved towards the door. Murray pulled on his capote and looked up at the bark and pole roof. An evil smile showed his strong, yellow-white teeth. “It burn?” he inquired.

“You set it on fire,” accused Louis.

Murray grinned mockingly. “Not me, – Kolbach.”

“But why did he want to burn the roof off?” cried Walter.

“Why leave a cabin for other traders?” Murray spoke contemptuously. Undoubtedly he felt contempt for Walter’s innocence. “Only the roof burn well,” he added. His left hand on the door latch, he turned and held out the right to Walter.

The Swiss boy, surprised at this courtesy from the man he had believed an enemy, could not refuse his own hand. Murray’s sinewy fingers clasped it firmly for an instant. A scratch in the palm, – a deep scratch made by a rough splinter of wood when Walter was renewing the fire before supper, – tingled sharply with the pressure.

“Bo jou!” said Murray, and opened the door and went out.

The Assiniboin repeated the words and followed. In a moment both were arousing and harnessing their dogs. The men’s shouts, the whines and howls of the tired beasts, lashed and beaten to force them to speed, could be heard long after men and sled had disappeared into the woods and the night.

XXIV
A SORE HAND

“Now we know it was Murray and Kolbach who camped here the night before we came,” said Louis, after the guests were gone. “Then they tried to burn this old cabin so no one else could use it. That is a trick of rival traders to make each other as much trouble as they can.”

“The Northwest Company used to destroy Hudson Bay houses whenever they got a chance,” put in Neil.

“Yes, and the Hudson Bay men did the same to the Northwesters.”

“That was a queer way to try to burn a house though,” Neil remarked, “to begin at the top. Kolbach must have had to clean off the snow before he could set the fire.”

“Perhaps it was Kolbach who cleaned away the snow, but I think the plan to burn the cabin was as much le Murrai’s as Kolbach’s,” Louis asserted. “I believe they tried to start fire in other places as well as the roof. At the back there is a place where a fire has burned close to the wall. The logs are charred and black. They started several fires, I think, but they did not stay to watch them. As le Murrai said, only the roof burned well. What do you think, Walter?”

Walter had scarcely been listening. He was examining his right hand, which still smarted. Raising his head at the question, he replied carelessly, “About the fire? They set it, of course. Lucky for us it didn’t burn better.” He looked again at his stinging palm. “I wonder if Murray ever washes his hands. The dirt came off on mine. It makes this scratch sting.”

“Let me see.” Louis seized his friend’s hand, turned the palm to the firelight and bent over it. “That is no dirt,” he exclaimed. “It is sticky, a gum of some sort. You say it was not there before Murray shook hands with you? And now it hurts?”

“My hands were clean. I washed them before we began to get supper. That scratch certainly does hurt; much more than it did at first.”

“Put some water on the fire, Neil, just a little, to heat quickly. We must do something for this hand.” Louis spoke anxiously. “Le Murrai has tried to poison you, Walter. Perhaps I can suck it out like snake venom.”

Without hesitation he put his lips to the scratch and sucked. He spat in the fire, and wiped his mouth with the end of his neck handkerchief. “The gum is too sticky, and we have nothing to draw the poison out, no salt pork for a poultice.”

“Make the scratch bleed,” suggested Neil. “Open it with your knife.”

“This black stuff must be cleaned off first,” objected Walter.

Cold water made no impression on the sticky substance that smeared Walter’s palm. Louis tried to scrape away the gum, then he sucked the scratch again. But he had to wait for hot water to really dissolve the gummy stuff and cleanse the hand. When every trace of black had been washed off, Louis drew the sharp point of his knife along the scratch, making a clean cut, deep enough to bleed freely.

In those days little was known about antiseptics. All three boys, however, were familiar enough with the treatment of snake bites to understand that poison must be drawn out as speedily as possible, either by sucking the wound or letting it bleed freely. They knew also that a clean wound was apt to heal more readily than a dirty one. Even the Indians recognized that fact, though their ideas of cleanliness were not much like ours. Louis would have torn a strip from his handkerchief to bandage the injury, but Walter felt that a colored and not too clean cloth was not the best dressing. He decided to leave his hand unbandaged, letting it bleed as much as it would and the blood clot naturally.

At first Walter could scarcely believe that Murray had deliberately tried to poison his hand, but Louis had no doubts. “I have heard of such things among the Indians,” he said, “and le Murrai Noir is more Indian than white. He would not be above revenging himself that way or any other. If he is really friendly to us, why did he act as if he had never seen us before? He knew us certainly, though our names were not spoken. As he went towards the door, he put his fingers in his fire bag. I saw him do it, but thought nothing of it. He had seen you get that scratch. You know it is not like Murray to shake anyone by the hand.”

