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Updated: June 16, 2025
Very cautiously, with the patience of his race, he circled round the cabin through the timber and crept up to it on hands and knees. Every foot of the way he took advantage of such cover as was to be had. The window was a small, single-paned affair built in the end opposite the door. Onistah edged close to it and listened.
They floundered through deep snow and heavy underbrush, faces bleeding from the whip of willow switches suddenly released and feet so torn by the straps of the snowshoes that the trail showed stains of blood which had soaked from the moccasins. Onistah, already weary, began to lag. They dared not wait for him. There was, they felt, not a moment to be lost.
He lit out over the hill soon as he saw us." They went into the house. Jessie walked straight to where Onistah lay on the balsam boughs and knelt beside him. Beresford was putting on one of his feet a cloth soaked in caribou oil. "What did he do to you?" she cried, a constriction of dread at her heart. A ghost of a smile touched the immobile face of the native. "Apache stuff, he called it."
She could not conceive of Onistah holding his own against two such men as these except by slaughtering them from the window before they knew he was there. He had not in him sufficient dominating ego. Whaley was an unknown quantity. It was impossible to foresee how he would accept the intrusion of Onistah. Since he was playing his own game, the chances are that he would resent it.
It was decided that Morse should take Onistah and Jessie back to Faraway next day and return with a load of provisions. Whaley's fever must run its period. It was impossible to tell yet whether he would live or die, but for some days at least it would not be safe to move him. "Morse, I've watched ye through four-five days of near-hell.
She groaned, her heart heavy. McRae offered comfort. "He'll likely be only wounded. The lads wouldna hae moved him yet if he'd no' been livin'." The train moved forward, Jessie running beside Angus. Morse came to the door. He closed it behind him. "Onistah?" cried Jessie. "He's been hurt. But we were in time. He'll get well." "West shot him? We saw stains in the snow." "No. He shot Whaley."
Nor could she persuade herself that Whaley would stand between him and West's anger. To the gambler Onistah was only a nitchie. The train passed out of the woods to the shore of the lake. Here the going was better. The sun was down and the snow-crust held dogs and sled. A hundred fifty yards from the cabin McRae pulled up the team. He moved forward and examined the snow.
Onistah could not guess. He knew that McRae had made enemies, as any forceful character on the frontier must. The Scotchman had kicked out lazy ne'er-do-wells from his camp. As a free trader he had matched himself against the Hudson's Bay Company. But of those at war with him few would stoop to revenge themselves on his daughter.
I was with her to-day when Onistah came in and told us what this West was going to do. There wasn't time for me to reach Father. I couldn't trust anybody at Whoop-Up, and I was afraid if Onistah came alone, you wouldn't believe him. You know how people are about about Indians. So I saddled a horse and rode with him." "That was fine of you.
It was hard to find level footing. The mounds were uneven, and more than once Onistah plunged knee-deep from one into the swamp. He crossed the muskeg and climbed an ascent into the woods, swinging sharply to the right. There was no uncertainty as to the direction of the tracks in the snow. If they veered for a few yards, it was only to miss a tree or to circle down timber.
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