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THE BLOOD LILIES 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2007 with funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/bloodliliesOOfrasrich 
 
The Indian and the Scot gave lead to the hounds. 
 
THE 
 BLOOD LILIES 
 
 BY 
 
 W. A. FRASER 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 MOOSWA," "THE OUTCASTS," ETC. 
 
 Illustrated by F. E, Schoonover 
 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER^S SONS 
 NEW YORK.:::::::::::::::: 1903 
 
Copyright, 1903, by 
 CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS 
 
 Published, September, 1903 
 
 TROW DIRECTORY 
 
 raiNTma and bookbindinq company 
 
 NEW YORK 
 

 ILLUSTRATIONS 
 
 The Indian and the Scot gave lead to the hounds . Frontispiece 
 
 FACING 
 PAGE 
 
 They struggled and panted ... in the swirling storm 30 
 
 To Descoigne lying in his shack came Felix Benoit . 118 
 
 Mas-ki-sis (the Indian boy) 1 64 
 
 Her wail was like that of a she- wolf. . . , . 192 
 
 Mas-ki-sis was chanting: **0 Great Chief! be not 
 
 angry'* 236 
 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 PROLOGUE 
 
 TO the tepee of Wolf Runner, the Cree, had 
 come a little brave; and in the heavy face 
 of Mi-yah-tis was the joy of motherhood. 
 
 " Mi-yah-tis " means the Ugly One, and no 
 one had ever cried out against the injustice of the 
 Cree woman's naming. She was entitled to it in 
 its application to her lack of physical grace. 
 
 Then came the medicine-dreaming of a name 
 for the little brave that was in the tepee of Wolf 
 Runner. All through one summer night a medi- 
 cine-man slept on the cone of a sand-hill, and, 
 slumbering, listened for the dream-name the 
 spirits would bring for the copper-tinged babe 
 that lay swathed in a thick padding of softest 
 muskeg moss. 
 
 In the morning the medicine-man came to the 
 tepee where waited Wolf Runner and Mi-yah-tis, 
 and looked down at the wee brown face that 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 peeped from the corded moss-bag with a troubled 
 look in his eyes. 
 
 *' Is it a brave name, O Medicine-maker?" 
 queried Wolf Runner. 
 
 The dreamer nodded; and the eagle feathers 
 that were in his head-dress fluttered in pride. 
 
 ''Is it a name of good fortune?" asked the 
 Ugly One. 
 
 The dreamer shook his head reluctantly; and 
 the eagle feathers drooped like death-plumes. 
 
 " Speak, O great Medicine-man," pleaded 
 Wolf Runner. 
 
 " As I slept," said the dreamer, " I saw only 
 a fierce red moon looking upon a prairie of blood 
 lilies " 
 
 " And the name? " asked the father. 
 
 " The red moon is the moon of disaster — of 
 lameness; and the blood lilies are the lilies of 
 bravery — the courage flowers. Manitou calls 
 them to grow from the blood of braves who fell 
 in battle ; they grow many on the plains where our 
 people slew the Blackfeet. The Lame One will 
 be a great brave, full of courage." 
 
 " The Lame One 1 " cried Mi-yah-tis in a voice 
 of pain. 
 
 " That is the name? " asked Wolf Runner. 
 
 " Yes, Mas-ki-sis, the Lame One. But he will 
 do a brave thing — will be a great brave." 
 
 2 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 "And the evil, the lameness?" asked Mi-yah- 
 tis — for she was a mother. 
 
 " The red moon of crying will be at the time 
 of the blood hlies." 
 
 Thus was the naming of Mas-ki-sis the Cree, 
 son of Wolf Runner and Mi-yah-tis. 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 The Saskatchewan, coffee-brown in spring 
 from the Rocky Mountain floods, blue-green at 
 the time of little water in summer, now rumbled 
 down an ice-roofed tunnel in greeting to Fort 
 Donald as it swept on to Lake Winnipeg. 
 
 And from this post to Fort Garry — which was 
 Winnipeg — lay a water-trail of five hundred miles. 
 
 Fort Donald was somnolent. The post had a 
 bear's habit of hibernating until wakened by the 
 incoming trappers with the winter kill of fur. 
 
 It was Sandy Cameron's Malcolm who antici- 
 pated this annual eruption of interest, and threw 
 the old Hudson's Bay post into vibrant unrest, 
 by proclaiming that he would marry Factor Louis 
 Gourelot's Franchette. 
 
 Malcolm, being possessed of the love-blindness, 
 did not see the difficulties; but Cameron the 
 elder did; Gourelot, the nimble-witted, did also; 
 and the whole station knew it was impossible. 
 The Church stood in the way — two of them; for 
 Sandy the Scot was a Calvinist ultra, and Gourelot 
 was all but a priest of the Roman Church. 
 
 4 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Love may laugh at locksmiths, who are bunglers 
 at best, but when the Priesthood and the Kirk 
 stand shoulder to shoulder in the breech — ah, 
 Messieurs, that is a different matter. 
 
 With Hieland obduracy Cameron the elder 
 stood out against it; except, of course, the 
 Gourelot lass should renounce the evil ways of 
 Rome. * 
 
 And with the French factor, fat and verbose, 
 heretics might be tolerated in a matter of furs 
 and trade, but in a blood relationship — " Sacre ! 
 nevair ! " unless the gargon came into the fold of 
 the true Church. How else could it be ? One re- 
 ligion was trouble enough in adherence; but two 
 faiths in one family — " Mon Dieu ! " Gourelot 
 snapped his fingers in derision. 
 
 The fort dwellers took up the matter with the 
 fierce energy of minds that are like empty tene- 
 ments. Always sleeping on their arms, with erup- 
 tive longings, the Catholics and Protestants would 
 have arrayed themselves in fierce opposition on a 
 much slighter pretext. Why did not the Cameron 
 choose one of his own red-headed barbarians? 
 Why was not the beautiful, black-eyed Franchette 
 content with some one of the many suitors that 
 were already of her own faith? 
 
 Franchette sighed at the cruelty of her people; 
 and the Scot swore by the power of the great 
 
 5 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Wallace that he'd marry the French maiden if he 
 had to slay every Papist in Fort Donald. 
 
 Now, men of the west, where the law is entirely 
 of themselves, are of great common-sense; and 
 Sandy was a very Solomon, even among canny 
 Scots; so he said not overmuch, but harnessed his 
 astute mind to the problem that threatened dis- 
 aster to Fort Donald, and wrestled with it for 
 three days and three nights. At the end of that 
 time he had an interview with the French factor; 
 and soon the post knew that an armistice had been 
 proclaimed, and a solemn compact entered into 
 between the Scot and the Gaul. The new thing 
 that Sandy had evolved — for it was all his doing — 
 was of greater delight to these men of the open 
 than even the prospect of much sectarian blood- 
 shed. It had all the elements of a western 
 holiday. 
 
 The wedding would take place. And the ques- 
 tion of spiritual supremacy would be settled by the 
 ability of the Church's apostles to cover three hun- 
 dred miles of territory by dog-train in the dead of 
 winter. That was the compact. Father Lemoine 
 was at St. Ambrose, three hundred miles away, 
 and the Rev. Ross Bruce was at Buffalo Neck, 
 twenty miles deeper in the western horizon. For 
 the upholding of the established church, and, in- 
 
 6 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 cidentally, for the delight of his soul, the young 
 Cameron would take himself as swiftly as he 
 might over the long trail to Buffalo Neck and 
 bring the " meenlster " to tie the knot; as emis- 
 sary of the Gourelot way of belief Joseph Des- 
 colgne would hasten eagerly forward for the little 
 priest at St. Ambrose. 
 
 And the essence of the compact was that which- 
 ever one of the ordained first crossed the Goure- 
 lot threshold should perform the ceremony, and 
 the children that would surely accrue from this 
 union be of his faith. 
 
 Small wonder that Fort Donald recked not of 
 peltries, nor of the crop of fat buffalo, nor of any- 
 thing but the foot-race between the Church of 
 Rome and the Church of England. 
 
 There was nothing In the world lacking to make 
 It a true contest, for also was Joseph In love with 
 Franchette; and If he must lose her, what glory In 
 humbling his rival and gaining a victory for his 
 loved Mother of Rome. 
 
 Sandy afforded himself the prodigal luxury of a 
 smile as he watched with canny eye the hilarious 
 preparations of his antagonists. He had made a 
 proper Scotch deal. Few men In the north could 
 trail with Malcolm, and fewer still with Bruce, 
 the minister. That this was unknown to the 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 French party troubled not at all the conscience of 
 Cameron. What Bruce lacked in Jesuitical sub- 
 tlety he made up in length of limb and the en- 
 durance of a Blackfoot. Sandy calculated that he 
 would win by a day, though he did not forget that 
 fate and the elements were also in the contest. At 
 any rate he had planned wisely, and the outcome 
 must rest with the Lord. 
 
 They would start at once. It was half a moon 
 till Christmas, and the wedding would give a fillip 
 to the saturnalia of frisking that always laid Fort 
 Donald by the heels for a week. 
 
 In the morning Malcolm harnessed to his birch- 
 wood cariole four big dogs of mixed origin — 
 Scotch stag-hounds, save for the blend of savage 
 blood that had come from their Northwest mother. 
 In this he took a gambler's chance; fleeter of 
 foot than the husky dogs Joseph decked with 
 gayly beribboned harness, yet, if a blizzard came, 
 or a cutting ice-crust formed on the snow, they 
 would suffer more than the hardy, big-footed 
 beasts of the Frenchman's choosing. 
 
 But the Scot was provident. Full fifty pounds 
 of frozen white fish he stowed in the cariole as 
 rations for his train. That should land them at 
 Buffalo Neck without precarious reliance upon 
 food by the wayside. With his own bacon, ban- 
 nock, and blankets, his dogs had full weight ; so he 
 
 8 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 would ride not at all, trusting to his strong legs 
 for transport over the three hundred miles. 
 
 Not even Captain Ball, the red-faced Irishman 
 who was master of the Company's steamer In sum- 
 mer, and who had lain for two weeks of a fiercely 
 wrenched ankle, was aloof from the starting-point 
 when Malcolm and Joe Descoigne lined up at the 
 Hudson's Bay store. Friend Gourelot made a 
 little speech — he was given to this habit; and 
 Franchette, standing just behind his broad back, 
 wiped her big black eyes furtively. In her heart 
 was a terrible apprehension, but she was not cry- 
 ing — not at all, it was the bitter wind. Once she 
 had asked Pere Gourelot to choose some other 
 runner than Joseph ; she had seen something In his 
 small, cruel eyes, but had not spoken of it, only 
 pleaded that some other might go to bring the 
 little father — there were plenty of good runners 
 to choose from. 
 
 "Are you read-ee?" asked the factor. 
 
 The tall, square-shouldered Scot for answer 
 swung on the heel of his moccasin, took a step, 
 and held out his hand to Franchette. In the girl's 
 heart lay strong the dread thought that had come 
 from the evil look In Descoigne's eyes. It stirred 
 her to a strange, sudden Impulse. She raised her 
 face to receive her lover's kiss. Then, with cheeks 
 red from the fire of timid remorse, she fled. 
 
 9 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 • As he turned to his place Cameron saw In the 
 eyes of Joe Descolgne that which had frightened 
 Franchette. 
 
 " A'tim ! " he said, sharply — the same meaning 
 " a dog "; and only Joseph knew that he was not 
 speaking to his hounds. 
 
 " Are you read-ee? " repeated Gourelot. Then, 
 loudly, "Marse!" 
 
 Like the crackle of Martinis came a volley 
 from the dog-whips as the two men lashed at their 
 trains. Then over the frozen snow sped the swift- 
 footed dogs, and behind, line in hand, with Indian 
 lope, followed the rivals. 
 
 A babel of demoniac cries from redskin, and 
 half-breed, and paleface rose on the clear, crisp 
 air. Many lean-throated, deep-lunged train hus- 
 kies took up the cry, until the log shack that was 
 the Company's store rocked on its foundation of 
 deep-frozen earth. Like the bellow of a buffalo 
 bull, above the shriller din was heard the Scotch 
 voice of big, gaunt Sandy Cameron in the old 
 battle-cry of his forefathers, " The Bruce I The 
 Bruce!'' 
 
 A dozen young men of the post, priding in 
 their fleetness of foot, had chased after the two 
 Argonauts in an exhilaration of excitement. Now 
 they were trudging back; and over the crest of a 
 distant hill Malcolm and Joseph were slipping 
 
 lO 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 from sight — like the spars of a ship taking the 
 curve of the sea. 
 
 " Faith, it'll be the hottest race in the Tirri to- 
 nes," opinionated Ball; " I'll bet tin skins that 
 Sandy's Malcolm does him up." 
 
 Eagerly the French party took the captain's 
 wager, for who that is an Indian, or of the Ind- 
 ian's existence, is not a gambler. The taint hangs 
 to their life of chance like smoke to the place of 
 fire. 
 
 At thirty miles Malcolm spelled his dogs for a 
 smoke and a few minutes of rest; but Descoigne 
 flitted on through the forest, and the Scot saw him 
 no more. Malcolm wondered at the cunning 
 Frenchman's present lack of astuteness. Joseph 
 would most certainly do up his dogs, for they 
 were of a plodding kind. With Celtic precision 
 he himself had mapped out the three hundred 
 miles into six days' travel, and too much haste at 
 the start meant maimed slowness at the end. 
 
 That night, by intuition knowing that he had 
 reeled off his full fifty miles, Malcolm brushed the 
 fleece of snow from the brown skin of the earth in 
 a clump of gnarled jack-pine, built a huge fire of 
 wood, eager of flame because of its resin, and, 
 wrapped in his warm rabbit-robe, close huddled 
 to his dogs, feet to fire, slept a sleep of nothing- 
 ness. 
 
 II 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 In the hour that is fierce in its ice breath, the 
 hour before dawn, he stirred the embers, paid 
 hght tribute to his hunger, and under the blinking 
 stars that caught at the frost diamonds which 
 decked the jack-pines and flashed them blue and 
 red and gold, he sped on again to the bringing 
 of the Bruce. 
 
 All that day there was only the snow-muffled 
 trail of Joseph to tell him of his rival. Over and 
 over again he muttered: "The French fool! I 
 have him! His dogs, that are not swift, will die 
 because of this." 
 
 But even as he reviled Descoigne as a fool, in 
 the other's folly was the method of an evil 
 thought. 
 
 The Frenchman sped on till he came to the 
 tepee of Wolf Runner — Wolf Runner the Soli- 
 tary, at Vermilion Lake. 
 
 As the bells on Descoigne's huskies tinkled down 
 the frost-snapping air the Indian's dogs set up a 
 howl of forbidding defiance. 
 
 The Cree sprang from his camp-fire to the open, 
 and driving back the fang-showing brutes with a 
 loaded dog-whip, welcomed the visitor. 
 
 " Ho, Boy ! come in. There is tea in the tepee." 
 
 But Descoigne declined the hospitality; he did 
 not want the Scotchman to find him there. 
 
 " I go me to Calf Shirt's, brother," he replied 
 
 12 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 in Cree. "You are Wolf Runner; is that not 
 true?" 
 
 The Indian nodded. 
 
 " And thou are killing fur for Ladouceur, the 
 Free Trader?" 
 
 " Perhaps," answered the Cree, suspiciously; 
 " I will sell the kill of fur perhaps to Ladouceur." 
 
 " Mewasin (good). We are brothers in en- 
 mity to the Company. They, our tyrants, have 
 sent one who is of the accursed Protestant faith to 
 make war on the Free Traders." 
 
 The Indian's bead eyes snapped viciously. Des- 
 coigne chuckled sardonically to himself. He had 
 touched on the one bitter interest in the red man's 
 life — the monopoly of the Company had more 
 than once goaded them to bloodshed. 
 
 " One follows," he continued, " who hastens to 
 obtain evidence against Ladouceur and his friends ; 
 also other traders." 
 
 " But the tea," cried Wolf Runner; " come to 
 the fire and drink tea, and smoke — Mi-yah-tis will 
 make tea for us." 
 
 " I must hasten," answered Descoigne. " Can 
 you not put astray this evil one of the accursed 
 faith who follows, to the end that I may warn all 
 men who are not slaves to the Company? " 
 
 " It is like a fox standing against a wolf-pack," 
 answered Wolf Runner. " The Company make 
 
 13 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 a strong hunt when they are on the trail of one 
 man." 
 
 The Frenchman understood; the Indian hesi- 
 tated to draw the wrath of the Company upon 
 himself. 
 
 *' Listen, nichie," Descoigne said; " is not Fac- 
 tor Gourelot of the same faith; is he not of the 
 flock of the little father; and is not the one who 
 follows me a heretic? This trouble for the Free 
 Traders is from the Company at Fort Garry; the 
 big ogama at Fort Garry has done this thing. 
 If this is not true, why am I here? '' 
 
 The Indian eyed Descoigne suspiciously. The 
 latter proceeded: 
 
 " The factor will be pleased if you take this 
 trouble off his hands, nichie. See, he has even sent 
 this tobacco, and ten skins in good money — ^here 
 it is. The moneas, who is a heretic, will surely 
 make here for his night camp. Do you send him 
 on the blind trail that loses itself in the great 
 muskeg. What I have said is all true — ^by our 
 faith it is true. Now I go. Do you this thing, 
 and there will always be food to your eating at 
 Fort Donald." 
 
 The Frenchman, leaving his subtle lie to rankle 
 in the Indian's mind, slipped down the trail 
 through the poplars, and presently the silver note 
 of his dog-bells was lost in the forest. 
 
 14 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Wolf Runner stood watching the swinging cari- 
 ole as it glided over the white floor of the west- 
 ern trail, and in his mind, always fierce in resent- 
 ment, rankled the poisoned thought that those 
 who were not bondmen to the Company were 
 forever and ever persecuted. In reality it was 
 years since there had been violent prosecution of 
 Free Traders, but this Cree of the forest knew 
 not of the changed law. 
 
 As Wolf Runner turned to his tepee the dark 
 face of Mi-yah-tis suddenly vanished from its 
 doorway, and he found her busy over the fire. 
 
 '' Did the moneas speak of our little Mas-ki- 
 sis?" the Cree woman asked presently. "Did 
 he see little Otter down the trail? " 
 
 " No," the husband answered. " This is in- 
 deed the thin year for wapoos (the rabbit), 
 and Mas-ki-sis sets his snares at a far distance. 
 Still it is cold, and he should be here in the 
 lodge." 
 
 " The moneas had much talk," hazarded the 
 Ugly One, questioningly. " The French are so 
 full of speech that perhaps they sometimes come 
 to lies." 
 
 " He is our friend," answered Wolf Runner, 
 " and his talk was for our good, and the good of 
 Ladouceur." 
 
 " He Is also French," retorted Mi-yah-tis. 
 15 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 At that Instant the harsh-throated dogs huddled 
 at the door again set up a discordant challenge. 
 
 " It's the one," commented Wolf Runner, 
 thrusting his head through the door-flap. 
 
 " And Mas-kl-sis ! '* exclaimed the squaw, peer- 
 ing over his shoulder. 
 
 Wolf Runner stepped through the opening, and 
 the boy, tumbling from Malcolm's cariole, ran 
 shyly to his mother in the tepee. 
 
 It was now twelve seasons of the Blood Lilies 
 reddening, and the lameness of disaster had not 
 come to him. 
 
 " The big ogama came on the trail as I was 
 carrying these three wapoos, and made me ride 
 behind his beautiful dogs," said Mas-kl-sis to Mi- 
 yah-tis. 
 
 "Ho, nichie ! can I make camp In your tepee? " 
 the Scotchman asked. 
 
 " It is time to make camp, and there Is room," 
 answered Wolf Runner. 
 
 Malcolm threw a frozen white-fish to each of 
 the dogs. He brought forth his bacon and tea 
 and passed them to Ml-yah-tis. Custom Indicated 
 that they would all sup from the guest's provisions, 
 which they did. Then he smoked his tobacco, 
 even the Ugly One filling her little gray stone 
 pipe from the yellow leaf. 
 
 The Indian spoke little. Had Malcolm been 
 i6 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 communicative, Descolgne's evil plan might have 
 gone awry, but In his young love of Franchette, 
 that was so great a thing, he was sensitive, pos- 
 sessed of Inherent Scotch reticence. It and his 
 mission were not something to be discussed with 
 a redskin. So, when Wolf Runner, yielding to his 
 Indian curiosity, asked with feigned Indifference 
 the why for of this midwinter trip, he parried the 
 questions or answered not at all. 
 
 The Northland Is a land of much free discus- 
 sion, and when the guest sought to conceal the 
 motives of his journey It was proof to the Crce 
 that he was possessed of duplicity. 
 