“That surprised me, I admit,” conceded Walter.

“Truly he had a reason. He hated you always after that affair of poor M’sieu Matthieu.”

“Do you suppose he has learned that we reported the loss of the pemmican and told about his bundle of trade goods?” Walter asked thoughtfully.

“That may be. He did not go up the Assiniboin, he was at Pembina too soon. At Fort Douglas or at the Forks they may have asked him about that pemmican. Even if they did not say we told them, he might lay it to us. He never was fond of either of us. The Black Murray is an evil man. He likes to do evil I think. He takes pleasure in it.”

In spite of the prompt treatment, Walter’s hand pained him all night and kept him restless. He was not the only one of the three that was wakeful. Louis and Neil, too, were uneasy. They were uncertain of Murray’s intentions. He and his companion had gone away, with sled and dogs, but how far had they gone? Had they really set out for Pembina, or had they made camp as soon as they were out of sight and hearing? The Black Murray’s keen eyes had not failed to take note of every pelt in the cabin. He had even offered to trade pemmican for the furs. Louis had declined, but did that settle the matter? Would Murray try in some other way to get possession of the catch? That he was not scrupulous in his methods was proved by his assault and robbery of the Ojibwa at the Red River.

The boys were sure that Murray would not have hesitated to take everything, if they had been away from the cabin when he arrived. They did not doubt that he would have been ready to use violence against any one of them. But he had found Louis and Walter quite prepared for him. Numbers had been equal and the boys’ guns within reach. Before Murray could discover an opening for strategy, Neil had arrived. With three alert lads watching him, the free trader had no chance. They were not at all sure, however, that he might not return and attempt a surprise. So Neil and Walter slept little, and Louis scarcely at all. Many times during the night, the Canadian boy slipped out to look and listen. Though he had turned the dogs loose, he did not dare to trust entirely to them.

The night passed without an alarm, but the boys were far from sure that they had seen the last of the Black Murray. Before they dared go about their ordinary work, they had to be certain that he was not anywhere in the vicinity. Louis decided to follow his trail, while the others remained at the cabin, alert and prepared for a second visit.

Walter’s hand worried both himself and his comrades. It was inflamed, swollen, and very sore. No one knew what to do for it, except to open up the cut and make it bleed again, a painful operation which Walter bore without flinching.

Louis was away early. He returned late in the day with the encouraging news that Murray had left the hills. His track, distinct and easy to follow, ran straight across the prairie in the direction of the Red River. “I followed several miles over the plain,” said Louis, “and could see the trail going on in the distance. Yet I feared he might have turned farther on somewhere, so I went north a long way, looking for a return trail. Then I came back, crossed his track, and went on to the south. I found nothing. Certainly le Murrai has gone, unless he made a very wide circle to return. I think he would not give himself the trouble to do that. He had no reason to think we would doubt his story. Yes, I am as sure he is gone as I can be without following him clear to the Red River.”

Reassured, the boys took up their daily tasks of visiting the traps and deadfalls, fishing through the ice, and hunting. One of them, however, always remained at home, his gun loaded and within reach.

For several days Walter’s hand was very sore and painful. He was more than a little anxious about it. He feared serious blood poisoning that might mean the loss of hand, arm, and even life. But the inflammation did not spread. The prompt sucking of the scratch, the cleansing and free bleeding, and the healthy condition of Walter’s blood saved him. Within a week the soreness was almost gone and the cut healing properly.

In the meantime another misfortune had befallen the boys. The dogs were taken sick. Askimé was the first one to show the disease. One morning Louis found the husky with a badly swollen neck. He took the dog into the cabin and tended him anxiously, but the swelling increased until Askimé could no longer eat. He was scarcely able to swallow a little water. Walter proposed piercing the lumps, and performed the operation with an awl used in sewing skins. The swellings discharged freely, and Askimé, able to swallow, began to improve.

The other dogs had already shown signs of the same trouble. Gray Wolf had only a slight attack, but the brown animal was very sick. Lancing the lumps on his neck did no lasting good, and in spite of the boys’ efforts to save him, the poor beast died. Luckily Askimé and Gray Wolf recovered completely. How the dogs got the disease was a mystery. Murray had had no opportunity to poison them. Possibly the wolf-like animal that had broken loose and attacked Askimé had given the infection to him, or the husky and his fellows might have caught it from some wild beast they had killed and eaten.