 When the white man. In a desire to please Wolf 
 Runner, questioned him of his trapping luck, the 
 Indian's suspicions were Increased; surely It was 
 as Descolgne had said. 
 
 So when Malcolm asked of the western trail, 
 if there were any short cuts In the knowledge of 
 the Indian, Wolf Runner told him of the blind 
 trail that was through the great muskeg and over 
 Mah-chee Manitou's tepee; only the Indian did 
 not give It Its evil name, but called it Long Lake. 
 He took a large sheet of birch-bark, and on Its 
 pink parchment mapped with a willow charcoal 
 the secret path as It wound through the big mus- 
 keg, many miles in extent. 
 
 First there was the stream which came from the 
 17 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 great swamp to Vermilion — this Wolf Runner In- 
 dicated on the birch-bark with a wavering black 
 line; and after that the little dots, which were the 
 long tamaric swamp that Malcolm was to skirt; 
 then the flat that would be smooth snow, because 
 in summer there grew only the soft gray velvet of 
 bottomless moss. On Wolf Runner's map this was 
 a blank oval. And then were the black trunks of 
 spruce that had been killed by the great fire, a 
 generation before, dead sentinels of a living past. 
 
 After that the ogama, holding the sun on his 
 left cheek, would come to the little stream that 
 ran Into Long Lake ; and the stream, being frozen, 
 would be like a smooth road. And there was the 
 lake, and at this point, through a cleft in the hill- 
 barrier, cut the trail; and so to the other side. 
 And the gain would be full four hours of swift 
 running. In summer no man might cross the mus- 
 keg, for it was bottomless; therefore they knew 
 not of its winter path — only Wolf Runner — and 
 now Malcolm, because of the birch-bark. 
 
 The Indian would send Mas-ki-sis with the 
 ogama in the morning to show him where the 
 short trail forked from the long, and Into the 
 muskeg. 
 
 As Wolf Runner set his trap for the white 
 man whom he thought a spy because of Des- 
 coigne's lies, the Ugly One, whose heavy face 
 
 i8 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 seemed devoid of interest, telegraphed from the 
 little furtive eyes a measure of discontent to Mas- 
 ki-sis. Once, as the husband talked, she passed the 
 back of her right hand under the palm of her left; 
 the boy knew that in their sign language this meant 
 underhanded dealing. 
 
 Joyously the next morning the Scot followed his 
 lean hounds ; because of the knowledge he had from 
 Wolf Runner he would steal hours from the long 
 trail, and his rival, hastening on, would lose this 
 chance. 
 
 With him went little Mas-ki-sis, trailing be- 
 hind the cariole with his small snow-shoes strapped 
 to his back. 
 
 The Scot knew not that the little pagan was 
 an embodied good angel that Franchette's prayers 
 had won to the protection of her lover. 
 
 When the first bend of the trail into the forest 
 hid Wolf Runner's tepee, Malcolm stopped his 
 dogs and lifted Mas-ki-sis to the cariole. 
 
 In the little lad's mind a jumble of thoughts 
 worked. The big ogama was possessed of a good 
 heart — that much was certain; also there was no 
 such trail as Wolf Runner, the father, had drawn 
 with the willow charcoal; and if the ogama passed 
 into the muskeg of dread, he would find not his 
 way to the other side of Evil Spirit Lake, nor 
 anywhere. 
 
 19 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Ml-yah-tis had told him that all this was be- 
 cause of lies which had been spoken by the other 
 white man. 
 
 The lad well knew where the blind trail turned 
 Into the muskeg — just at the swamp's edge where 
 was an old bear's deadfall; but as they passed it, 
 the dogs swift running, Mas-ki-sis blinked his round 
 black eyes and saw nothing but the gay rosettes that 
 were on the train-harness. 
 
 Malcolm, trusting the fork in the trail to his 
 guide, nestled the memory of Franchette in his 
 mind and ran as one blind. At last it was even 
 his hunger that told the Scotchman he had trav- 
 elled far. He spoke to Mas-ki-sis of the trail. 
 The boy did not answer. Malcolm, running at 
 the side of his cariole, looked down at the little 
 dark face — the eyes were closed. 
 
 "The kid's asleep, whatever!" he exclaimed; 
 and once more the dogs were stopped, and some- 
 thing that felt like a bear's paw was shaking the 
 lad by the shoulder. 
 
 If Malcolm had been at all a suspicious Scot 
 he might have thought the eyes a little too slow 
 in parting their lids, considering the rough awak- 
 ening. But Mas-ki-sIs was acting; he was very 
 much awake, and the assumed sleep was a phase 
 of his woodland cunning. 
 
 Yes, they had passed the trail to the muskeg, 
 
 20 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 long ago, Mas-ki-sis admitted; the ogama must 
 not be angry; he was tired — it was so warm in 
 the rabbit-robe, and he had fallen asleep. 
 
 Yes, It was difficult to find the fork into the 
 muskeg; also it was far on the back trail. 
 
 "Get oot, get oot!'' roared Malcolm, angry 
 beyond count. " All nichies are liars, damn liars; 
 I don't believe there's a trail at all just." 
 
 With precipitate energy Mas-ki-sis tumbled 
 from the cariole and fled from the wrath of the 
 ogama. 
 
 Malcolm, angry that he had missed the short 
 cut, but fearing to risk loss of time by returning, 
 sped forward. 
 
 Toward evening he topped a hill, and behind 
 him was the lake of Mah-chee Manitou. He had 
 missed the short cut, but he marked It for his re- 
 turn — he would steal from Descoigne then the 
 four hours. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis had added miles to his journey of 
 return by his act of goodness; but even in his un- 
 tutored mind was a something that tied wings to 
 his feet and shortened the leagues of snow-path, 
 so that he came again to Vermilion In exhilaration 
 of spirit. 
 
 Ml-yah-tis, his mother, looked into his eyes 
 with a question, and Mas-ki-sis looked back again. 
 Then the old squaw put her huge hand on the 
 
 21 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 little head, and stroked the braids of black hair, 
 and pitied him for being tired, and gave him a 
 delicious " Boulee." 
 
 That night the snow fell, and to Buffalo Neck 
 Malcolm found not even the trail of Descoigne. 
 That was nothing; up the Saskatchewan were three 
 roads — one on the river-ice, and one either side. 
 
 22 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 On the sixth day Malcolm came to Buffalo 
 Neck, and Ross Bruce learned how loudly the 
 Kirk called for him at Fort Donald. 
 
 The Rev. Ross Bruce was in the Church of 
 England because of zeal for his fellow-Scots. The 
 Presbyterians had paid not overmuch attention to 
 the spiritual welfare of the Scots who had gone 
 afield to the American Northland; the ardor of 
 their missions was expended in a different part of 
 the globe. The Bruce had become an Anglican 
 that he might labor in a field wherein he might 
 be cheered at times by a Scotch burr in the re- 
 sponses. 
 
 And at St. Ambrose also was Joe Descoigne 
 knocking at the door of Father Lemoine. What 
 matter that his dogs were done for; it was not in 
 the compact that he should not take a fresh train, 
 and at the mission were many of a full-fed 
 strength. The little priest chuckled softly through 
 his fat throat when the Frenchman spoke of the 
 Scotch heretic's stupidity in overlooking this fact. 
 By the Virgin I all the heretics were blind of their 
 
 23 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 own folly. The outcast teacher of lies, M*sieu 
 Bruce, never had dogs; and, if he had, they were 
 starvelings, because of the accursed poverty of the 
 heretical Protestants. 
 
 Joseph spoke not of Wolf Runner and the evil 
 lake. Perhaps even then the hated Malcolm was 
 dead in its poison waters. 
 
 The Bruce was not more eager to the good 
 cause than was the little father ; and the next morn- 
 ing, behind fresh dogs, close muffled in fur, went 
 the plump embodiment of the power of Rome 
 toward the watchers at Fort Donald. 
 
 The Kirk ran. With long strides the guardian 
 of its hopes in that hopeless land hurried beside 
 his " brither Scot " : love, and Christian zeal, and 
 the glory of Old Scotia were jfierce-pointed goads 
 that drove the two stalwarts in silent haste over 
 league after league of marble snow that shim- 
 mered back the blinding light of the sun. 
 
 The big hounds had six days of harness strain 
 upon them, as against the plump weight of the 
 man-of-confession that steadied the eager flight of 
 Descoigne's strong-limbed huskies. 
 
 So for three days, almost without speech, the 
 two parties glided through the wilderness with no 
 sight of each other. 
 
 On the fourth, at the lone pine, which was Mal- 
 colm's mark for the secret trail, he took the sun 
 
 24 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 over his right shoulder, called *'YuhI" to the 
 dogs, and set his face for Long Lake. 
 
 In two hours they came to the edge of the lake. 
 With a cry of joy Malcolm pointed across its nar- 
 row bosom, saying, " I have knocked four hours 
 from the trail." Bruce was looking at a fringe 
 of black water that cut a thin slice between ice and 
 shore. 
 
 " Who told you of this trail? " he asked, sud- 
 denly. 
 
 " Wolf Runner.'* 
 
 " Wolf Runner — Wolf Runner of the Miteo 
 sect! Lad, if you once set foot on yon ice you'd 
 be in at no wedding; it's the Deil's tepee; do you 
 not see his breath?" He pointed to wreaths of 
 yellow vapor that sputtered at many places. 
 
 " Do ye say, Minister, it's Mah-chee's tepee — 
 the Death Lake?" queried Malcolm, with a sol- 
 emn face. 
 
 "Ay, lad; it's full of sulphur springs, and the 
 ice is fair treacherous. No man risks his life on 
 yon lake. And beyond it is the fierce muskeg that 
 never gives up its victim." 
 
 " I was in gran' luck I didn't find it going," 
 cried Malcolm. 
 
 " You were in favor of God," corrected the 
 minister. 
 
 " I'll settle with Wolf Runner for this," declared 
 25 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Malcolm, fiercely; " Til tak' a grip of the dog's 
 throat that'll land him in a hotter place than 
 Devil's Lake." 
 
 " Cameron," said Bruce, warningly, *' you must 
 not make threats like that; the Lord didn't save 
 you for the purpose of murder. Think of the 
 wedding, lad. And now for the back trail; we 
 must circle the lake." 
 
 " It's queer that I didn't think of it, for I've 
 heard mony times of yon dev'lish hole." 
 
 " There are few know of it, lad," replied Bruce, 
 " for the Indians will not talk about it." 
 
 The four hours that Malcolm would have stolen 
 from Joe Descoigne became a gift of five to the 
 Frenchman. 
 
 As they swung around the north end of the 
 lake they struck the furrow of Joseph's sled. 
 Malcolm gave a sharp cry of disappointment. 
 Wolf Runner's trick had held him in its leash 
 while his opponent slipped into the lead. 
 
 " Two hours," panted the Bruce, pointing to 
 the new-turned snow, as they sped on again. At 
 three miles the Frenchman's way forked to the 
 left. Malcolm braced himself to the line of his 
 cariole, and stopped his hounds with a sharp 
 " Whoa 1 " 
 
 " What's he up to now? " he queried of Bruce. 
 
 " It's no trick; the priest goes by way of Metis 
 26 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Mission — it lies yonder. Joseph runs light in 
 rations because of the little father's weight; he'll 
 have fish for his dogs and grub for themselves 
 from Father Le Fevre; I'm thinkin' they'll make 
 camp there for the night." 
 
 " Marse ! " cried Malcolm, and once more, at 
 a swinging dog-lope, the Anglican Church, leader 
 and adherent, cut at the distance that was between 
 it and the vanquishing of its enemies. 
 
 In the young Scot's heart was a lust for the 
 punishment of Wolf Runner. The Western school 
 of ethics had fashioned his mind to the dogma 
 that death was but fair justice for one who had 
 attempted a cowardly murder. To hold in his 
 sinewy hands the lying throat of this treacherous 
 one would be a fierce joy. If Wolf Runner fought 
 back until one of their lives went out in the strug- 
 gle, it would be the redskin's. 
 
 Bruce knew. From under his shaggy Scotch 
 brows he read all these dark thoughts in his com- 
 panion's face. If he could help it, they should not 
 reach to Vermilion that night. There was sure 
 to be an angry quarrel leading to worse. 
 
 " Where do we make camp? " he asked. 
 
 " In Wolf Runner's tepee," answered Malcolm. 
 
 " The dogs are tired — they go slower," haz- 
 arded the minister. " It grows dark early, too," 
 he added, suddenly aware of the fact that the trail 
 
 27 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 lay dim to their feet. " Better out-span and spell," 
 he suggested, speaking again; " a cup of tea for 
 ourselves and a fish to the dogs'll carry us to the 
 nichie's." 
 
 Malcolm checked his hounds; and Bruce, 
 wrenching some dwarf red-willows from their 
 rotted roots, set about building a fire. 
 
 Malcolm straightened himself up suddenly as 
 a singing moan came through the attuned spikes 
 of the gloomed pines. The wind chilled his cheek 
 as though he had dipped it in quick-evaporating 
 spirits. It was like a kiss from death-lips. He 
 moistened his palm and held it up. Ere the arm 
 was straight his hand was ice-coated. 
 
 " What's wrong, lad? " asked the minister. 
 
 " There's something uncanny in the wind," an- 
 swered Cameron, nodding his head toward the 
 west. " I'm thinkin' we'd best pull out soon's 
 we've stowed this tucker; we must hustle a bit." 
 As they drank the hot tea, Malcolm pointed at 
 the hound leader, who was sniffing and cocking 
 his nose restlessly down the dark vault of the deep 
 pines. 
 
 " Wallace scents it," he said. 
 
 "The storm?" queried the minister. 
 
 The other nodded, and, rising, threw the tin 
 tea-kettle into the cariole. " Let's get a move 
 on," he admonished. 
 
 28 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The minister answered something, but a wall 
 from the forest drowned his voice to a whisper. 
 
 *' Quick, man I " called Cameron. 
 
 " Too late," bellowed the deep voice of Bruce 
 in his ear; " you'd not get a hundred yards — youM 
 be smithered; the dogs — gather them! " 
 
 Ross Bruce was a madman. In frenzy he 
 wrenched brown-barked willow after willow, and 
 threw them close to the fire that flared angrily as 
 the rising wind smote at the embers. 
 
 "Make camp! make camp!" he yelled; and 
 Malcolm turned the sled sideways to the storm 
 that was now driving splinters of steel — diamond- 
 pointed fragments of ice — into his face. That was 
 for a barricade that the snow might pile up and 
 shelter them. The dogs knew. Tremblingly they 
 huddled closer to the toboggan. Then the two 
 men piled the fuel on top of the sled. They 
 were like fitful shadows as they struggled and 
 panted in the gloom that was hastened by the 
 swirling storm. 
 
 "Turn in!" roared Bruce, clutching at Mal- 
 colm and drawing him down where the hounds lay. 
 
 "Keep the dogs close; they'll warm us — it's 
 perishin' cold," cried Malcolm. " The fire'll not 
 stand— we must just trust to the dogs." 
 
 " And the Lord, lad," admonished Bruce. 
 
 Back to back, roofed by the rabbit-robes turned 
 29 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 to a white shroud, the two men lay, while the 
 hounds, whining with instinctive fear, edged closer 
 and closer about them. Even the lire was fighting 
 for its life as Bruce, with a sweep of his mighty 
 arm, threw faggots upon it. 
 
 " I'm thinkin', Minister," said Malcolm. 
 
 " I'm shivering," retorted Bruce. 
 
 " I'm thinkin'," repeated Malcolm, " that we 
 may be here for three days and nichts, like Jonah 
 in the whale's belly." 
 
 *' Jonah was warm," commented the minister. 
 
 " We'll not starve, Minister. I have a ration 
 of bacon under my head." 
 
 The fierce struggle of preparation over, Mal- 
 colm was talking to reassure his comrade, think- 
 ing the minister was perhaps a little in dread of 
 the life that was new to him — the blizzard phase 
 of it. 
 
 At that instant the hound leader sprang to his 
 feet, bristles erect, and howled. 
 
 "Down, Wallace; down, you brute!" com- 
 manded Cameron, for the dog's rush had sent the 
 blizzard swirling under their cover. 
 
 A faint cry smote on their ears. 
 
 " It's the storm," said the minister. 
 
 Malcolm pointed at the hound for answer. 
 
 " Minister, it's a body lost! " he exclaimed the 
 next instant, and, plunging forward, he went reel- 
 
 30 
 
They struggled and panted ... in the swirHng storm. 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 ing into the tossing waves of snow that were like 
 angry waters. 
 
 " Bruce ! " came his voice almost at once, and 
 in the gale it sounded a mile away. 
 
 The minister struggled out to where the other 
 tugged at something in the white sea. They were 
 not twenty yards from their camp, but it was a 
 bitter fight to win back with the man they had 
 salvaged. The two giants were as children in the 
 arms of the whirlwind; its breath was a drug — it 
 smothered their senses; the driven snow was like 
 shot, it lashed their eyelids closed; they waded 
 through huge billows that swept them back like a 
 receding tide; demoniac voices screamed at them 
 from the tortured pines. Clutched in their 
 numbed fingers was a swaying something that 
 might have been a rag-doll but for its weight. 
 At fitful intervals red tongues from their fire licked 
 at the swirling snow and beaconed the haven they 
 battled for. At last they won to the shelter of 
 their barricade, and Bruce piled faggots on the 
 fire. 
 
 Into the place that was a nest of dogs, and rab- 
 bit-robes, deep, in a white fleece, they hauled the 
 one that had come up out of nowhere. 
 
 " An Indian I " said Bruce, as the flames lighted 
 up the man's face. 
 
 " Two of them ! " cried Malcolm, as for the 
 31 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 first time he saw that a small figure was clasped 
 in the arms of the helpless derelict. " My God, 
 It's Wolf Runner and the cub! " he ejaculated. 
 
 The black-beaded pupils set like points of jet 
 In the red-and-yellow-streaked eyes of the Indian 
 glinted evilly; the clutch of the blizzard that had 
 all but choked him had been taken from his throat, 
 and his life, almost gone out, was slowly ebbing 
 back. 
 
 " Out with the dog! " panted the young Scot. 
 
 A strong hand was laid on his arm, and a pair 
 of hps at his ear said solemnly, though the wind 
 whipped the tones Into gasps : " You're a Scotch- 
 man — and a Christian. We're all In the hands of 
 the Lord. You couldna ask for His help with 
 murder In your soul." 
 
 The blizzard took up the last words, and 
 shrieked off into the pines with a ghostly chuckle. 
 It sounded so to Malcolm, suddenly stricken 
 with the knowledge of what his act would have 
 been. 
 
 Then the lips came close to his ear again, and 
 said: *' He's thin-clad; he's starved with the cold 
 — I'm feared the bairn's dead — haul them in be- 
 tween us." 
 
 Without a word of remonstrance Malcolm 
 allowed the minister — even helped him — to pull 
 the Indian against his back. 
 
 32 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Then the three men, minister, the evil red- 
 skin against whose breast was Mas-ki-sis, and the 
 betrothed of Franchette, lay close huddled with 
 the four hounds, and fought in silence a many- 
 houred battle for their lives. 
 
 For a time Bruce kept wood on the fire, just 
 with a sweep of his long arm ; but at last the storm 
 smothered the blaze, and they lay silent, as men 
 who sleep or are dead. 
 
 Sometimes through the hours of night the Bruce 
 stretched his big hand across in silent query; each 
 time it was clasped by Malcolm in assurance. 
 Once the Indian tapped Bruce's arm, and in his 
 fingers was a caress of thankfulness. 
 
 The day came, just a gray shadow; the storm 
 almost blotted the light into darkness. The snow 
 was drifted deep over their covering, and the bar- 
 ricade of sled and brush had grown into a great 
 mound. It was best to lie still. By and by if 
 hunger gnawed fierce they could perhaps eat of the 
 raw bacon. 
 
 Toward night the blizzard went away from 
 them like a beaten enemy. It did not cease grad- 
 ually, it did not grow less, it went away; and 
 calm, that had been not, was everywhere. 
 
 In the west, low to the south, just glinting the 
 tree-tops, the sun smiled a cold, wan good-night, 
 and the three men rose up out of the snow-cavern 
 
 33 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 and looked at each other in the evening light of 
 reprieve — Minister, Indian, and Lover. And 
 Mas-ki-sis, warmed back to life, sat crouched like 
 a young bird in the nest that had been their 
 salvation. 
 
 34 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 While the Kirk had shivered in the fierce blast, 
 the trusted of Rome had rested warm and safe at 
 Metis Mission — saved by a miracle, otherwise a 
 game of chess. 
 
 When the fat priest at St. Ambrose clasped 
 Father Lemolne In his glad arms he smiled in con- 
 tent. The new move ! Surely he would vanquish 
 his old enemy at the board of little squares with 
 the new attack. 
 
 And when Joseph said that they would sup and 
 hasten forward to cover a few leagues before the 
 night camp, the good priest fought against it. 
 
 " But the little matter of Fort Donald," Father 
 Lemolne pleaded. 
 
 " Bah ! " retorted Father Le Fevre; " a badger- 
 haired Scot ! What mattered which way of faith 
 he followed." 
 
 " But there would be the saving of many souls," 
 Father Lemolne interposed. The Gourelots were 
 people of large families; and as for the Scots, they 
 filled the land with their offsprings. There would 
 surely be many souls for the saving, sobelt they 
 
 35 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 were brought up in the true Church. Yes, they 
 would go forward; but, as compromise, just one 
 little game of chess would Father Lemoine grant. 
 
 And as the king, and queen, and pawns claimed 
 the priestly fingers, so the eager combat claimed 
 their godly minds, until the voice of Joseph took 
 them rudely from their paradise. 
 
 " She come, she come ! " he was saying at the 
 open door. " Look you here, good Father, is it 
 not a true blizzard? '* 
 
 And when it had grown to a full force. Father 
 Le Fevre said: " My little game was the will 
 of God. A mile on the trail and you had per- 
 ished." 
 
 Many times Joe Descoigne peered forth into the 
 darkness, and in his heart was an unholy thought 
 that his rival boiled at the bottom of the Mah-chee 
 tepee, or lay cold in icy death in the fierce blizzard 
 that surely no man could withstand. 
 
 Once, and it was growing late. Father Lemoine, 
 speaking, perhaps to the prelate, or perhaps it was 
 to Joseph, said : " We have been saved from death. 
 I will go and pray and ask the Holy Mother that 
 our poor friends may be saved too. To die out 
 there in the cold is terrible. They are not of our 
 faith, but they are brothers, because they have 
 souls." 
 
 And the little priest, who had hastened to the 
 
 36 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 call of his Church, knelt and prayed for the lives 
 of the two men against whom he strove. 
 
 And at Fort Donald, Franchette besought of 
 the Virgin the life of her lover; and big Cameron 
 walked the floor of his shack as it trembled in the 
 wind^s grasp, and all night the great gaunt eyes 
 closed not at all. 
 
 37 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 Near to Vermilion the three men whose lives 
 had been left with them stood looking at each 
 other in silence. 
 
 The minister was wondering whether the hate 
 had softened in the heart of Malcolm. It was the 
 young Scot who spoke first. 
 
 " Will ye try for Vermilion to-night, Minis- 
 ter? There's not a sup of grub for man or beast 
 but the bacon ; it Is all buried beyond finding In the 
 snow." 
 
 The hounds were In a pitiable condition; the 
 cold had almost frozen them to death. 
 
 Malcolm took no notice of the Indian. The 
 evidence of the wrath of God In the storm, and 
 His goodness in sparing their lives, had given a 
 solemn check to his passion. It had stayed his 
 hand, but there was no forgiveness in his thoughts. 
 The Indian could go his way like some wild animal 
 he spared out of compassion. 
 
 He and the Bruce dug the sled from Its moun- 
 tain of snow, harnessed the dogs, gathered their 
 robes, and were ready to start. 
 
 38 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 " What of the wee nichie, Malcolm? '' queried 
 Bruce. 
 
 " He has his father," answered Cameron. 
 
 " Ay, but I doubt they'll make Vermilion. We 
 must take the lad, Malcolm." 
 
 " The dogs are done for," objected Cameron. 
 
 " We must take the bairn if I have to carry 
 him," declared Bruce, firmly. 
 
 " Well, well; put him on the sled," cried Mal- 
 colm, giving in. " You're right. Minister; I'm un- 
 reasonin' mad, that's all." 
 
 Wolf Runner had stood waiting while the two 
 white men discussed something in their unknown 
 tongue. When Mas-ki-sis was lifted to the cariole 
 by Bruce, and the hounds reluctantly, weakly, 
 stretched to the collars, the Indian, on his snow- 
 shoes, swung in ahead of them, and set his face 
 toward Vermilion. Bruce nodded to Malcolm in 
 commendation. " Heed that, lad; the Indian 
 breaks the trail for the dogs. Man ! but the snow 
 is deep ! " 
 
 Their progress was slow. Once Malcolm went 
 forward, and, touching Wolf Runner on the shoul- 
 der, pointed him to go back — he would break the 
 trail. The Indian shook his head and hastened 
 forward. 
 
 " Let him go," cried Bruce. '' You'll need all 
 39 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 your strength, happen the others camped at Metis 
 Mission." 
 
 " And if they didn't," retorted Malcolm, " Fm 
 thinkin' there's no hurry." 
 
 " When we were safe ourselves last night I just 
 asked the Lord the favor of their saving. They're 
 of Rome, but they're humans — fellow-beings," said 
 the minister, simply. 
 
 With a good trail they should have fetched Ver- 
 milion in three hours. Now it was midnight when 
 they came to the welcome shelter of Wolf Run- 
 ner's buffalo-hide wigwam. 
 
 As they neared it, coming wearily, slowly up 
 out of the forest like a shadowy wolf-pack, the 
 wailing death-song of a Cree woman vibrated the 
 night air that was as still as though the tempest 
 had put death upon the earth. It was Wolf Run- 
 ner's squaw wailing because she thought him dead, 
 and because Mas-ki-sis was not. 
 
 A dart of remorse shot through Cameron — he 
 might have been the cause of that lament. 
 
 The Indian heard it, and, drawing himself up, 
 his shrill voice pitched forward over the trail in 
 the long " Hi-yi-yi-yi-i-i-i ! " victory cry of the 
 Crees. Then he drooped his shoulders low again, 
 and, making wide the trail with his snow-shoes, 
 struggled on in front of Wallace the hound. 
 
 For answer a slit of bright light cut the dark- 
 40 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 ness as the flap of a tepee, which had lain hidden 
 in the gloom, was thrown back and a head was 
 thrust through. And presently, when Wolf Run- 
 ner in the flesh stood before his Cree wife, and 
 she knew it was not the spirit call, her stolid face 
 was reached from its habitual ugliness into a face 
 of joy that was almost beautiful. 
 
 Then Mas-ki-sis was lifted from the carlole by 
 the mother arms, and held to a breast against 
 which a heart thumped like a trip-hammer because 
 of its fierce joy. 
 
 " Rest you in the tepee," said Malcolm to Bruce; 
 " rU sleep wi* the dogs, for they're in a bad 
 way.*' 
 
 The minister understood the Scot's unexpressed 
 objection to sleeping in his enemy's house, and he 
 said: " Lad, think of what's ahead of you. Would 
 you let the Church of Rome triumph — would you 
 throw away a chance of winning Franchette? You 
 could stand the cold, man, I know that, but you've 
 had a hard time, an' the blast may be even now in 
 your lungs. It won't do — it willna do," contin- 
 ued the Bruce, intensity of feeling carrying him to 
 his broader mother-tongue. " You've conquered 
 over the heathen with kindness more than if you 
 had slain him ; his heart now is that sore, he doesn't 
 know what to do to make up for it. Perhaps he'll 
 even think you're afraid, man," he suggested, with 
 
 41 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 deep cunning, thinking to lash his comrade into 
 good sense by an appeal to his vanity. 
 
 " I'm not that," declared Malcolm. 
 
 In the end the minister prevailed. 
 
 Cameron slept like a tired animal beside the 
 Bruce, their feet to the fire, and their bodies 
 warmed by the hot rabbit pot-soup that the squaw 
 of Wolf Runner had prepared with eager hands. 
 And in her heart was a song of gratitude that 
 crooned softly from her lips. 
 
 For an hour the Indian sat, chin to knee, staring 
 at the white men who had saved him, and nurs- 
 ing the fire with little faggots that it died not nor 
 grew too hot. Then he slept as he crouched, lit- 
 tle dog-naps, waking every hour to replenish the 
 camp-fire. At last he opened the tepee flap and 
 looked into the sky where the dipper swung around 
 the North Star and marked off the flitting hours 
 for the red man. Then he touched Bruce lightly 
 on the shoulder, and, as the latter opened his eyes, 
 held up five fingers. They had slept five hours, 
 and Wolf Runner would have them start. There 
 was another pot of generous rabbit-stew for their 
 going. 
 
 As they made ready for the start, the Indian was 
 packing in his blanket dried moose-meat and a 
 brick of pemmican, as though he, too, was for a 
 journey. Even as they tied their snow-shoes, Wolf 
 
 42 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Runner tied his; and when the dogs were har- 
 nessed, he made to take his place In their lead. 
 
 *' Where's he going? " asked Malcolm roughly 
 of Bruce. 
 
 " He faces the trail to Fort Donald," replied 
 the minister. 
 
 " Drive him back, you," cried Malcolm; "my 
 hands still itch to be at his throat." 
 
 The Bruce called Wolf Runner, and as the 
 Indian came back he said In Cree : " Sit you here 
 in your tepee, O Indian; we know the trail." 
 
 Then the Indian spoke. 
 
 " When Wolf Runner was coming back from 
 the chase of Mooswa, and WIe-sah-ke-chack, who 
 lives there where the cold light is " — he pointed 
 with upraised hand to where the Northern Lights 
 were flashing fantastic scrolls of ghost light far 
 toward the pole — " when Wie-sah-ke-chack had 
 breathed upon Wolf Runner and Mas-ki-sis the 
 death-wind, did not your camp-fire beckon? And 
 even as my strength went out, did not this man 
 for whom I had done evil come and take me into 
 the warmth? Would Mi-yah-tis, who sits in 
 Wolf Runner's tepee,be not now singing the death- 
 song but for the paleface? Do you not trail 
 against Joe the Carcajou, and is not the trail deep, 
 and are not the dogs tired, and will not your 
 strength go out in making the trail ? Even before 
 
 43 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 you come to the Company's fort the dogs will fail 
 — then Wolf Runner will become a dog — Wolf 
 Runner will draw the sled even as a dog." 
 
 The Indian, man of silence, had spoken at great 
 length, and in his voice was truth. 
 
 Bruce spoke not, but pointing to their way, 
 nodded to Wolf Runner. 
 
 And once again the three men took up the trail 
 for Fort Donald. 
 
 44 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 Sometimes Malcolm took the lead from Wolf 
 Runner. When Bruce made to go forward Cam- 
 eron would always stop him, saying: "Stay you 
 behind, Minister. I'm thinkin' you'll have to run 
 for it at the last. We'll just go as far as we can, 
 an' then it's you to make good for the Kirk." 
 
 That day, and for two more, through poplar 
 bluff and jack-pine and spruce and open prairie 
 they fought the long length of the tortuous wind- 
 ing trail, with its depth of crustless snow that half 
 engulfed the dogs. Silently, wearied beyond 
 speech, they pressed forward hour after hour. 
 The third night they travelled late, hoping to reach 
 a small shack that stood where their own trail 
 forked from the way to Metis Mission, twenty 
 miles from Fort Donald; but it was beyond their 
 endurance. An hour short of its shelter man and 
 dog were done, and they camped in the pines. 
 
 In the morning, wearily plodding, they came to 
 the shack at daybreak. 
 
 A fresh-cut trough in the snow showed where 
 the plump weight of the little priest had left a 
 mark of derision for them. 
 
 45 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Malcolm stood like a man petrified. '* Minis- 
 ter! " he ejaculated, " there goes the trail of the 
 ungodly Romans! " 
 
 His voice stopped the dogs, and they crouched 
 in the snow, shivering with fatigue. Wolf Run- 
 ner darted into the shack, raked the fire-ashes, and 
 in a second was out again. The Indian pointed to 
 the second joint of his forefinger. 
 
 " They are gone half an hour," said Bruce. 
 " Come, lad, perk up, we'll do them yet." 
 
 Already Wolf Runner was tugging at the 
 hounds. 
 
 " Up, Wallace ! up, me bucks ! " cried Malcolm, 
 and the three pressed forward again. 
 
 As they travelled, the Indian pointed at the 
 heart-shaped snow-shoe track that was always 
 ahead of them. 
 
 " Somebody breaks the trail for Descoigne's 
 dogs," commented Malcolm. 
 
 " And they all break the trail for us," said the 
 minister, in a cheering voice. " We'll beat them 
 out, lad." 
 
 In less than a mile one of the dogs keeled over 
 in his harness and lay in the snow, done to death 
 with the strain of storm and travel. 
 
 Without a word Wolf Runner slipped Wallace 
 back into the collar he had stripped from the fallen 
 
 46 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 hound, and, putting the leader's harness on his own 
 shoulder, strode on. 
 
 The two Scotchmen looked into each other's 
 eyes, and each saw something besides weariness. 
 
 Two hours, and still no sight of Joseph and 
 the little priest. As they topped a hill, and it was 
 a steep climb, another dog fell, and lay with his 
 tongue blue and froth-covered on the snow. 
 
 The Bruce jumped forward, but Malcolm was 
 before him. "Stay you back. Minister! You'll 
 be needing your shanks for the wee bit at the end 
 perhaps." 
 
 The fallen dog was loosed, and then, almost 
 touching each other, harnessed together like train- 
 dogs, the Indian and the Scot gave lead to the 
 hounds. 
 
 Presently Wolf Runner held aloft his left hand 
 with the thumb at the first joint of the forefinger. 
 
 " We're gaining, lad," cried Bruce. " He says 
 they're but a quarter of an hour ahead. Hurrah 
 for the Kirk!" 
 
 " They must have fresh huskies," panted Mal- 
 colm. " They run straight; there's never a mark 
 in the snow of their sitting." 
 
 The Indian seemed a man of iron, tireless, all- 
 silent; even the lover was not more eager in his 
 travel — even the Church not more constant in its 
 desire. 
 
 47 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 At a cross-trail Malcolm cried out in bitterness. 
 " Six miles to the fort, and we're not caught up 
 yet. I'm afraid, man, I'm afraid." 
 
 "Ay, lad I what's that?" cried Bruce, eagerly, 
 the next instant, pointing to a hill less than half a 
 mile ahead. 
 
 " Hurrah! it's — it is, it is, it's the priest," cried 
 Cameron, exultantly; and the eager push of his 
 broad chest as he dashed forward in his joy threw 
 the tired hounds on their heads in the snow. 
 
 '' Better let the train go," said Bruce, " and to 
 our shanks for it." 
 
 " No," objected Malcolm, " we travel as fast 
 this way. But do you throw the blankets and all 
 from the sled, and bide on it yourself, and rest a 
 bit for the grand run when we've sighted the old 
 fort." 
 
 " I'm not needing it," objected the Bruce; " I'm 
 fresh, man, I'm fresh." 
 
 The priestly party sighted them, and the race 
 became a race indeed. Joseph's dogs, fresher, 
 evened up the determination of the Scots. 
 
 At Fort Donald that time, as it had been for 
 three days. Captain Ball sat at a lookout window 
 in the fort, marine-glass in hand, watching the 
 trail that wound to Buffalo Neck. Many times he 
 had focussed where it dipped over a hill a mile 
 
 48 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 away, but this time it was just as Descoigne and 
 the little priest reached the summit. 
 
 The captain jumped to his feet with a cry. As 
 he looked, suddenly he gave a groan of dismay; it 
 was the Catholic outfit. What ! there was another 
 speck of dark on the white snow now. 
 
 ** Hivins ! it's Malcolm — losin' be a hundred 
 yards!" Ball wailed as he fairly rolled down the 
 stairs. His wild war-cry brought Sandy and 
 Gourelot and everybody else that was not dead to 
 the fort square. 
 
 The place was alive, and so was Captain Ball — 
 very much. While the others swarmed as bees 
 that were drunk on new honey, his quick wit car- 
 ried him into a nimble plan. 
 
 " Lomond ! Lomond ! " he called, to a gaunt 
 hound that trailed at Sandy's heels, and whistled 
 the shrill note that Cameron used for his dogs. 
 " They're dead beat," he whispered to Sandy, as 
 he jerked the leather belt from his waist; then, 
 fastening It In the collar of Lomond, he fled down 
 the trail with wondrous speed. 
 
 Sandy, understanding, held the others in gar- 
 rulous talk, for they had not seen what Ball had 
 seen through the long-reaching eye of his glass. 
 
 Descoigne was still In the lead, his dogs run- 
 ning strong and fresh, for they were now on a 
 beaten trail. 
 
 49 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Ball knew not of Wolf Runner. He had an 
 idea that the strong, fresh hound slipped quick into 
 the train of Malcolm might turn the tide. Per- 
 haps even Malcolm and the minister were too 
 fagged to run a yard. 
 
 It was less than half a mile down the trail that 
 he met the French party. As he turned out to 
 pass, Joseph, in vindictiveness, struck at the hound 
 with his heavy dog-whip. In an instant Lomond 
 was upon him in retaliation. 
 
 The wolf-like huskies, roused by the hound's 
 rush, tumbled over each other in an attack on the 
 strange dog. Not even the huskies would have 
 saved Descoigne from the other's fangs if Ball 
 had not thrown himself upon the dog. 
 
 The melee of husky and hound and Frenchman 
 were still an entanglement when Malcolm and 
 Bruce came to its troubled edge. 
 
 " It's the favor of God! " cried Malcolm; " run 
 for it, man ! run for it. Minister ! " 
 
 Bruce stripped with eager fingers the snow- 
 shoes from his moccasined feet, and with long 
 stride carried the Influence of the Kirk into Fort 
 Donald. 
 
 With a cry of dismay the little priest rolled 
 from his sled, and essayed to follow, but his short 
 fat legs were no match for the long shanks of the 
 Hielander. 
 
 50 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The populace swarmed down the trail as the 
 trains came into view, and Sandy, his office of de- 
 tention gone, was of their number. 
 
 At sight of the minister he yelled : " The Bruce ! 
 the Bruce ! Glory to God I Come awa', mon, to 
 the Gourelot household." 
 
 Into the factor's presence the two Hielanders 
 thrust themselves, and the Kirk had won beyond 
 doubt. 
 
 51 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 Factor Gourelot had a philosophy, suave, 
 debonair; it was like the mercury in a barometer 
 which drives the indicator up in the midst of a 
 fierce storm. So he beamed cheerfully upon Bruce, 
 the winner, who was a Protestant. 
 
 '* M'sieu le Cure, I compleement you. I haf 
 lost, you haf won; I am sad, see? '' and his jocund 
 countenance beamed a falsification to his state- 
 ment. 
 
 " Mon, ye're a good loser. Factor," declared 
 Sandy Cameron, admiringly. 
 
 " Mon Dieu 1 Is not Mamselle Franchette 
 made happy ? *' questioned Gourelot, deprecat- 
 ingly. 
 
 Their compliments were cut short by turmoil 
 at the door. The little priest, Malcolm, Wolf 
 Runner, Descoigne — everybody, even the dogs, 
 had come — a vociferous throng, like the advance 
 guard of a rabble corps. Factor Gourelot darted 
 forward. 
 
 " Pere Lemoine ! Enter, good Father — wel- 
 come ! '' 
 
 " O Monsieur Gourelot, I am too fat," puffed 
 52 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 the little priest. " I am a duck; I am le gros 
 bear at berry-time." 
 
 " Come, come, Descoigne," cried Gourelot, ea- 
 gerly, " you haf mak' un gran' race. Perhaps ze 
 good father haf not beseech ze Church strong 
 enough." 
 
 Descoigne was sullen, still smarting from his de- 
 feat — even the rake of Lomond's teeth in his 
 shoulder. 
 
 *' It was Ic chien du diable that lose us ever'- 
 t'ing." 
 
 " Nevair mind, nevair mind," expostulated 
 Gourelot. " M'sieu Sandy haf beaten Factor 
 Gourelot — ha, ha, ha! In Fort Donald we will 
 nevair hear ze end of it. Come, Malcolm, stan' 
 here; now we will see. Pardon me, Mes- 
 sieurs " 
 
 Gourelot darted to an inner room, and returned 
 almost at once with Franchette on his arm. 
 
 Ah, it was good to see how blood would tell, 
 how breeding would out. The factor's rotund 
 figure took on inches of courtly stature as he placed 
 the shrinking girl's hand in the big palm of 
 Sandy's Malcolm. 
 
 " There, M'sieus," Gourelot cried, " ze race is 
 finish; ze dog, ze storm, ze long leg of M'sieu 
 Bruce haf not won; it Is ze will of God. What 
 say you, M'sieu le Cure? " 
 
 53 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 " Factor, I can't splk in judgment on the will 
 of God; but as you say true, M'sieu Gourelot, you 
 have been unfortunate, the struggle has been 
 gained by M'sieu Cameron, and we must be all 
 good friends." 
 
 The little priest tapped Franchette playfully on 
 the cheek and cried: " Mamselle is the happy lit- 
 tle rebel." Then he shrugged his round shoul- 
 ders till the big black cross with the brass figure 
 of Christ clinging to it twisted fantastically, as 
 though the priest's admixture of Jesuitical reluct- 
 ance to credit the Protestant Church with a victory 
 ordained of heaven and his playful humor of ad- 
 monishment vibrated it unapprovingly. 
 
 " I won tin skins, Malcolm, me b'y," an Irish 
 voice shot into the more or less church atmosphere. 
 ** Felix Benoit, ye'll just fork over." 
 
 " I not pay, me. Captain," declared Felix. 
 " You set ze big dog for grab Joe, cause you bet 
 ten skins." 
 
 Descoigne glared at Ball, but the Irishman 
 laughed good-humoredly. 
 
 " Factor, jus' cut ould man Benoit tin skins. 
 It's mesilf'll take it in tobacco." 
 
 " Come awa', Meenister," said Sandy; " I'm 
 thinkin' ye're fair beat wi' the long run." 
 
 Malcolm spoke up. " When — " he stopped, 
 and shifted from one big foot to the other as 
 
 54 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 though his moccasins had suddenly become sheets 
 of fire. Franchette drooped her head until the 
 mass of black hair fell about her face like a veil, 
 hiding the eyes that were full of a wondrous light 
 of joy and happiness and thanks to the Virgin 
 Mother that had brought back to her safely the 
 man she had pictured as dead when the fierce storm 
 raved at her in its blizzard fury. 
 
 " Pardon," cried Gourelot. " To-morrow, 
 frien's, we will make ze wedding. What say you, 
 M'sieu Sandy?" 
 
 " Tm vera pleased," responded Cameron; 
 " Fm thinkin' affairs o' this sort shouldna be 
 put off. We'll just hae a bit rest the mean- 
 while." 
 
 Then ensconced in big Sandy's hospitable shack, 
 Bruce had to live over again every foot of the 
 trail for the edification of Cameron. Many 
 times Sandy laid down his pipe with such ejacu- 
 lations as: "Clearly the will o' God;" "It 
 must hae been fearsome cauld; " "Ye did well 
 to mak' camp, mon — I was afeared. If ye had- 
 na come the day, we were to start oot, lookin' 
 for ye." 
 
 And Malcolm's mother, Jeanie, that was the 
 wife of Sandy, many times touched her stalwart 
 son with little taps of love pride; sometimes she 
 caressed his forehead, and always: " My braw lad I 
 
 55 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 ye deserve a gude wifie. Anyway, ye didna let the 
 Papists o'ercome ye, ye braw lad.'' 
 
 And as for Wolf Runner, Sandy saw that he 
 was quartered well, with unlimited food and to- 
 bacco. 
 
 56 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 Joe Descoigne, moody, resentful, jealous of 
 his rivaPs happiness, determined to have one more 
 vicious try at upsetting the nuptials. 
 
 That night he talked long and earnestly with 
 Factor Gourelot; his argument of persuasion was 
 that they, the party of true belief, would have won 
 had not that barbarian of an Irishman, Captain 
 Ball, rushed down the trail and deliberately set the 
 hound on him and his huskies. In Joe's philosophy 
 a lie was just as much to be used in controversy as 
 any other expression. 
 
 Might he be called upon to curse his own birth 
 if the devilish captain had not set the hound on 
 him. Why should Franchette be married out of 
 her own belief, out of the true Church, to raise up 
 children — grandchildren of Pere Gourelot they 
 would be, too — to be predestined to hell. And by 
 a trick, M'sleu Gourelot — a vile heretical trick. 
 
 Gourelot was of an unsuspicious mind; he had 
 not questioned the matter when big Sandy bolted 
 Into his presence with the winner, Bruce; but put 
 In the Machiavellian light of Descolgne's deduc- 
 
 57 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 tion, " Sacre," it did seem hardly fair. He had 
 stuck to his bargain, had attempted no trickery, 
 and, as Descoigne said, it must have been Cameron 
 who had put Ball up to the hound intervention ; it 
 was like the Hielandman's astuteness. 
 
 " Spik wit' Pere Lemoine, M'sieu Gourelot," 
 suggested Descoigne. " De little father he's not 
 t'ink of dese t'ings." Also Joe's name was not to 
 be mentioned — Descoigne stipulated, begged that. 
 
 Gourelot was mercurial, quite French in his 
 weathercock-like shif tings. Mon Dieu I why should 
 he be outwitted by big Sandy? 
 
 He hastened to consult the little priest. Father 
 Lemoine listened quite patiently; it was part of his 
 stock-in-trade, patience. A man of religion who 
 was not patient beyond all understanding made no 
 headway with the erratic children of the forest. 
 
 Factor Gourelot was even more impetuous in 
 his objection than Descoigne had been — more sin- 
 cere; but Pere Lemoine, smothering the tempta- 
 tion of a possible turningNof the tables, answered 
 quite simply — they were speaking in French — 
 *' M'sieu Factor, you cannot do this thing. I am 
 a servant of the Church; I do all things to save 
 those of unbelief. I am here to lay down my life, 
 if necessary, for our loved Mother; and I weep 
 to think that the children of Franchette are to be 
 lo«t because of a false belief. But my Church 
 
 58 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 could not prosper if we destroyed the faith men 
 have in one another. The temptation to me is 
 strong, and the responsibihty less than it is with 
 you, for I have not given my word as to anything ; 
 but you, M'sieu Factor, you have, and you must 
 keep faith. Your great Company keeps faith with 
 the Indians and it is strong; you are its servant, 
 and if you break faith with M'sieu Cameron, 
 everybody will say the Company tells lies." 
 
 The little priest sighed wearily; he was speak- 
 ing not of his own liking, but for the honor of 
 Factor Gourelot, who had come to him for advice. 
 
 " But the trick of Captain Ball," the factor ob- 
 jected. 
 
 " M'sieu the Captain is not M'sieu Cameron. 
 Also there was no trick — I saw; it was Descoigne's 
 fault." 
 
 So Factor Gourelot went away from the little 
 priest, shouldering the load of the inevitable, and 
 glad that the good father had solved the matter 
 for him. 
 
 The priest watched Gourelot going, his chubby 
 fingers caressing the metal Christ that rested in 
 the lap of his cassock. The father had a poetic 
 little fancy of his own that sustained him In many 
 a crisis. When the crucified figure felt hot against 
 his hand, burned his fingers, he knew that he had 
 acted wrongly ; when his course of action had been 
 
 59 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 right, dictated of the Holy Mother, the image of 
 the Son comforted his fingers, fevered of misgiv- 
 ing, with a cool response. It was a fanciful ma- 
 terial embodiment of conscience. Now, as the 
 factor faded from sight, he felt the crucifix sweet 
 to his touch; there was no hot sting of reproach; 
 just a calm, holy consolation. 
 
 The priest groaned inwardly when the cere- 
 mony was performed by Minister Bruce. Accord- 
 ing to his tenets, it was a meaningless observance. 
 Outside the pale of the true Church, it could pos- 
 sibly have no recognition by the higher tribunal. 
 A lamb from his flock had been lost — taken by 
 the wolves of unbelief. It was not a narrow 
 prejudice; it was not the anger of defeat; it was 
 belief, and he sighed in compassion. But the 
 priest was brave. In the hour of distress he had 
 prayed for the others, who were humans; a com- 
 pact had been made, and to object would breed 
 dissension and trouble and enmity. Was it the will 
 of God, he even questioned to himself in silence. 
 And by such a little he had lost. It was a sore 
 trial to Father Lemoine; surely there would be 
 many children — of a certainty there would be, and 
 all Protestants, all heretics. When had such a 
 disaster come to his diocese? Indeed, he should 
 do penance for his obesity that had caused the dis- 
 aster. The barbaric physical fitness of the heretic 
 
 60 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 minister had over-reached all his zeal, his plethora 
 of good dogs, his perfection of theological acumen; 
 it was like a triumph of matter over mind — a mind 
 schooled and sustained by the true religion. 
 
 It must be said that Factor Gourelot had no such 
 vibrant emotions. Even the union might tide over 
 many little difficulties which arose because of the 
 varied nationalities and divergent theology which 
 existed in Fort Donald. 
 
 Big Sandy was not so optimistic. He had a 
 talk with Malcolm after the ceremony. 
 
 " A lass may gang frae her mither and fayther 
 to the arms o' her laddie, I ken that; but I'm teUin' 
 ye, Malcolm — I'm sayin', the Church o' Rome is 
 stronger nor ony parent. Ye mak' yer ain bed, lad, 
 an' ye maun lie on it; but I'm thinkin' ye'd best 
 keep a strong hand o'er Franchette, an' dinna let 
 them run back an' forth too much. The Frenchies 
 are fond o' blatherin', an' speerin' the ways o' a 
 hoosehold. Gie them tae understan' ye're a Cam- 
 eron, an' laird in yer ain castle." 
 
 From time to time the father had other sage 
 bits of advice; but he might as well have talked to 
 the crackling ice in the river, for Malcolm was 
 most abominably in love, and the black eyes of 
 Franchette were the only thing to be considered. 
 
 6i 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The festivities of the week were of undoubted 
 fervor. 
 
 Father Lemoine had journeyed away from Fort 
 Donald. The breed who had broken the trail from 
 Metis Mission for his dogs took them back, and 
 Descoigne's dogs would be sent on to Fort Don- 
 ald at the first chance. 
 
 Usually the advent of the little father, even 
 his stay in the post, would have been most welcome 
 to all; but under the peculiar circumstances, and 
 sad to relate, there was no one so disinterested as 
 to regret his going. 
 
 " Tm vera glad, Malcolm," Sandy said, " vera 
 glad indeed. Ye'U hae a better chance, mon, tae 
 wean the lassie a bit." 
 
 Factor Gourelot felt somehow a reproach in the 
 priest's presence. The factor had been the unfort- 
 unate instrument of casting a defeat in the way 
 of the Church. 
 
 As for the post dwellers. Catholic and all, they 
 were possessed of a huge desire to become ex- 
 
 62 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 hilarated with liquor of a questionable quality. 
 Even then the spirit was working itself up to a fine 
 state of excitement in a couple of well-corked kegs 
 which lay hidden in the shack of Felix Benoit, the 
 half-breed. 
 
 He was a distiller of high repute; for did he 
 not take the hops and barley and brown sugar and 
 in the course of time produce from his stout kegs a 
 fermentation which lifted the roof from the head 
 of its imbiber? In a square hole under the floor 
 of his shack Benoit had the kegged essence of 
 jubilation, and it had come to its utmost point of 
 high pressure, to the narrowest margin separating 
 it from spontaneous combustion. 
 
 With the mild blue eyes of the good father upon 
 them, the dwellers who knew of this godless vin- 
 tage were steeped in the throes of apprehensive 
 terror. 
 
 The fat little priest would prove a metaphorical 
 skeleton at the marriage-feast. No adherent of 
 the Church could hope to become drunken with 
 impunity. So, when Father Lemoine, tortured by 
 the ever-present vision of defeat, decided that he 
 must return at once to his own flock at St. Ambrose, 
 a mighty shout of relief went up, figuratively. 
 The solicitude of the people for his welfare quite 
 touched the priest's heart. As if by magic every- 
 thing was prepared for his departure; they tum- 
 
 63 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 bled over each other in their eagerness to expedite 
 his going. It was a rare exhibition of Church in- 
 fluence, of regard for his office, the pleased father 
 thought; it was the devilish fire-water seething in 
 the cellar of Benoit, the thirsty ones knew. 
 
 For Bruce, heretical expounder of false doc- 
 trines, the Romanists cared not a button ; and even 
 those of his own method of religion had perhaps 
 only a sharp reprimand to fear. The minister 
 could not make them do penance ; neither could he 
 excommunicate them. 
 
 In all the Northland there was no known rea- 
 son for not getting hopelessly in the meshes of a 
 generous " drunk " except a deplorable scarcity of 
 liquor; it was the one touch of civilization obtain- 
 able outside of religion. Besides, it took so little 
 to bowl over a breed or an Indian; their suscepti- 
 bility to intoxication seemed to have been planned 
 wisely in its commensurate affinity to the limited 
 supply. 
 
 Factor Gourelot carried in the Hudson Bay 
 stores what was known as '' dark brandy.^' Giant 
 powder was a dwarf compared with the expansive 
 power of this liquid. There was also Jamaica 
 rum, scarcely less opiatic in its effect on humanity. 
 The factor's supply was small, limited under the 
 head of " medical comforts," but at Christmas 
 time, and upon the occasion of his daughter's mar- 
 
 64 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 riage, Gourelot felt that he was called upon to 
 relax somewhat. 
 
 In extenuation, it may be said he knew nothing 
 of the hilarious fermentation In the cellar of the 
 illicit shack. 
 
 65 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 The first night after the wedding there was a 
 dance in the Company's big log building, that was 
 half workshop, half storehouse. The floor was 
 cleared of obstructive merchandise and a contin- 
 uous plank seat strung around the wall. 
 
 The squaws and half-breed women sat hip to 
 hip, not unlike totem figures, backed against the 
 four walls. A door had been detached from an 
 outbuilding, and, resting on two barrels, it made 
 a platform for the orchestra. A concertina and a 
 fiddle, worked by strong-armed men in hard train- 
 ing, aggravated the dancers into fierce activity. 
 
 The dim light, mazed by gaudily draped figures, 
 suggested orientalism; the asthmatic scream of the 
 rasping bow, the wheezing pump of the concertina, 
 the rhythmic pat of the moccasined feet suggested 
 something entirely incomprehensible — at least it 
 would have to a man of modern habit; but to the 
 post dwellers, to the trailers of furred animals. It 
 was elysium. 
 
 The mainstay of the revel was the Red River 
 Jig. The ball had opened stately enough with a 
 
 66 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 cotillon; but Felix Benoit, who added to his pro- 
 fession of blacksmith the lighter office of floor- 
 master at all the Fort Donald assemblies, and who 
 had undertaken to " call off " the cotillon, became 
 hopelessly entangled in the middle of the set, and 
 it had to be abandoned. 
 
 Captain Ball, somewhat of a diplomatic organ- 
 izer, had engineered this preliminary offering to 
 the Thespian god; he had rounded up Malcolm, 
 Factor Gourelot, and Brown, the carpenter. 
 
 " Faith, the nichies is touchy," Ball said. 
 "They're like kids; an' a breed is a nichie, too. 
 If a white man sits an' eats them out of house 
 and home they think he's a good fellow; but if ye 
 stand thim off they sulk. So now, me bucks," he 
 continued, addressing his recruits, " if we jist open 
 the ball wit' a square dance they'll be as plased as 
 a pig wit' a tin snoot, an' there'll be lashin's av 
 fun." 
 
 They squared away bravely enough, for Felix, 
 feeling a twitch of stage-fright, had primed him- 
 self with a big tin-cupful of his hop-encourager. 
 
 Suze Roland, the fiddler, had tortured for ten 
 minutes the strings of his thin-voiced instrument, 
 working them up to the last point of breaking 
 strain. With a final resining of the bow, he tapped 
 the back of his fiddle, drew an unearthly screech 
 from the discordant strings, and they were ready 
 for the fray. 
 
 67 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 " Honor ze par'ner! " commanded Benolt. 
 
 Suze Roland was hard at it on the fiddle, not 
 quite into the full swing of any particular melody. 
 
 Factor Gourelot's profound obeisance was a les- 
 son to rude people; the captain's possessed of 
 much heartiness. 
 
 " Balance all! " cut in Benoit, and Captain Ball 
 flung a double shuffle at his partner that started 
 the dust in a cloud. Gourelot's fat legs moved to 
 the rhythm of a minuet; he was really too corpu- 
 lent for extreme grace, but his intentions were 
 good. Malcolm delighted his lady, Madam 
 Gourelot, with an excerpt from the Highland 
 Fling. 
 
 The rhythm of the music was nebulous; it ad- 
 mitted of two-four, three-four, and common time; 
 in fact, the question of " time " was one of Indi- 
 vidual interpretation. 
 
 "Swing ze par'ner!" and Franchette's little 
 heels nearly clipped a button from the rotund form 
 of her parent as energetic Captain Ball swished her 
 around with vociferous vehemence. 
 
 The factor's companion of the dance was a 
 half-breed girl of considerable avoirdupois, and 
 the two rotated with proper decorum. 
 
 Malcolm, like most Hielandmen, was agile for 
 his size, so Madam Gourelot remained the pivot 
 of his circle. He spun around her. 
 
 68 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Suze Roland had come into the tune he was 
 striving for, " The De'il among the Tailors." It 
 wasn't exactly the cadence for a stately cotillon, 
 but somehow the proper tune had got mislaid in 
 his mind, for he played by ear. 
 
 '' A la main lef ! " yelled Benoit, thumping 
 the floor with his right foot to the mad music of 
 Roland's extraction. It was delightful — it was ex- 
 hilarating. 
 
 In a corner, carried away by the many things, 
 the hop-brew, and the swift fiddling, two half- 
 breeds were dancing a break-down. 
 
 " Here, me colleen ! " Ball had cried in an 
 ecstasy of fun as Franchette made a dash for 
 Malcolm; and as the four couples finally disen- 
 tangled themselves from the sinuous twist of "a 
 la main lef" Benoit called: "Swing ze par'- 
 ner!" 
 
 Then he went to pieces. The twisting figures, 
 the fierce wail of the angry fiddle, the bad beer — 
 all these things took hold of him, and if it had 
 been to save his life he could have remembered 
 nothing but " a la main lef." 
 
 Once more the men cut away as the sun circles, 
 and when they were straightened out Felix was 
 ready with another, " Swing ze par'ner! " 
 
 It wasn't in human nature to stand it. A dance, 
 and at Christmas time, should have some sort of 
 
 69 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 variety, but " a la main lef " and " swing ze part- 
 ner " leads to nowhere. 
 
 Felix was groping for the next change — it 
 wouldn't come. 
 
 It was Suze Roland who really broke up the set; 
 twice he had run through " The De'il among the 
 Tailors," and the dancers had accomplished noth- 
 ing, so to speak. 
 
 " Go on, go on I " cried Captain Ball. 
 
 Suze rose in his wrath. " What I shall play 
 me? Zat is not cotillon — it is ze prairie-chicken 
 dance." 
 
 " By Goss ! " answered Felix, " what fell' can 
 call cotillon to zat jig? I nevair hear such pig- 
 squeak for make cotillon." 
 
 Ball interposed. " Faith, never moind, never 
 moindl I'm pumped mesilf. What say ye, Fac- 
 tor-? Let the b'ys have a Red River Jig. Go on, 
 Suze, play a jig. Slip yer cable, Benoit, the crew's 
 mutineed." 
 
 When the fragments of the cotillon had been 
 brushed from the floor, so to speak, the fiddler 
 slipped into a palpitating Red River Jig; a breed 
 darted at the many-colored human hedge that lined 
 the wall, made a gesture with his hands in front 
 of a demure squaw, and, turning his back on her, 
 slouched to the centre of the room. Passing her 
 shawl to a neighbor, the squaw followed. Then 
 
 70 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 the jig took possession of the two dervishes, and 
 double-shuffle, knock heel, and the whole gamut 
 of jig steps were hammered Into the floor. 
 
 Soon another breed cut out the first dancer; 
 then another squaw relieved the sister who still 
 toiled ; and so on for hours and hours. 
 
 The factor, madam, and Franchette left the 
 ball early. 
 
 The cafe was the little blacksmith shop of Felix 
 Benoit's, close by; and the wine was the union of 
 hops and sugar and the bacillus of intoxication that 
 Benoit had brought in a tin pail. This brew had 
 been fortified. Increased In its malignity, by a bot- 
 tle of dark brandy and several vials of Jamaica 
 ginger. It might be thought that this was a drink 
 newly invented; but it was of old-time habit In 
 Fort Donald, and the dancers toyed with it as a 
 babe returns to warm milk. 
 
 They were equally tireless In the matter of 
 dancing ; and the morning light, stealing In through 
 one small window, fell upon a grotesque human 
 mosaic, blue and red and green and drab buck- 
 skin that covered the floor; for, as the end drew 
 near, everyone took part Indiscriminately In the 
 dance. 
 
 Sometimes Suze Roland slept as he fiddled, but 
 It made little difference; the dance was really the 
 thing. 
 
 71 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 The day claimed fresh diversion: a shooting- 
 match, wrestling, snow-shoe running, and racing 
 with the trains of dogs. 
 
 Captain Ball, always original, unearthed a 
 phase of sport he confidentially assured Malcolm 
 would provide them with fun for a year. It was 
 no less than a conspiracy to set Suze Roland and 
 Felix Benoit at each other. 
 
 He knew that the vendetta would lead to noth- 
 ing beyond a war of words, many boastings, and 
 dire threats. 
 
 The mischievous Irishman approached Benoit 
 first. 
 
 " Felix," he said, *' Suze swears be the powers 
 that ye bust the dance." 
 
 Benoit blew out his breast in anger. " If Suze 
 say zat, I will smash him. By Gar! He's ole 
 fiddle squeak, squeak, squeak. By Goss! What 
 you zink, Captain — jig for cotillon. Huh! " 
 
 Then Ball interviewed Roland the musician. 
 
 " Suze, Benoit is blowin' all over the fort that 
 ye were drunk las' night, and spiled the dance for 
 the factor." 
 
 72 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Suze had a suspicion that Benoit would throw 
 the blame upon him ; now he knew it. 
 
 " Felix is one link," Suze declared; " he's drunk, 
 an' can't call not'ings." 
 
 " Ye're right, Suze. Faith, he swears he could 
 take better music from the back of a cat than ye 
 give the factor las' night." 
 
 Roland jumped in the air in a rage. " By Gar I 
 I will mak' music from he's nose — I will mak' him 
 sing. Sacre ! Tub I " and the fiddler spat into 
 an imaginary face. 
 
 Then the genial captain sought once more 
 Felix Benoit, and rendered unto him an un- 
 abridged version of Roland's vicarious compli- 
 ments. 
 
 "Zee cat! zee gopher! " Benoit likened Suze 
 to all the despised animals of creation. He was 
 even more despicable than the white-striped skunk. 
 
 " Ye must shut his mouth," declared Ball. 
 " He'll be comin' to yer shack fer a pull at the 
 beer, an' just t'row him out. If ye stan' up loike 
 the man that ye are he'll run fer his loife — Suze's 
 afeared of ye, Felix; he knows ye're a holy terror 
 at foighten." 
 
 The half-breed expanded his chest, and in his 
 eye was a martial fire. 
 
 " M'sieu Captain, will you do Felix ze honor 
 of accepting a drink? Ho, Boy! " he continued, 
 
 73 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 in salutation, lifting his tin cup in undying friend- 
 ship unto the man who had classed him a great 
 fighter. 
 
 The captain's next move was encouragement 
 for the leader of the orchestra. 
 
 " Suze, that cat of a Frenchman, Felix " 
 
 "Frenchman!" ejaculated Roland, in disgust; 
 "he's not Frenchman, he is nichie — niggar; no, 
 no, not French." 
 
 " Well, anyway, Roland, he says if ye stroike 
 his shack to-day he'll t'row ye out. But, Suze, 
 he's jist blowin' — he's afeared of his hfe of ye — 
 I know that. Ye could lick him wit' one hand 
 tied behind yer back; Felix knows it, too. Don't 
 stand his blather, or they'll all laugh at ye — 
 they'll call ye ' squaw man.' Jist go up bowld as 
 a lion, an' he'll crawl under the bed." 
 
 " Captaine, you shall see how I wipe ze floor 
 wit' Felix ze link. By Gar! Feel dat, M'sieu 
 Captaine," and Suze stiffened his right arm while 
 the Irishman pinched the muscles of it. 
 
 " I'll put the fear of God in him, Suze," whis- 
 pered Ball, confidently; " I'll tell him ye have an 
 arm on ye loike a bear — an' ye have. The Lord 
 pity Felix if ye swipe him wanst. But, Suze, ye 
 best ate no dinner — ^jest starve yersilf, an' ye'll 
 have him. Divil a bit good is a man wit' a full 
 belly in a foight. And, Roland, me b'y, I'll fix 
 
 74 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 things. I'll take up to Felix's lashin's of grub 
 from the Company's store — caribou tongues, jam 
 — faith, I know the very kind Felix loikes to guz- 
 zle — greengage — an' I'll take wan of thim tins 
 of plum-puddin' that'll hold him down solid, for 
 he'll ate the whole of it, an' it'll be loike lead in 
 his belly. I'll load him up to the chin, me b'y; 
 he won't last wan round — ^ye'll have him pumped 
 before ye can say Jack Rob'son." 
 
 Roland squared himself dramatically, and made 
 a pass at an imaginative Felix. 
 
 *' Avast, ye lubber! " cried Ball, jumping back 
 in pretended affright; " if ye wanst let sliver that 
 left at him, an' ye get home, me b'y, Felix'll be 
 down and out. But he won't stand up to ye, 
 Suze; he'll take to the woods when he sees ye 
 comin'." 
 
 " I'll keel him," declared Roland, fiercely; " he 
 spik I can't play ze fiddle. Sacre I A la main lef 
 — a la main lef, zat all he say. Poof! " 
 
 " Come up after dinner, Suze," said Ball. 
 " Jist weigh anchor after grub-pile, an' come sail- 
 in' into the shack as if ye meant to ate him. I'll 
 spin him a yarn about ye bein' fair crazy fer a 
 foight; I'll rub a bit of shoe-black in me eye, an' 
 swear ye hit me a swipe that knocked the breath 
 av me." 
 
 I will come," declared Roland. "Au revoir, 
 75 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 gallant Captalne. I show Mister Link, le box, I 
 give him ze lash. By Gar! I make music for 
 him." 
 
 Suze had worked himself up to a frenzy of 
 courageous anger; he pranced up and down the 
 room, chasing an imaginary Felix with left hooks, 
 right swings, and short jabs. He looked all over 
 a winner. 
 
 " Don't eat," begged the captain as he left. 
 *' But there'll be no foight; Felix'll take to the 
 woods." 
 
 Then Ball hied him to the shack of Felix Benoit. 
 It was like a hive, full of human bees that had 
 come to sip of the honey that Felix had generated 
 in his kegs. Casually enough, the mischievous 
 Irishman told Benoit that Suze was coming up to 
 clean him out. 
 
 " Huh! " Felix only deigned a snarl. 
 
 ^' Pretend ye're afeared of him," suggested Ball, 
 "jest to draw him on a bit; fer as soon as ye shake 
 yer fist in his face he'll hit the trail fer home." 
 
 " If he come, Captaine, I knock him t'rough ze 
 window. By Gar! las' summer down to Gran' 
 Rapide I lick t'ree men." 
 
 " Don't hit him hard, Felix," pleaded Ball, 
 " jest toss him through the door." 
 
 Ball's promised feast for Felix was purely vis- 
 ionary; he actually shared Benoit's dinner, for it 
 
 76 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 was a land of free eating, and all that was in the 
 shack was always at the service of its visitors. 
 
 About two o'clock Roland was observed coming 
 up the hill with two of his friends. 
 
 *' Don't rush out at him, Felix," commanded 
 Ball; " let him come in." 
 
 Benoit had turned white at sight of his enemy. 
 He spat on his hands and walked fiercely up and 
 down the floor. " Spik him go avay, Captaine ; 
 if he come in here I keel him — I t'row him t' rough 
 ze window." 
 
 There was a knock at the door. Ball jumped 
 up and opened it. 
 
 "Ho, Suze!" he cried, cheerily; "come in, 
 B'y." 
 
 Roland and his two friends stepped through the 
 door and stood against the wall. Felix was there ; 
 why had he not started for the woods ? The cap- 
 tain couldn't have told him about that swipe in 
 the eye. 
 
 Felix glared furtively at his adversary, and 
 threw his shoulders back to show the breadth of 
 his chest. Did the crazy fiddler actually mean to 
 fight him? 
 
 " Have a drink, B'y," said Ball, passing the tin 
 cup to the new arrivals. 
 
 Suze clutched at the cup eagerly; the drink 
 would brace him up — he was a bit nervous. 
 
 77 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 One of Felix's friends started to whistle de- 
 risively the jig Suze had played at the dance. A 
 sickly smile hovered on the thin lips of Felix. 
 
 Sacrebleu ! it was a sneer, Suze thought. 
 
 " That was a foine cotillon last night," said 
 Ball, for an oppressive silence, bar the whistle, 
 hung over the room. 
 
 Everybody laughed — even Felix — everybody 
 but Suze. 
 
 " Non, non! " cried Roland, deprecatingly ; " I 
 make ze bad music — I hear 'tis all my fault. 
 Some feir is drunk, an' makes a damn fool, zen 
 Suze can' play ze fiddle." 
 
 Benoit flared hot. " Suze Roland, you come 
 here for make row. By Gar! you say I drunk? 
 Who can make a cotillon to pig-squeak? Whee- 
 whee-whee ! " and Benoit squealed through his 
 nose like a troubled porker. 
 
 " A la main lef, a la main lef," yelled Suze. 
 " SvingI — dat's cotillon." 
 
 " By Gar, Suze Roland ! " screamed Felix, shak- 
 ing his fist In the air, " s'pose dis not my shack I 
 wipe ze floor wit' you." 
 
 Ball had thrust his broad body between the two 
 angry men. Thus encouraged, Suze waxed wroth. 
 
 " I don' lick no man In hees own shack; but 
 sacre! Felix, if I catch you some time on ze trail, 
 I pound ze eart' wiz you." 
 
 78 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 " Marse ! *' yelled Felix, " get out, I tVow you 
 t'rough ze window." 
 
 The others had crowded about the two men, 
 and the excitement was intense. 
 
 " Come outside I " yelled Roland, and he made 
 for the door, feeling sure Felix would not dare to 
 follow. 
 
 *' Yes, yes!" everybody ejaculated; "outside, 
 outside I " and the crowd streamed through the 
 open doorway. Perhaps a fight would have ma- 
 tured out of all the recrimination — it is difficult to 
 say ; but at that instant there was a terrific crash — 
 the plank floor heaved upward as though a volcano 
 had suddenly been unchained; the boards were 
 sent flying, and a something shot upward, carry- 
 ing away the mud roof, and all but taking Felix 
 with it. A shower of bad beer deluged every- 
 body. One of the kegs in the little cellar beneath 
 had exploded. 
 
 A stool, hurled with force, caught Suze in the 
 ribs ; he thought Felix had treacherously shot him. 
 He toppled over and rolled down the hill, yelling 
 that he was shot; at the bottom he lay moaning, 
 with his hand on his side, trying to hide from the 
 vicious rifle of his treacherous enemy. 
 
 In fact, everybody was badly frightened, and 
 ran in all directions; it appeared quite likely that 
 
 79 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Benolt's store of powder had blown up — every- 
 body kept powder in the shack for the hunt. 
 
 In extenuation of Roland's peculiar retreat it 
 may be said that even Ball, instigator of all the 
 evil, took to his heels under the impression that a 
 retribution had come to him for his mischief. 
 
 Felix was hurled through the door by the shock. 
 His first thought — this even was some time in 
 coming, for he was fair dazed — was that Roland 
 had dropped a canister of powder in his stove to 
 blow him up. Seeing the others in flight, he, too, 
 ran for his life. 
 
 Luckily the women folks, feeling that they were 
 in the way of so many men, had gone to a 
 neighbor's, else there might have been an actual 
 tragedy. 
 
 Ball, being stout, naturally ran down hill, in his 
 eagerness almost falling over Suze Roland, who 
 was lying as flat as possible in the snow. 
 
 " Fm keel ! " squealed Suze, as the captain was 
 on the point of dashing into him. The voice 
 checked the Irishman's mad career. " O Cap- 
 taine, zat scoundrel have shot me in ze back. I 
 t'ink me I sure die. Help me, Captaine, I can't 
 get up." 
 
 '' Shot nothin' ! " roared Ball, as he looked 
 back at the dismantled shack. " Felix's whole 
 caboose is blowed up." 
 
 80 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 " Fm not shot, Captaine?" queried Suze, ex- 
 ultantly. 
 
 "No, ye silly lubber; what did ye run for?" 
 Ball thought to hide his own retreat in recrim- 
 ination. 
 
 Roland struggled to his feet, and looked at the 
 huge hole in the roof of Benoit's log castle. 
 
 " What haf happen? " he queried. 
 
 " The divil a know do I,'' retorted Ball, shortly. 
 " Sure I thought the whole world come to an end 
 when the t'ing blowed up." 
 
 Suze's courage came back when he found him- 
 self still alive and not likely to die. 
 
 " By Goss, Captaine," he said, " if ze shack 
 haf not blow up, I haf lick Felix so he nevaire call 
 no more dance." 
 
 " Let's go and see," said Ball. " PVaps some- 
 one's kilt." 
 
 When they got back to the scene of disaster, 
 Felix and the others had returned and were gazing 
 at the explanation of the wreck. 
 
 Perched in the snow on the roof of a small in- 
 cline rested the disrupted beer-keg. It leered at 
 them from its spreading staves. 
 
 ** Are ye hurted, Felix?" queried Ball, solici- 
 tously. 
 
 " No," answered the householder; " but ze roof 
 
 is bust, an' ze beer " 
 
 8i 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 "HivinsI it's all gone," said Ball; he hadn't 
 appreciated the full extent of the calamity. 
 
 A moan went up from the others ; they switched 
 their sympathy from Felix over the roof to them- 
 selves over the beer. The building could be re- 
 paired, but it would take days to work up such a 
 fierce fermentation again — ^besides, the hops were 
 all gone. 
 
 In the general misery the feud between Felix 
 and Suze sank into nothingness; it was a trifle. 
 At such times internal strife could not be tolerated. 
 
 *' Tell Felix ye're sorry for him, Suze," com- 
 manded Ball. " Ye froightened the loife out of 
 him, an' it's yer place to make up. Here, Felix," 
 called the captain, " come and shake hands with 
 Suze. Two good men loike y'u should be foighten 
 together, not foighten each other." 
 
 " By Goss ! " said Benoit, coming forward, " we 
 been frien's long teme. I forgot for call proper 
 zat cotillon." 
 
 " Sacre ! " interrupted Roland, " many times I 
 play cotillon proper, but las' nigh' my old fiddle 
 she jus' bound play jig all tem. I lick plenty fell' 
 in my teme, Felix, but I don' want fight you." 
 
 " An' I don' want fight my old frien'," added 
 Felix. 
 
 They clasped each other in their arms, and 
 buried the hatchet. 
 
 82 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 Malcolm had not gone to see Ball's drawing 
 of the two Frenchmen. Ordinarily he would have 
 been of the party, but the intoxication he quaffed 
 from the black eyes of Franchette gave him a dis- 
 taste for the bad beer of Benoit's brewing. Be- 
 sides, the Bruce was still with them, and had they 
 not lain back to back in that cavern of death, the 
 snow-mound of the blizzard? 
 
 Big Sandy and Factor Gourelot had hobnobbed 
 together all day. Always full of considerable re- 
 spect for each other, the present occasion was one 
 to make soft the hearts of even more obdurate 
 men. 
 
 In the factor's office-den, that boasted a huge 
 iron box-stove, Gourelot and Cameron sat and 
 smoked, and passed each other back and forth the 
 dark brandy that was like the corked essence of 
 Sheol. 
 
 In the first mellowness of its touch Sandy com- 
 miserated with Gourelot upon his defeat. He 
 even suggested — it was after the third round — 
 
 83 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 that perhaps It would be " na mair nor fair that 
 half the children should be allowed to the Goure- 
 lot manner of faith." But the factor wouldn't 
 have it. 
 
 " Mon Dieu ! was not a bargain a bargain — 
 did not the Company always keep its word, even 
 if the loss were heavy? " And Gourelot had come 
 from an ancestry that held their plighted word 
 above everything. 
 
 The dark brandy was passed again at this 
 point. Yes, Gourelot had continued, even if the 
 children were predestined for eternal misery be- 
 cause of their Protestant belief, what mattered it? 
 He, as a factor of the great Company and a French 
 gentleman, had kept his word. Pooh ! He threw 
 out his chest and blinked at Sandy for approbation. 
 
 But Cameron was nettled at the other's refer- 
 ence to the ultimate fate of Malcolm's offsprings, 
 his grandchildren; also, it was a Papist slight 
 on his religion. Sandy grew very solemn. The 
 brandy was coursing through his hot Scotch blood, 
 and in that condition the big HIelander was usually 
 very akin to a dangerous animal. 
 
 On the other hand, he was in the house of 
 Franchette's father, and hospitality was almost as 
 sacred as the religion he was ever ready to fight 
 for. So he answered, taking a great pull at him- 
 self : " Weel, Factor, we'll jus' drap It. I'm thlnk- 
 
 84 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 in\ whatever, we'll ken o' the future afore the 
 bairns gang yon way. Ye'll be bidin' for yer ain 
 kind, most like, an' I'll be seeing the Protestants 
 comin' mesel'. An' I'm thinkin' I'd be pleased 
 tae be wi' Malcolm's bairnies whichever way they 
 hae tae go. So dinna pother about it, Factor; 
 we'll jus' drink up a dochna doris, an' I'll awa' 
 hame tae see hoo the lassie's takin' tae Jeanie." 
 
 Gourelot was for keeping Cameron longer, but 
 Sandy had an additional reason for wishing to 
 cut out. The minister was stopping at his shack, 
 and the fierce strength of the dark brandy was 
 already playing funny tricks with his tongue — it 
 was of an extraordinary thickness. 
 
 Even the w^alk home did not better matters, 
 and the sharp eye of Bruce saw with regret that 
 Cameron was well in the grasp of the demon. 
 
 Perhaps even Jeanie, wife to big Sandy, may 
 have whispered the minister to speak a word to 
 her husband about the drink. 
 
 85 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 Ross Bruce, however, upbraided no man. He 
 had observed with pain the muddled condition of 
 the post dwellers. He knew that liquor was the 
 one accursed thing carried in the van of that 
 western civilization; where the white man went, 
 liquor went. To the breed and the Indian, it was 
 absolute poison; a poison with the fatal fascina- 
 tion of the loco plant. 
 
 The law, strict as it was, must depend for exe- 
 cution upon those in authority; therefore he held 
 Factor Gourelot and big Sandy, who was a leader, 
 morally responsible for the drunken condition of 
 Fort Donald. 
 
 With this matter in his heart he prayed for 
 light — ^how best he could counteract the evil influ- 
 ence. And it came to him that, when he took the 
 functions of his priestly office on the Sabbath, 
 which was the next day, he could speak with au- 
 thority. Cameron's respect for the house of God 
 would cause him to listen with a contrite heart. 
 
 The Bruce, as minister of God, was there to 
 86 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 assail sin; and the sin, rampant In all Its hideous 
 evidence, was drink, with Its fierce power over the 
 morally paralyzed breeds and Indians. 
 
 The Scotch minister was far too broad-minded 
 to lend his splendid powers to any fanatical nar- 
 rowness. Even In the priesthood there are many 
 degrees of variation, extending from wise toler- 
 ance to Intolerant reasoning. 
 
 So far as Bruce's office was concerned, nothing 
 in all the great land, nothing affecting Its noble 
 race of men, was of such vital Importance as the 
 soul-and-body-destroying liquor. The magnitude 
 of his task appealed to him, urged him to effort; 
 but its seeming hopelessness sickened his soul. It 
 was a contest between the Bible and the bottle; 
 the saving or destruction of a race. Religion, the 
 mission of God, had narrowed Itself down to that. 
 
 And the bottle had acquired such a tremendous 
 lead. For all time the white man had used it 
 to overcome the red. 
 
 The Company had steeped a generation of Ind- 
 ians In strong spirits, till they were as lotus-eaters. 
 Then the white man had made a law prohibiting 
 liquor, and others of the white race broke It in 
 many places and at all times. 
 
 Where Bruce stood, Bible In hand, seeking for 
 regeneration, half a thousand of his own kind ran 
 with swift feet carrying the extract of destruction. 
 
 87 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Surely the Master's word had few lieutenants, 
 where the army of the Evil One was so strong. 
 He was the keeper of his brother; but the land 
 was strident with the voices of those disclaiming 
 responsibility. 
 
 There was no regular kirk, no church building 
 at Fort Donald; the people assembled in the 
 Company's warehouse. There were even few 
 chairs to be had from the rude shacks; bales of 
 fur and boxes of merchandise were arranged in 
 rows, and on these the dwellers sat and listened 
 to a sermon of simple eloquence. 
 
 Protestants and Catholics alike were there. 
 Captain Ball advised Suze Roland to bring Felix 
 Benoit, who was a Romanist. 
 
 *' The minister is angry wit' ye, Suze," he said. 
 " He's heered of the rumpus, an' the busted beer- 
 keg; so go, loike a good little man, an' bring 
 Benoit; come arm in arm if ye loike, jes' to show 
 there's no grudge." 
 
 So, true enough, the two warlike ones sat meek- 
 ly, shoulder to shoulder, on a bale of bearskin- 
 covered beaver pelts. 
 
 Sandy and his good wife Jeanie, Malcolm and 
 Franchette, Factor Gourelot and Madam, were in 
 the front row, which was made up of chairs and 
 three-legged stools. The squaws brought their 
 children, even to the babes in arms. 
 
 88 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The pulpit was a most original conception. The 
 huge beam had been taken out of the fur-press, 
 the posts draped with red cloth, and, though it 
 looked somewhat like an auctioneer's box, it was 
 altogether most serviceable. 
 
 Just at the opening hymn Wolf Runner slipped 
 furtively through the door and sat meekly in a 
 f?r corner. Like many of the Indians present 
 he would not understand the English sermon; but 
 the ogama who had pulled him and little Mas- 
 ki-sls from the cold death and warmed them back 
 to life was to speak, was to hold forth as a medi- 
 cine-man. 
 
 Once upon a time Ross Bruce had sat in mental 
 torture — it was at Saskatchewan Landing — while 
 a most worthy bishop of his Church rendered unto 
 the small congregation of fur-trapping breeds a 
 scholarly sermon on the beautiful life of St. Paul. 
 The bishop was an Oxford man, and, for the mat- 
 ter of that, the sermon was ethically an Oxford 
 sermon. The effect was pretty much the same 
 as might have been produced by a French half- 
 breed giving his Ideas of the higher life before 
 the faculty of that university. It was a distinct 
 folly. Bruce knew that. He would not make 
 that mistake; but, at the same time, he was 
 haunted by the not-to-be-eradicated fear that his 
 own efforts, no matter how simply directed — his 
 
 89 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 logic, clothed in the most commonplace terms, 
 might prove as barren of results, as useless as the 
 folly of the bishop. It was a heart-breaking con- 
 viction, the belief that in these children of the 
 plain and forest was not left enough moral force 
 to stand against their physical desires. 
 
 But to burke the disagreeable truth — close his 
 eyes to actual conditions, and expect to regenerate 
 in one day by a Christian appeal to their moral 
 natures a people debased by a century of godless 
 debauchery, would be a folly as great as the bish- 
 op*s misdirected effort. His course was plainly to 
 form a coalition — to lessen the opposition of the 
 suicides by showing them their inevitable fate, and 
 to impress the powers, Sandy and the factor, with 
 the tremendous responsibility God had put upon 
 them when He had made them of the house of 
 Shem. 
 
 Sandy Cameron groaned inwardly when the 
 minister, standing in the fur-press that was a pul- 
 pit, read the text : 
 
 " Noah began to be an husbandman. And he 
 planted a vineyard; and he drank of the wine and 
 was drunken." 
 
 Had Bruce not uttered another word Sandy 
 Cameron would have gone home abashed. Was 
 not he Noah — was not he a patriarch there among 
 these children of little understanding? Bruce had 
 
 90 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 not reproached him, and he had hoped for a silent 
 reprieve. 
 
 Very quietly, as a man handles delicate china, 
 the minister explained with simpleness that Noah 
 fell through ignorance. The wine seemed good 
 to him, and he drank of it beyond reason. Then 
 he had the saving grace of shame and anger 
 against Ham who had looked upon this evil with 
 levity. 
 
 The red men had been like Noah in their igno- 
 rance. God had favored them beyond all races, 
 for liquor was not of their glorious heritage of 
 birthright. 
 
 When, to their eternal shame, the white men 
 had brought the fire-water, the Indians had taken 
 it as did Noah ; it warmed their hearts and made 
 them joyous; and then it mastered them, and they 
 lay like the Patriarch, naked in their misery. 
 
 In his drunkenness Noah must have quaffed the 
 dregs of bitterness, and must have seen with pro- 
 phetic eye how the bottle demon would go down 
 through all ages, like a pestilential fiend, casting 
 disgrace and sin through the nations. In his wrath 
 he cursed his own son. Ham, because he looked 
 with such toleration, such levity, upon this terrible 
 blight. 
 
 The minister had lingered for a space in the 
 distant ages ; now in his discourse he came at once 
 
 91 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 to the homes of his hearers. He pictured the curse 
 of Ham as existing at that day in Fort Donald. 
 
 As to the ethical construction, born of learned 
 wranglings, to be placed upon the picture of 
 Noah's condition, he troubled not the simple lis- 
 teners; his construction would, perhaps, by God's 
 grace, give him a command of the two factions — 
 the drinkers and their should-be guardians? 
 
 '' * Am I my brother's keeper?' was the cow- 
 ardly evasive question of a murderer," the min- 
 ister said, with solemn earnestness. *' The man 
 who denies a common brotherhood, with all its 
 human obligation, and stands, like Peter, by the 
 fire warming himself in the hour of trial, is a 
 coward, and may be morally a murderer." 
 
 Again Cameron writhed on his three-legged 
 stool. Beads of perspiration glistened like dew- 
 drops on the smooth brow of Factor Gourelot. 
 Was not he, as factor, more than ever a keeper 
 of these frail brothers who were so utterly within 
 his influence? In the name of the good God, who 
 had told M'sieu Bruce that he had been stripped 
 of his moral raiment by the dark brandy? 
 
 The Scotch minister's shrewd eye saw the trepi- 
 dation of the leaders, and it nerved him. He was 
 almost Jesuitical in his striving for good that day. 
 Behind the affected ones were many rows of dark 
 faces which gave no light of hope, no responding 
 
 92 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 look of humiliation or regret. When the actual 
 wrath of the Church of Rome, which was always 
 a weapon in the hands of the priests, had done so 
 little to keep these morally indifferent ones from 
 alcoholic sin, what could his simple rhetoric 
 achieve? Even between the Bruce's strongest 
 arguments of denunciation these thoughts stalked 
 in his mind like a cry of despair. The rebellion 
 evident in the swarthy faces could be spelled, 
 " Mene, Mene, Tekel, Upharsin." 
 
 And it was because of his own people, the 
 whites. He could have stood there in the fur- 
 press and cursed, like Noah, his own for this 
 wronging of a race. 
 
 It was all in rebellion to God's law; the union 
 of the two races, white and red, was contrary to 
 his law. And there in front of the minister, in 
 serried rank, sat the embodiment of this ungodly 
 union, moral weaklings. Still he must go on ; and 
 to reach them, the Indians, even stretch a theo- 
 logical point — talk to them of their own God, of 
 Manitou. He bade them, if they would not come 
 to his God, to be true to their own. 
 
 " Manitou taught you no evil," he said. " He 
 showed you not the drink demon. Your sin was 
 bloodshed; the same sin of refusing the animating 
 spirit of love — love for your fellow-creatures. 
 When you made war, you prayed to Manitou for 
 
 93 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 success, and if you won the battle you thought he 
 was pleased with you, had given you the favor of 
 his support. That was a sin and a lie against your 
 God, for his wrath because of the bloodshed al- 
 ways came back to you ; your songs of victory were 
 changed to the crying of your women at night for 
 the braves that were not. 
 
 " And when you put the fire-water into the 
 hands of your brothers, they are slain, and it is a 
 sin against your God and my God. There is heard 
 only in the tent of your people the wail of your 
 women at night and the crying of your children, 
 for the braves of your tribe are dishonored and 
 dead. My people have put this accursed poison 
 in your hands, and you have looked upon these 
 foes as friends. And I ask you, if God-fearing 
 men of my race seek to save you from this death, 
 look upon them as true friends, and not in enmity." 
 
 Bruce spoke of fire to the dwellers. How care- 
 fully they guarded their camp-fire when on the 
 summer trail, lest it spread and sweep to destruc- 
 tion the grass-covered prairie with its buffalo and 
 antelope, and the forest, wherein were the beaver 
 and otter. Then he pictured, with the graphic 
 word-painting of a Cree orator, the fire-swept hill- 
 side that backed Fort Donald. On its breast were 
 the skeleton forms of trees, some black, some 
 white, at whose roots the fire had licked with burn- 
 
 94 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 ing tongue. The liquor was a fire, a forest fire, 
 burning the roots of their existence and scorching 
 their souls till they shrivelled up and became like 
 the barkless trees, tombstones to wrecked lives. 
 
 The minister sought to draw the different In- 
 terests a little closer together. For a day he would 
 be in Fort Donald, then for many days the dwell- 
 ers would be their own spiritual guides. He said : 
 ** There is only one sermon to preach all the world 
 over, to be preached of all creeds and of all peo- 
 ples. It is the message of your little priest, you 
 that have that faith; it is the sustaining influence 
 of humanity and God, the animating spirit of love. 
 Without it nothing avails. When your mothers 
 scarify their limbs with sharp flints it is because 
 they have lost someone they love ; when your Ind- 
 ians find a white man lost and starving, and you 
 feed him, it is because of human love. Of love 
 comes happiness; and of hate, misery. Drink is 
 the black wampum — its message Is war and de- 
 struction; the word of God is the white wampum, 
 and its message is love. Let those In authority, 
 the ogamas, keep this fire-water out of your camps 
 because of love, and you who are our brothers be 
 not angry if, because of love for you, they do this." 
 
 The minister talked still further In his efforts 
 to make the dwellers see that those who poisoned 
 them to death were enemies as great as those who 
 
 95 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 sought their lives with the knife. Possessed of 
 his great love for humanity, and grave in his ear- 
 nestness, Bruce silenced the voice that cried out 
 within him, '' Mene, mene," and craved of God 
 for the power of the pool of Siloam for these peo- 
 ple who were tainted of alcohol. 
 
 And at the end this thing happened which was 
 like a fanatical appeal from a narrow-minded en- 
 thusiast; it wasn^t that at all, it was the wise plea 
 of a great-minded man. 
 
 " You must not have the accursed fire-water 
 amongst you at all. Leave it to them who can 
 take it safely — if there are any such. You know 
 that the food of one animal is not the food of an- 
 other; the buffalo could not wax fat on the poplar- 
 bark of the beaver, nor the bear come to his 
 strength on the short dry grass that is good to 
 the buffalo. To you the fire-water Is as the loco 
 plant — once tasted it claims Its victims to death. 
 In Fort Donald every man, factor and trapper, 
 must see to It that not one drop of this poison is 
 obtainable. In God's pleasure you will thrive, and 
 In God's anger you will achieve to the curse that 
 follows drunkenness. And In the end I crave for 
 you the animating spirit of God's love and human 
 love. * Love ye one another.' " 
 
 96 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 The faces that had been masks, heavy In vacu- 
 ity, repellent in their stoical complacency, came 
 out of their torpor in the sunlight. 
 
 Ordinarily a sermon was simply part of an ob- 
 servance. The people being possessed of a fatuous 
 fancy that somehow, subconsciously as it were, 
 the discourse, even though not listened to, purified 
 them somewhat of their many sins; and that, hav- 
 ing sat there in the house of God, their punish- 
 ment would be most certainly mitigated. But this 
 day the minister had talked on a subject that in- 
 terested them at all times — drink. Outside of 
 " grub,'' or furs, it was the paramount thing in 
 their lives. 
 
 The Bruce's sermon, in English, had many In- 
 terpreters rendering it into Cree for those who 
 had not understood. It must be said that some 
 of the versions were wondrous and unabridged. 
 Might the minister have listened to the rendering 
 of his oratory he would have been astonished, per- 
 haps scandalized. According to some accounts he 
 had accused the "Cameron of emulating Noah lit- 
 erally in his cups. 
 
 97 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The vagaries of the sermon's effect were beyond 
 all calculation. Somehow, taken all in all, this 
 religion of the Protestant ministers, which the 
 Catholics considered no religion at all, was actually 
 more exacting, harsher in its commands, than the 
 true belief. Their little excess — and already they 
 felt as well as ever again — was to debar them 
 for ever and ever from the pleasures of a good 
 time. 
 
 The Catholics most certainly had the better of 
 the argument. When the little father came again 
 to Fort Donald the inebriates might confess — 
 that is, if the factor, who was a good Catholic, 
 deemed it necessary — and be forgiven. The min- 
 ister, who was not their spiritual leader, had 
 better go and scold his own people at Buffalo 
 Neck. 
 
 " Poof! " one said, as a group of them jour- 
 neyed along, " ze good book spik of gran' wine 
 — many time it spik. For Fort Donald is only 
 water, or we nevair see le bon Dieu." 
 
 " I t'ink me I have read plenty time in ze book 
 'bout dat wine," declared Lerocq; " it spik de 
 Seigneur always put a new wine in good strong 
 bottles, not trus' de ole bottle, for he's goin' bus'." 
 
 " Felix don' know dat," said the first speaker, 
 laughing. " Nex' time he mus' get de new keg, 
 den we don' lose all de bully strong beer." 
 
 98 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 There were many hours of discussion of the 
 same tenor, showing that the reformer's trail ran 
 through a thorn-thicket of indifferent sinfulness; 
 thorns that tore to pieces and rent a simple logic 
 of love and faith with their silly, useless points. 
 
 As Bruce left the church Sandy Cameron joined 
 him, and they walked together. 
 
 " Ye did vera weel," Cameron said. 
 
 A big sigh smothered in Bruce's chest. He had 
 tried, but to what success he had attained was 
 troubling him much. 
 
 " Yon discoorse o' Noah's fall was strong," 
 Sandy continued; " I'm thinkin' — weel, Meenister, 
 there's na doot aboot it — I was just Noah; yes. It 
 was a grand thocht. I ken It a'. If ye had talked 
 tae me aboot bein' fu', I might hae rebelled, mon, 
 one canna tell; one's dender is an uncertain, sinfu' 
 thing." 
 
 Cameron walked a little In silence, for Bruce did 
 not answer. Suddenly he put his big brawny hand 
 on the minister's arm, and said, solemnly: " It'll 
 be mony a lang day afore these'll look upon the 
 nakedness o' Noah again, whatever." 
 
 Bruce held out his hand, and big Sandy clasped 
 it in compact. 
 
 " You've taken a load off my mind, Cameron; 
 I had a feelin' o' defeat. Last night I walked up 
 and down the trail in prayer — ^just asking of God, 
 
 99 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 as I walked, for grace to make a bit head against 
 the rum.'* 
 
 *' An' He gie it ye — the sermon was powerfu', 
 it jus' gripped me." 
 
 " But the others — what of the poor creatures 
 that are slaves to it, carryin' the curse o' Canaan 
 — I could not see a spark of redemption — their 
 faces were just full of rebellious accusation; they 
 were holding the sin of our own whites against 
 all my pleading." 
 
 Bruce spoke impetuously, his soul warring 
 against the inevitable. 
 
 "I'll be away in a day," he continued; "you 
 have no kirk, nor anyone to preach the word of 
 God. The factor is a Catholic, and he won't take 
 the service." 
 
 " Ye're meanin', Meenister, I might tkk' it." 
 
 " It would do a power of good." 
 
 " An' ye're worritin' ower the drink? " 
 
 " I am." 
 
 " I'll do wi'oot it." 
 
 "It isn't yourself, Cameron; the others have 
 no restraint whatever. I'm thinkin' if you'd put 
 your foot down, man — you have the law on your 
 side — and stop the brewin' of poison " 
 
 " I will," declared Sandy. 
 
 As Bruce looked into the blue eyes of the Cam- 
 eron his soul trembled with thankfulness. He had 
 
 100 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 won a lieutenant that would wage strong war 
 against the legions of the Devil. Surely he had 
 won a wage by his efforts. 
 
 " May God give you strength, Cameron; you'll 
 be sorely tried. Just preach to them of kindly 
 love." 
 
 " And keep the drink frae them, Meenister," 
 added the practical body. 
 
 " You'll be reviled, man," declared Bruce, ques- 
 tioningly. 
 
 " The breeds are gran' at that game. I'll hae 
 a reputation for meanness an' meddlin' that would 
 make Judas ashamed o' me." 
 
 " And you're willing to take up the load, 
 Sandy?" 
 
 *' Aye. A mon couldna boast o' much love for 
 his fellow humans an' he was afeared tae help 
 them against the De'il." 
 
 " I'm satisfied," the minister said, simply. 
 
 As the spirit of love, of faith, of conviction 
 leapt from cross to cross at the crucifixion until 
 the thief cried: " Lord, remember me when thou 
 comest into thy Kingdom," so, from the crude fur- 
 press, sanctified, had passed the spirit of love un- 
 til, that night, the huge Scot cried In an agony of 
 abasement: " Lord, remember me to the helping of 
 these poor humans." 
 
 lOI 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 For moons Fort Donald lapsed into ordinary 
 life. The furs came in, and Factor Gourelot 
 revelled in an atmosphere redolent of dog-bear 
 and castoreum and smoke-tanned moose-skins that 
 had the pungency of burning birch-bark. 
 
 The two religions lay down side by side and 
 slumbered peacefully. 
 
 A neutrality of hate existed between Descoigne 
 and Malcolm, it is true, but it also was as quiescent 
 as something that is seemingly still because of fierce 
 velocity. 
 
 The winter months slipped away smoothly — 
 dying with great noise at the end, as the river ice- 
 jam broke with the thunderous crash of a shat- 
 tered glacier. 
 
 Then it was indeed spring. The sun, full of 
 regret for the days of neglect, smiled in his eager 
 return, and loitered through many hours of the 
 twenty-four, fighting the darkness that chilled the 
 yearning earth, and ever gaining upon the foe. 
 
 The maple, the ash, and the oak drank up 
 from the brown earth a warmer heart's blood, 
 
 102 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 and shook out a fairy canopy of shade in re- 
 turn. 
 
 Like kittens the anemones opened their bright 
 little eyes and peeped at the great world so full 
 of strange spring noises, of twittering birds and 
 burrowing insects. Even the " deer-mice," long- 
 eared and swift of foot, squeaked in joy as they 
 skurried with velocity over the timid flowers. The 
 wild cherry threw perfumed kisses from pale lips 
 to the wind that was like one continuous chinook. 
 Each night the stars peeping forth looked down 
 upon a babe flower-brother, new born into raiment 
 of white, or gold, or purple, or egg-blue; for the 
 red men say that Manitou gave to their beautified 
 prairies a flower for each journey of the sun over 
 its sky trail. And, in vagary of fancy, they whis- 
 per that when children die and go to Manitou, 
 carrying gifts of flowers, the seeds fall back to 
 earth and bloom again. 
 
 Little gray shadows flitted through the woods, 
 for the young of Wapoos the rabbit were every- 
 where. 
 
 And In the sedge-bordered lakes the mallard 
 wove her nest of strong grass, and the loon called 
 imperiously to all that winged in travel to stay in 
 that land of sweet-feeding. 
 
 On high, from his harrow-shaped troop, the 
 gray-goose answered the loon in mocking derision, 
 
 103 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 "A-honk, a-honk, a-honki " and slipped from 
 sight in the hiding gray atmosphere. 
 
 And great revelry was on with the gallinaceous 
 grouse, the gray-mottled prairie-chicken. Their 
 sand-hill ballrooms that had been deserted for a 
 year, now felt once more the pat of little feather- 
 legged feet as they gathered in crowds and strutted 
 and crouked, and spread their fine feathers, and 
 danced. It was pourtship ; and for every lass there 
 was a lover, and for every mated pair some beau- 
 tiful cover of shrub thicket where their nest could 
 be hidden away. 
 
 Breasting the swift waters of the many rivers 
 that cut the land like a spider-web swam the gold- 
 eyes — silver-white, and with the rare jewels 
 through which they watched in dread for that 
 huge-jawed cannibal, the ever-hungry jack-fish. 
 
 And some giant, possessed of an art eye, had 
 stood on the brow of every hill and scattered to 
 the winds trinkets of gold that were the yellow 
 blossoms of the gray-leafed Silver Berry. 
 
 The prayers of Minister Bruce at Buffalo Neck 
 for the dwellers of Fort Donald held reward 
 through all the spring and early summer. No 
 great evil had come to them, and the peace of 
 occupation was upon them. 
 
 In September the fire that Bruce had pictured 
 104 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 lapping at their souls took possession of the post 
 with the insidious velocity of sunlight. 
 
 Like the unrest that comes to horses when their 
 fine sensibility knows of an unseen danger was the 
 telepathic knowledge possessed of all that liquor 
 was at hand. Darkness had shielded its advent, 
 and no tongue told of its coming nor of its spon- 
 sors. A gentle hilarity, like the smile of spring- 
 time, pervaded the atmosphere. 
 
 Behind Fort Donald the upreaching hills of the 
 Saskatchewan lay bathed in warm sunlight that 
 picked out ruby lights from crimson-leafed maple, 
 and splashed the sheen of gold from yellow and 
 tawny oak; and below the trees were the coral 
 beads of rosebuds, and saffron plume of golden- 
 rod, and clusters of white, pearl-like berries droop- 
 ing from slender stems of vermilion willows, 
 softened by the silvered leaves of wolf-willow. 
 The olive-leafed buffalo berry wore its autumn 
 aigrette of blood-red jewelled fruit. Twined 
 through the hills an emerald necklace of green 
 spruce traced the sinuous creep of Otter Creek; 
 and in the jade-like mantle of its valley were 
 pencilled marble-white pillars of silken birch. 
 
 But in the manifest evidence of all this glory of 
 God's creation Fort Donald was swift drifting 
 into a vortex of hopeless inebriation. Louis Gou- 
 
 105 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 relot had slipped a little way into the temptation, 
 the others swam it. 
 
 Guardian Sandy, looking out upon the dwellers 
 in the land of relapse, saw that the present instal- 
 ment of fire-water was a thing of vast proportions 
 — that meant whiskey smugglers; and they were 
 an evil pestilence that brought worse than the 
 most dread disease. So he schooled his inherent 
 desire against the taint of spirits that was in the 
 hazed September atmosphere, and stood a self- 
 ordained constable of his fellow post dwellers. 
 
 The first day they were all of a vast brother- 
 hood; the second, some fell asunder, and slept at 
 fitful intervals; the third, a morose ferocity worked 
 like acrid poison into the minds that were aflame 
 of untempered alcohol. 
 
 The stern face of Cameron grew fierce in its 
 hardness as he sat and wrote the record of man's 
 folly on the air in letters of petulant smoke from 
 a briar pipe. 
 
 When he spoke to Louis Gourelot, the French- 
 man blew out his fat cheeks and wrinkled his brow 
 in an attempt at gravity. Then he said, " Pooh ! " 
 and laughed in foolishness. Three tin cups of 
 over-proof whiskey had a potency that Demos- 
 thenes could not have talked into subjection. 
 Bruce's philosophy at Christmas-tide had slipped 
 from the volatile Frenchman like snow from a 
 
 1 06 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 mountain-side. For a time he had felt its wisdom ; 
 then the small voice became hushed; and now it 
 was but one of the many buried resolves. 
 
 The big Scot's deep-cet eyes rested on the round, 
 fat face for an instant, and its vacuity lashed him 
 into heroic effort. 
 
 " Factor Gourelot," he said, "do ye no' ken 
 wha's put upon us by a' this deeviltry? There's 
 ne'er a meenister here — there's no' a dhoctor — we 
 hae no Mounted Police — no court; naething but 
 jes' oorsel's tae stand atwixt the honor o' Fort 
 Donald an' the lowerin' o' its people tae beasts." 
 
 The rotund Frenchman blinked his eyes in be- 
 wilderment. Then he threw forth again the silly 
 laugh. " M'sieu Sandy, you spik — you make ze 
 gran' speech. I will stan' treat " 
 
 " Mon ! " exclaimed Cameron, " but ye no ken 
 — ^ye no ken; Factor, yer a dahm fool! But I 
 see it a'. It's for me tae put a stop tae a' this 
 deeviltry. Ye're a magistrate, an' I'm the police 
 force, constituted by the powers — the powers o' 
 reason." 
 
 " Ver' gran', ver' gran'," commented Gourelot; 
 " ze red wine have make you spik, eh, Camer- 
 on?" 
 
 The anger that was in Sandy's solemn eyes van- 
 ished and a look of pity shone there as he turned 
 his back upon the factor and passed up the one 
 
 107 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 long road that skirted the river-bank. Half way 
 to his own shack was Baptiste Lerocq. 
 
 Baptiste could walk — not consistently, with ad- 
 hesion to a preconceived route, but still he could 
 progress. This fact gave him confidence, and he 
 offered to fight the Scotchman. In addition to his 
 complement of whiskey he carried a knife-thrust 
 in his shoulder that had been given him, out of 
 sheer gratuity, by one of his fellow-revellers. 
 Blood trickled from the wound down his buck- 
 skin shirt, over the gaudy silk-worked flowers, and 
 hid itself in shame in the dust of the road. 
 
 "Who gie ye that, mon?" asked Sandy, tap- 
 ping the slashed shoulder with his finger. 
 
 Baptiste was irrelevant, truculent, eloquent in 
 his debased vocabulary. 
 
 " Ye poor de'il ! " continued the Scotchman, 
 taking no notice of the insect. " Tell me, mon, 
 where's the speerit — tell it me, mon," and he 
 grasped the little Frenchman's shirt-collar, and, 
 drawing him close up, peered deep down into the 
 small red-brown eyes till the illogical Baptiste 
 shrivelled up in his soul, and answered: " P'raps 
 de boys is down wit' Felix Benoit." 
 
 Without answer, and still clasping Lerocq by 
 the collar, Sandy strode on to his shack; there he 
 washed and dressed the other's wound. 
 
 " Now awa' tae yer ain shack, mon! " he com- 
 io8 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 manded. *' I'm tae Benolt's, mesel' ; an' if ye come 
 nigh the place I'll smash yer heid. Awa', noo — 
 make haste ! " 
 
 Taking an axe, Sandy started for the abode of 
 Felix Benoit. 
 
 " It's the will o' God— it's the will o' God I " he 
 kept repeating to himself as he swung along. " I 
 canna help it — I canna help it; God's evidence I 
 maun do it. The poor de'ils ! 
 
 *' Bruce " — he felt the minister's spiritual pres- 
 ence — " I gied ma word tae stan' against the 
 drink, an' I'll dae it — I'll dae it. I'm Noah in 
 my wrath; forbye I'll no curse the poor de'ils, I'll 
 save them." 
 
 Inside the shack a discordant fiddle was inciting, 
 in jig time, the revellers to dance; exuberant cries 
 smote the air through a window-sash fringed with 
 broken glass. 
 
 " Ma God, what beasts ! " moaned Sandy, as he 
 put his hand to the latch and swung wide the creak- 
 ing door. 
 
 On a rough table in the centre of the shack's one 
 room was a keg. Frank, and Scot, and half-breed 
 were there in many conditions of inebriation. 
 
 As Cameron stood in the doorway and gazed 
 with fierce reproach upon the drinkers a hush 
 smothered their clamor — even the fiddle stilled its 
 reluctant squeak. Two men who had been step- 
 
 109 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 ping maudlin time to its strains leaned against the 
 log wall with its mud chinking and glared at the 
 intruder. 
 
 *' M'sieu Sandy," cried a Frenchman, " compli- 
 ments. Come in. Boy, an' wet ze whistle." 
 
 ** Wha's he glowerin' at? " snarled old Brown. 
 
 " I'll no' drink," declared Sandy, fiercely. '' I'm 
 no' sayin' that I wouldna tak' a drop in reason — 
 whiskey in its place is good, mony a time I've been 
 glad of It — but It wasna meant to mak' beasts o' 
 men." 
 
 " Wha's a beast? " cried Brown, fiercely. 
 
 " Oh, lads, lads," pleaded Sandy, suddenly soft- 
 ening, " dinna ye ken ye're disgracin' the name o' 
 mon. Would ye mak Fort Donald ashamed o' 
 hersel'; will ye gang forward till there's murder 
 done — hasna Lerocq been knifed? Will ye gie it 
 up, an' tell me wha' de'il run It In, or will I hae 
 tae smash the keg tae save ye all frae distruction? " 
 
 A roar of angry voices answered him. 
 
 "Father!" 
 
 Sandy started as though he had been struck. 
 It was his son Malcolm's voice ; the father had not 
 seen the young Scot in the dim-lighted room. 
 
 " Ye're here, lad? Oh, ma God ! a beast amang 
 beasts ! " 
 
 " Ye took it yerself, father, at the weddin'," re- 
 torted Malcolm. 
 
 no 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 " Aye, lad, but Fm ashamed o' it noo. An' Fm 
 sair troubled ower this de'il's permit that's i' the 
 post." 
 
 " I s'pose M'sieu Cameron t'inks we are all 
 nichies, an' when he spik don' drink, we must stop. 
 M'sieu Cameron is le gran' ogama." 
 
 It was Felix Benoit who thus derided Sandy; 
 not with precision of language but with maudlin 
 breaks. 
 
 In a corner, between the cooking-stove and the 
 wall, crouched the Cree wife of Felix and her 
 daughter Julie. The dumb ache of dread was in 
 the eyes that had been schooled to subjection. 
 
 " An' afore the women, too," continued the 
 Scot; " an' wi' nichies," indicating with his big 
 brawny hand two Indian-like breeds. 
 
 A man staggered across the floor, picked a tin 
 cup from the table, and filled it from the keg. 
 Then he faced big Sandy, and, proffering the 
 tankard, said, "Ho, Boy! Drink wit' Joe Des- 
 coigne — he's not nichie." 
 
 " Awa', mon; awa', mon! " answered Cameron. 
 
 "Drink, M'sieu," repeated Descoigne, and in 
 his voice was the seductive glamor of a threat. 
 
 An animal unrest breathed in the stifling air of 
 the reeking shack; it half-sobered those who held 
 sway over their senses. All who were not asleep 
 rose to their feet and stood deep breathing with 
 
 III 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 the tenseness of expectant evil. One of the two 
 men must back down, else the hazard would be a 
 life. 
 
 "Will M^sieu drink?" once more the French- 
 man asked, holding the tin cup close to Cameron's 
 nose. The fumes of the spirit smote on Sandy's 
 nostrils and maddened him. The sneering face of 
 his tormentor was thrust close, and he longed to 
 stretch out his hand and grip the other's throat. 
 But was he not a self-constituted guardian of his 
 fellow-men? Had he not come there to prevent 
 bloodshed — was not his enmity against the liquor 
 and the outlaws who had brought it? 
 
 " Joe Descoigne," he said, and it was gravity, 
 not anger, in his deep voice, " dinna worry me. I 
 willna drink, an' I ask ye tae help save the guid 
 name o' Fort Donald. Mon, mon! it's sinfu' — 
 it's degradin'. Listen tae reason, mon; spill the 
 wicked thing on the ground an' be men, not 
 beasts." 
 
 Perhaps Descoigne might have wavered, but 
 Felix Benoit, whose mind was impossible of any- 
 thing but the lash, laughed mockingly, and piped 
 with shrill vindictiveness, " Beasts — and nichies ! " 
 
 " Sacre ! " muttered Descoigne. " M'sieu Sandy, 
 drink, or marse! " 
 
 At the insulting " marse " (a dog's order to go) 
 Sandy's big frame quivered, and his gaunt eyes 
 
 112 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 blazed with suppressed fury. If the debauch had 
 not deadened Descoigne's senses, he would have 
 hesitated ere he stung the huge Scot again ; but he 
 was a wasp, an adder, an instrument of evil, and in 
 a fit of uncontrolled viciousness he dashed the 
 whiskey across Cameron's face. 
 
 The tin cup had not clattered from his foolish 
 fingers before the arms of Cameron had caught 
 him in a grasp like the press of a python. His 
 bones cracked ; his ribs pressed upon his lungs ; his 
 throat closed, and darkness fell upon him. A knife 
 that he had half drawn sank into his thigh as the 
 fierce muscles of the great Scot compressed him 
 from every side. 
 
 Noises like the howl of a wolf-pack filled the 
 shack; half-breed and Indian and Frenchman 
 sprang forward to pull down Cameron as wild 
 dogs might have reached for the life of a bull 
 moose. 
 
 "Stand to it, father!" 
 
 It was the voice of Malcolm as he smashed a 
 way to the Scot's side. 
 
 " Come on, ye black devils," he panted, squar- 
 ing himself. "Take that, ye hound!" and an 
 Indian shot backward and fell with much clatter on 
 the hard floor. 
 
 " Steady, lad, dinna kill onyone," admonished 
 big Sandy, as, with a twist of his wrist, he sent 
 
 113 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 the limp body of Descolgne under the table. Then 
 he swung his axe aloft, and the drunkards shrank 
 back as Its blade shimmered a vindictive light. 
 
 Down came the axe, and a thousand splinters of 
 oak showered the men eager of fight; also a cata- 
 ract of fire-water bathed their faces and sank Into 
 their greasy clothes. 
 
 " IVe slain the cause o' it a\" cried Sandy. 
 " Dinna strike anyone, lad, they'll no felght noo." 
 
 He was right. Under the table, crushed out of 
 his foolish bravado, lay Descolgne, and there were 
 only the splinters of wood to tell of the prime cause 
 of all the strife. The drunkards were cowed. 
 Well they knew that once roused big Sandy was a 
 mountain-lion. 
 
 Half-breeds and Indians are wondrous akin to a 
 wolf-pack in their methods of warfare. With an 
 outnumbered foe ferocity stalks as bravery; but 
 when the pinch comes, when acute danger grips at 
 their throats, they slink and are afraid. Had the 
 Scot wavered, even had not the stalwart son stood 
 at his back, the throng might have torn at him till 
 he fell. 
 
 " Tak' the Descolgne to his shack," commanded 
 Sandy to the revellers. " Fm thinkin' he's no 
 hurted bad," he continued, as they drew the 
 Frenchman from under the table. 
 
 " I'm feared not," commented Malcolm, putting 
 114 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 his ear close to Descolgne's mouth and listening. 
 " But you give him his bellyfull of fight, father." 
 
 The battle had sobered Malcolm ; it had steadied 
 all of them. There was a heavy unreliability in 
 the movements of some as they stepped away from 
 the shack of Felix Benoit, carrying Descoigne ; but 
 the imp of debauchery had been exorcised, and al- 
 ready they peeped into a future of transient regen- 
 eration. 
 
 " Father," said Malcolm, as he walked humbly 
 at Sandy's side, " Fm awful ashamed of it. The 
 stuff just gripped me." 
 
 " Dinna talk o' it," commanded Cameron. 
 " Fm ashamed o' me ain rage — I exceeded me au- 
 thority." 
 
 And so the two contrite ones passed each to his 
 own abode and sat brooding over the sin-blazed 
 trail that leads from conviviality to hatred. 
 
 115 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 The forceful regeneration with which the 
 righteous Scot had leavened the post existed for 
 the matter of one night. Next day the resentment 
 of unappeased thirst governed the shiftless dwell- 
 ers of Fort Donald. 
 
 Removed from the subduing presence of the 
 wrathful Cameron, and smarting under the lingual 
 castigation he had administered, they talked with 
 bitterness of his assumption of authority. 
 
 Felix Benoit, restless in villany as a copperhead 
 snake, sought to rouse them to retaliation. It was 
 his money that had purchased the liquor from the 
 smugglers, to be tin-cupped out at a huge profit; 
 It was his Red River cart, its wheels muffled to si- 
 lence by bagging, that had brought the essence of 
 sin, in the dead of night, from Sturgeon Creek, 
 twelve miles to the west. 
 
 Yoked to him in villany and in desire for re- 
 venge was Joe Descoigne. 
 
 Sandy knew that if some drastic measure were not 
 taken to cut off supplies, more liquor would be run 
 in, and then murder outright would surely come to 
 
 ii6 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 someone. In a way, he was almost helpless. He 
 was not a constable; he was possessed of no au- 
 thority to go out and arrest the whiskey-runners 
 even if he could find them. Gourelot, being a mag- 
 istrate, could create him an officer; but well he 
 knew that not one citizen except Malcolm would 
 lend a helping hand. 
 
 To Descoigne, lying in his shack in the way of 
 rehabiliment, came Felix Benoit with his querulous 
 complaint that the accursed Scot was possessed of 
 a meddlesome design upon their free right to get 
 drunk — that even then he was casting about for 
 a method of trapping their kind friends who had 
 brought them the liquid of good-fellowship from 
 its place of hiding in the Devil's Muskeg. 
 
 Then Descoigne conceived of a complex retal- 
 iation for several of his enemies. Benoit would go 
 to Factor Gourelot and make confession that 
 Wolf Runner had brought the liquor to Fort Don- 
 ald. Then the buffalo-headed Scot would occupy 
 himself with the trapping of Wolf Runner while 
 their friends rested in peace. Also would the 
 Indian be punished for having assisted the Protest- 
 ant outcasts in bringing Minister Bruce to Fort 
 Donald. The matter of convicting the redskin 
 was easy of accomplishment; he was already one 
 who dealt with the persecuted Free Traders. Did 
 not Benoit know of a half-breed who would swear 
 
 117 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Wolf Runner had brought the whiskey; and had 
 not Benolt purchased it from Wolf Runner? 
 
 So, when Big Sandy spoke again of the matter 
 to Gourelot, the factor was rich in obtained knowl- 
 edge. 
 
 Mon Dieu ! He himself had trailed the Carca- 
 jou to his hole. Sacre ! The outlaw Wolf Runner 
 was, out of doubt, the man. 
 
 " I dinna think it," declared Cameron. " It's 
 no' a nichie at a' ; it's just some godless pinto — a 
 breed." 
 
 But Gourelot was positive; Benoit had made a 
 clean breast of it. 
 
 '' I'll no' trail after a herrln'-scent," declared 
 Sandy. " Yon deevil, Felix, Is just wantin' us to 
 bell the wrong cat." 
 
 For two days there was a dead-lock; It would 
 have lasted longer but for the scream of Captain 
 Ball's river-steamer as she rounded the point above 
 Fort Donald, and swung to its mud-bank to rest for 
 the night on her way to Grand Rapids. 
 
 On the Saskatoon was Inspector Lang and a ser- 
 geant and two constables of the Mounted Police. 
 They were on their way from Edmonton to Win- 
 nipeg. 
 
 Strictly speaking, they were not on patrol duty, 
 being due at their destination upon a fixed date. 
 The Saskatoon would connect at Grand Rapids 
 
 ii8 
 
To Descoigne, lying in his shack, came Felix Benoit. 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 with the Lake Winnipeg steamer, and they should 
 proceed by her to Winnipeg. 
 
 Whiskey smugglers were desirable game at all 
 times — their suppression was the chief mission of 
 the police ; so when Factor Gourelot told how Wolf 
 Runner and his accomplices had set fire to the moral 
 structure of Fort Donald, Inspector Lang became 
 possessed of an Itching to gather In the offenders. 
 It would be a feather In his cap. But he must 
 catch the lake steamer, and Wolf Runner was at 
 Vermilion, a hundred miles away. 
 
 The factor explained how it might be man- 
 aged. By hard riding the police could make Ver- 
 milion the second night, and return inside of the 
 third day at most. He would put them to Grand 
 Rapids in a "York boat" with eight oarsmen; 
 they would go down the swift current of the Sas- 
 katchewan almost as fast as the Saskatoon, and 
 would certainly catch the Lake boat before the 
 Saskatoon's cargo had been portaged over the three 
 miles of Grand Rapids. 
 
 At any rate. Factor Gourelot would guarantee 
 the lake steamer would wait for them — '* an' also, 
 M'sleu Commandant, you will have your prisoner." 
 
 119 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 'Resting in his shack, Joe Descoigne chuckled, 
 hyena-like, over the new villany he had set afoot 
 until his ribs, a-sore from the huge Scotchman's 
 rude clasp, twinged. 
 
 But when Benoit fled to him with the news of 
 the police advent, his face became utterly devoid 
 of mirth. He knew Inspector Lang would not stop 
 with the capture of Wolf Runner; Lang had the 
 persistency of an aggravated bear. Even Wolf 
 Runner, if taken, might divulge the hiding-place of 
 the whiskey smugglers, for he was sure to know 
 of it. 
 
 When the white mist-clouds rose from the Sas- 
 katchewan that night and came up over the tawny 
 earth that was still warm from the sun's kiss, and 
 chilled it like a grave's breath, Descoigne slipped 
 from his shack, pulled his aching body to the sad- 
 dle on his cayuse, and passed from the post as si- 
 lently as a bird's shadow flits over the prairie. A 
 mile on the trail he dismounted, and stripped from 
 the hoofs of his blue roan the bags that had stilled 
 the earth's echo. Then he moved faster, and was 
 
 1 20 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 gone on the trail to the Devil's Muskeg — only he 
 avoided the path, leaving the hoof-prints of the 
 blue roan hid in the prairie lest they should bear 
 silent witness against him. 
 
 Behind, an hour in arrears, trailed the police 
 outfit on horses furnished by Gourelot. And with 
 them rode Sandy's Malcolm as guide. 
 
 Gourelot and the others had all but convinced 
 the police that Wolf Runner was the head of the 
 smuggling gang; but Big Sandy contended stoutly 
 that the whiskey men would be found in the mus- 
 keg — in his own time they had been there before ; 
 and so he sent Malcolm for the double purpose of 
 clearing Wolf Runner and capturing the actual out- 
 laws. 
 
 With the hope in their hearts of a surprise, the 
 police pounded the trail hour after hour, mile upon 
 mile, until at five o'clock in the morning forty 
 miles stretched from their horses' tails to the old 
 fort. Then for two hours their muscles crept back 
 to a tenseless rest. At seven they were again in the 
 saddles, and eating at the trail ; at twelve they had 
 reeled off another thirty-five miles. 
 
 " Halt ! " commanded Inspector Lang. " Here 
 is water and feed for the horses; we'll rest, and 
 strike the Indian's tepee when he has come home 
 to roost." 
 
 At eight o'clock the iivt shadows were slipping 
 
 121 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 almost silently through the shrouded gloom of a 
 poplar bluff, when Malcolm laid his hand on the 
 police captain's arm. 
 
 "Halt!" whispered the officer, and as they 
 stood, the Scot leaned far over on his cayuse and 
 whispered: " Three minutes of trail." 
 
 The captain slipped from his horse and passed 
 from man to man, giving a smothered order. The 
 sergeant and a constable dropped to the ground, 
 drew the reins over the horses' heads, and passed 
 them to their comrade, who still sat in his saddle. 
 Malcolm tied his cayuse to a white-barked poplar, 
 and the four men went forward afoot. 
 
 " We're close," muttered Lang, as the odor of a 
 wood fire came down the wind. 
 
 In ten yards a glimmer of light cut the dark- 
 ness. Again the inspector passed a whispered or- 
 der, and, circling, they closed on Wolf Runner's 
 tepee from four sides. 
 
 As they stood shoulder to shoulder with only the 
 flap of a lodge between them and their quarry, a 
 dog gave a long, dismal howl. 
 
 The captain sprang for the opening with eager 
 haste. In its doorway his charge carried him into 
 the arms of Wolf Runner's ponderous squaw with 
 such fierce impact that they were both sent sprawl- 
 ing backward In the recoil. 
 
 The sergeant whipped out his gun, thinking the 
 
 122 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Indian was making an escape; then he laughed, 
 and, brushing by his chief, stood in the tepee. 
 There was only the astonished squaw and a fright- 
 ened little lad cowering behind her dress. They 
 had missed. 
 
 From a sense of duty, and without hope, they 
 questioned the Cree woman, who had subsided 
 into a squat attitude of complacent vacuity. 
 
 Vehement invective roused her to a constrained, 
 "I don't know;" her small unfathomable eyes 
 had the furtive reticence of a she-bear. 
 
 Malcolm was anxious to come into possession of 
 Wolf Runner, with the idea of having the Indian 
 clear himself by leading them to the smugglers; 
 he was sure to know every safe spot in the deadly 
 muskeg. 
 
 So, speaking to Mas-ki-sis in Cree, he asked him 
 to tell them where his father was. 
 
 " Wolf Runner has gone to make the hunt — to 
 make a kill of mooswa,'* the boy answered, one 
 hand clutching the skirt of Mi-yah-tis. 
 
 Malcolm interpreted the boy's answer. The 
 sergeant sneered. 
 
 " The kid's givin' us the double. Captain," he 
 declared. "If the nichie's not here, he's with the 
 gang." 
 
 " Fm thinkin' we'd best pull out to the muskeg 
 trail, sir," suggested Malcolm, " though I don't 
 
 123 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 believe that Wolf Runner is with them. This job 
 is most like Camoose John's trick. I've heard the 
 muskeg is an old nest to him — he comes up the 
 trail from the south by Vermilion, taps Fort Don- 
 ald with a permit, hidin' the bulk of it in the 
 swamp, an' then goes on to Fort le Corne an' 
 Prince Albert." 
 
 " Do you know this muskeg trail? " asked the 
 inspector of Malcolm. 
 
 " Not well. The lad here was to show it me 
 when I went through one time." 
 
 *' Faith, we'd best jest corral the kid, sir," in- 
 terrupted Sergeant Heath. " The cub'll lead us to 
 the old un, p'raps." 
 
 *' I think that's a good idea," replied Inspector 
 Lang. ^' Just leave a man here, Sergeant, to trap 
 the Indian if he comes back. We'll take the boy 
 and push on to where the trail leads into the mus- 
 keg; we'll bottle them up, and in daylight we'll 
 make the kid show us their camp." 
 
 When Mas-ki-sis understood that he was to go 
 with the police he was sore afraid, and clung to 
 Mi-yah-tis. In vain Malcolm explained that they 
 meant him no harm; the boy did not believe it. 
 The very name of the Mounted Police was a bug- 
 bear. When an Indian did wrong, was he not 
 threatened with these red-coated braves of the pale- 
 face ; did not the Indian mothers frighten their chil- 
 
 124 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 dren Into good behavior with the goblin of the 
 Mounted PoHce ? It was all very well for the oga- 
 ma to say that they meant him no harm; if that 
 were so, why did they not leave him with his 
 mother? Perhaps It was all lies about the smug- 
 glers. Perhaps they had come for his father be- 
 cause of the time Wolf Runner had sought to lose 
 Malcolm Ogama In the muskeg. 
 
 When Ml-yah-tis understood they wished to 
 take Mas-kl-sis she became like a she-bear that 
 guards her young, and pleaded with Malcolm. 
 They could take her — she would show them the 
 trail — she would even lead them to the evil white 
 men who dealt In the fire-water, If they would but 
 leave her little Otter, Mas-kl-sis, at home. 
 
 When Malcolm Interpreted this, the sergeant 
 laughed. " Faith, It would take two bronchos to 
 tote that ugly old squaw." 
 
 '' It's nonsense," declared the inspector. " Tell 
 the boy to get ready." 
 
 Of a certainty a she-bear was about to be robbed 
 of her young; Mi-yah-tis saw they meant taking 
 her little Otter. It's altogether likely that had 
 there been but one white man he would have suf- 
 fered dismemberment ere he succeeded In the ab- 
 duction. The little eyes set In the huge face of 
 the Cree woman blazed with fury; they had to use 
 force to take the boy from her strong arms. 
 
 125 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 " The ould hag! " grunted Sergeant Heath, as 
 the Ugly One sent him sprawling with a clutch of 
 her strong fingers. 
 
 It was Mas-ki-sis who begged his mother to de- 
 sist; he would go with the police ogama, for he 
 saw that trouble would surely come to Mi-yah-tis. 
 
 Leaving a constable in the tepee, and taking the 
 boy, the police went back for their horses and 
 travelled on to the bear's deadfall. 
 
 126 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 At midnight they camped at the huge wooden 
 trap, beside a little stream. Forty yards from their 
 camp was a patch of open prairie, luxuriant in its 
 pea-vine and buffalo-grass, and there the horses 
 were picketed to fill the stomachs grown gaunt on 
 the hurried trail. No fire was lighted ; the moon 
 topping the aspen bluff behind them threw a 
 ghostly light over the log pillars of the bear-trap 
 that stood like a gibbet in the edge of the muskeg. 
 
 In a low voice Inspector Lang ordered the con- 
 stable to keep a watch of two hours, then the 
 sergeant was to relieve him. Wrapped in their 
 gray blankets, the three slept with the silent indus- 
 try of men who had sat in the saddle while their 
 eyes drooped for accustomed rest. 
 
 At two o'clock the constable called drowsily: 
 "Sam I Sam!" 
 
 The sergeant, oblivious, answered not. Once 
 again : " Sam ! " 
 
 "What's the matter, man?" a Scotch voice 
 asked; and Malcolm sat up, rubbing his eyes. 
 
 " Touch the sergeant, Scotty," ordered the con- 
 stable. 
 
 127 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 " Don't wake him," said Malcolm, compassion- 
 ately; " he's miles in the Happy Hunting Ground. 
 I'll take the watch. I'll just have a smoke, an' 
 after a bit I'll rouse him — let him sleep, man." 
 
 The constable hesitated. He would like to give 
 his comrade the benefit of the Scot's devotion. The 
 deep, steady breathing of his friend touched his 
 heart, and he whispered back: " Don't give it 
 away to the captain, then, and turn out the ser- 
 geant before you're caught; keep your eye skinned 
 on the kid." 
 
 Then he curled up in his blanket, and Malcolm, 
 feeling that he could stay awake for a thousand 
 years, pulled gently at his pipe, and wandered back 
 in spirit to Fort Donald and Franchette. 
 
 For half an hour he was very much awake. 
 Each little snort of the feeding horses as they 
 cleared the dust from their nostrils he heard. The 
 whistling whimper of a coyote cutting through the 
 gloom fell upon his tense, listening ear. 
 
 Presently something fell and struck him on the 
 ankle ; tiny sparks bit at the dry leaves as he looked 
 down — it was his pipe. Most certainly he had 
 dozed for a minute. He laughed nervously and 
 stood up, stretching his long limbs to start afresh 
 the sluggish blood. The crisp, cold night-air blew 
 the stupor of sleep from his nostrils, and he sat 
 
 128 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 down again awake ; he could even hear the pull of 
 the horses' teeth on the tough prairie-clover. 
 
 In ten minutes a pair of bright, ferret eyes peer- 
 ing from an old smoke-yellowed blanket saw in the 
 moonlight the Scot's shaggy head droop forward 
 till his chin rested on his broad chest. A small, 
 slim-fingered hand stretched forth, picked up a 
 stick, and tossed it close to the dozing figure's moc- 
 casined feet. The man who slept as he sat never 
 moved. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis waited a minute, then rustled his cov- 
 ering. The noise was as the stirring of leaves by 
 the wind; the crouched figure was a statue — as 
 silent. 
 
 A little dark shadow glided from beneath the 
 yellow blanket with the silent crawl of a cat, and 
 was lost in the tangle of rose-bush and wolf- 
 willow. 
 
 High in a tamarack a pair of big round eyes 
 peered from a saucer face down at the small some- 
 thing that crawled through the grass. The sol- 
 emn owl's slow mind was pondering over the prob- 
 lem of whether it was a transient supper coming to 
 its death, or an accursed tree-climber after his owl- 
 ship's thin carcass. A little closer, and the big 
 eyes that see at night knew it was a human ; with 
 a whirring cut of its wings the bird swooped close 
 to the crouched sleeper in the camp. 
 
 129 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Malcolm started. " By the Wallace ! " he mut- 
 tered, upbraiding himself, *' if I wasn't asleep." 
 
 His disturber perched again, laughed back at 
 him in derision : " Whoo-hoo-hoo-o ! " 
 
 " Ye needn't jeer," muttered the Scot; " ye did 
 me a service. Sergeant! Sergeant!" he contin- 
 ued, softly, and touched the sleeping policeman. 
 
 '* All's quiet," he said, as the other took his 
 place. 
 
 Sergeant Heath looked in the dim light at the 
 yellow blanket. It was simply an involuntary re- 
 currence to duty ; there was no thought that the lit- 
 tle Indian would seek to escape. 
 
 " The kid's asleep," he confided to himself. 
 " Poor little devil ! " That was because he had 
 boys of his own at home. 
 
 He sat listening intently. Presently the thump 
 of a hoof — a little cough assured him their horses 
 were feeding in content. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis, his stomach close to the warm earth, 
 wriggled like a lizard for ten yards ; then, rising to 
 his feet and hands, he stole like a little bear through 
 the grass-patch where fed the horses. In his child- 
 mind was the absorbing thought of return to his 
 mother. 
 
 At thirty yards he stood up ; the next instant he 
 threw himself flat, and burrowed in the pea-vine 
 and whispering grass and white-tasselled yarrow. 
 
 130 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 A coyote dashed by him with a stifled whine of 
 affright. 
 
 The boy's heart beat at his breast like the thump 
 of a tom-tom; its noise filled his ears — he could 
 scarcely hear the slipping creep of moccasined feet 
 on his trail. Nearer and nearer, the tell-tale whis- 
 per of the crisp grass calling louder and louder 
 each second that someone sought Mas-ki-sis. 
 Would the seeker miss him in the earth's tangled 
 cover? The someone was a blood-hound, coming 
 with unerring certainty to his hiding-place. 
 
 With a gasp the boy was up and away like a 
 frightened deer. But his little legs, all too short 
 for the holding maze of grass-growth, failed him. 
 A heavy hand fell upon his shoulder, and once 
 more he was in the toils of the police, he thought. 
 
 As he whirled about a greater fear came to him 
 — it was not one of the men he had fled from. He 
 would have cried out in his terror, but strong 
 fingers clutched him by the throat, and a voice 
 whispered in Cree : *' Speak not, little one, or I will 
 drive this knife through you. Come with me with- 
 out noise, and you will not be harmed." 
 
 Then his captor, holding him by the arm, led 
 him to the horses, speaking to them in a low, sooth- 
 ing voice as he pulled the picket-pegs. 
 
 The three police horses that were picketed, and 
 Malcolm's cayuse that was hobbled, were gathered 
 
 131 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 like sheep. Mas-ki-sis was placed on the back of 
 one, and then the new enemy led them straight 
 away from the police camp and into a growth of 
 poplar. 
 
 As they travelled, suddenly a horse whinnied a 
 little deeper in the woods. With an oath, the man 
 hurried forward till they came to a cayuse tied to 
 a poplar. 
 
 As the horse-thief wrenched the hackamore 
 loose and swung into the saddle, Mas-ki-sis 
 dropped to the ground the two black, white-tipped 
 hawk-feathers that were in his braided hair. 
 They would be a message to Wolf Runner when 
 he came looking for his little Mas-ki-sis, as he 
 surely would. 
 
 Then they slipped forward at a walk, the stolen 
 horses hanging back to the leading rein, suspicious 
 of the cayuse they followed. 
 
 " Marse! " the horse-thief commanded back to 
 Mas-ki-sis, and the frightened lad, obeying, 
 kicked his heels into the soft flanks of the broncho, 
 and the troop broke into a trot and then into a 
 gallop. 
 
 The boy was too frightened to call out ; he could 
 only grasp the horse's mane and bend low to es- 
 cape the sweep of a branch. 
 
 On they sped over a jack-pine hill with its hold- 
 ing sand, through an hour's length of moonlit prai- 
 
 132 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 rie, and, skirting a poplar bluff that was too thick 
 of growth, splashed through Vermilion Creek. 
 
 As they raised out of the creek bottom, and 
 topped its clay bank, the horses swerved in affright 
 at a figure lying beside a smouldering heap of red 
 embers. One of the horses with a snort broke 
 away and clattered across the flat prairie. 
 
 As the sleeper sprang to his feet, the thief with 
 an oath rasped sharp spurs up the flank of his 
 mount, and the stolen troop swept on into the 
 night, leaving the startled camper, who was Wolf 
 Runner, looking after them In fear and astonish- 
 ment. He suddenly turned his head sideways to 
 listen; he could have sworn he had heard a shrill 
 call for help. 
 
 133 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 As the beating hoofs grew silent in the distance, 
 Wolf Runner heard the cayuse that had broken 
 loose tramping about on the prairie. The Indian, 
 soft-stepping with his moccasined feet, went toward 
 the animal. As he approached in the moonlight 
 the horse snorted and plunged forward a few steps. 
 His head was low hung, and seemed anchored. 
 The loose-hanging hackamore had tangled about a 
 foreleg, and, thus accidentally hobbled. Wolf Run- 
 ner caught him. Then he led him back to the 
 camp-fire, and, hobbling the cayuse more effectual- 
 ly, the Indian threw wood on the smouldering coals. 
 
 Over his pipe, yielding its '' harouge " incense, 
 he puzzled out this apparition of many horses. The 
 man who had so suddenly appeared and disap- 
 peared must be a thief, else why had he not stopped 
 when one of his bunch was lost? Yes, surely it was 
 a case of horse-stealing. They must be of Fort 
 Donald, for the stealer was fleeing from that di- 
 rection. 
 
 Perhaps even this matter of the stolen horses 
 had to do with the traders of fire-water; they had 
 
 134 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 passed his solitary camp hours before trailing to 
 the west. Camoose John, the smuggler, wise in 
 the propitiation of anyone who might be bribed to 
 a silent tongue, had given the Indian a bottle, and 
 he, with unusual self-control, still had a part of its 
 contents saved for Mi-yah-tis. 
 
 At any rate, the evil spirits were not making bad 
 medicine for Wolf Runner, for he had made a kill 
 of mooswa, and his back was tired from packing 
 the huge hide. Now here was a horse put into his 
 very hands to carry himself and his load; also he 
 would surely get a present of tobacco or powder 
 for returning the cayuse to its rightful owner. He 
 would eat and hasten to his tepee and talk over 
 these things with the Ugly One. 
 
 The Indian cut a branch of red willow, stuck a 
 sharpened end in the ground, and tortured a moose- 
 steak over the live coals. When he had eaten it, 
 he looked longingly at the contents of the bottle; 
 there was just enough for Mi-yah-tis. What a 
 glorious thing this fire-water was; also what a 
 devilish thing. How big and strong it made him 
 feel; and how it burned into his very heart, and 
 mastered him, and made him think that he would 
 sacrifice everything of all the beautiful forest and 
 prairie for one long continuous enjoyment of it. 
 
 He held the red glinting fluid between his eyes 
 and the fire; he shook the flask, and it was full of 
 
 135 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 leaping devils. They smiled at him, they jeered 
 at him. Why were they masters of his race ? Why 
 was it that his people were slaves, committing self- 
 murder because of this hot water that burned their 
 throats, and was found nowhere made of Mani- 
 tou. All the things God had given them to eat and 
 drink were good, and made them strong — this was 
 an invention of the palefaces, for the red man's 
 destruction. It must be true what the Ogama 
 Bruce had said in his Manitou worship at Fort 
 Donald, that a curse had come down to Wolf Run- 
 ner's people because of the fire-water. But he 
 would save it for Mi-yah-tis, there was just enough 
 — perhaps there was just a little more than enough. 
 In the old days, when the Company traded them 
 fire-water for buffalo-skins, the Ugly One had not 
 drunken of it as did the other squaws ; he had never 
 seen her reeling about like a wounded buffalo. Yes, 
 Mi-yah-tis was a good squaw. 
 
 Wolf Runner raised the flask to his lips and 
 lessened the portion that was for the Ugly One. 
 Then throwing the moose-pelt over his cayuse's 
 withers, and loosening the hobble, he clambered to 
 the horse's back and trailed toward Vermilion. 
 
 Perhaps Calf Shirt would know something of 
 the stolen horses; so Wolf Runner branched from 
 the trail that led by the bear-trap, and passed by 
 the tepee of Calf Shirt. 
 
 136 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 His relative knew nothing of the horses; but, 
 according to the method of men, the portion of 
 fire-water that was for the woman most utterly van- 
 ished in the tepee of Calf Shirt. Wolf Runner had 
 meant to say nothing of the fire-water, for it was 
 the squaw's; but was It not a chance to astound 
 Calf Shirt with the glamour of his magnificence? 
 Besides, as Wolf Runner remembered, the Ugly 
 One thought more of little Mas-ki-sis than she did 
 of the heart-cheering liquor. 
 
 The whiskey that was still in the flask would not 
 have affected a strong white man ; but the two red 
 men became babbling children under Its influence, 
 and in this state the Indian completed his journey 
 to Vermilion. 
 
 137 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Mas-ki-sis's captor galloped on unchecked by 
 the broncho's defection until the trees commenced 
 to outline a little against the eastern sky that was 
 now losing the night gloom. 
 
 Suddenly swinging from the poplars to prairie, 
 the boy saw the shadowy forms of horses feeding 
 by a stream which ran through a little valley. 
 
 The next instant the thief reined up his cayuse, 
 and, after a sharp scrutiny, whistled through his 
 fingers. From the hollow of the little valley a 
 whistle, that was like the echo of his own, came 
 up the hill to them. 
 
 Then the horse-thief pushed forward again till 
 he came to two men who guarded a wagon. Mas- 
 ki-sis saw, with a thrill of fear, the unwinking eyes 
 of two rifles staring at him. 
 
 " What th' devil've you got? " one of the men 
 said, addressing the horse-thief, and peering into 
 the boy's face. 
 
 " Plenty broncho; what you zink dey is? " 
 
 " The kid's not a broncho, is he? " 
 
 For answer the horse-thief threw himself from 
 138 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 the saddle, and, leading the questioner to one side, 
 said: " When I pull out from you las' night an' 
 hit ze trail for home, by Gar ! I see ze police horse. 
 Dey haf put ze little nichie on guard over ze 
 bronchos. Mon Dieu ! but dey are stupid an' lazy. 
 Dey sleep, sleep, while ze cub is watch. I am 
 creep up on ze broncho. Sacre! I see dis nichie. 
 By damn! quick I have him, so quick he make 
 no squeak. I mus' take him, if not he mak' alarm." 
 
 *' Where does the kid belong, Descoigne? " 
 
 " How I know me? You mus' tak' — how long 
 you keep ze broncho? " 
 
 " Till they're done up." 
 
 " Well, when you cut out dese horse, let ze kid 
 go. I t'ink dey find dere way back together. Give 
 him grub." 
 
 "What about th' police, Joe?" 
 
 " Ha, ha ! I have set ze outfit afoot. Dey 
 mus' go back — p'r'aps they have catch Wolf Run- 
 ner, I don't know — wit'out horse dey can't catch 
 not'ings." 
 
 " Is the kid on to you, Joe? " 
 
 " No. An' now I mus' go so he don't see me. 
 Soon be daylight I t'ink." 
 
 Mas-ki-sis saw his captor mount and strike 
 across the prairie to the north. Descoigne meant 
 to make a wide detour by Metis Mission and avoid 
 the Vermilion trail. 
 
 139 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The Indian lad did not know what new evil the 
 fates had in store for him; but somehow he 
 breathed freer when the horse-thief had gone; in 
 that man's presence he had been possessed of dread. 
 
 Then the whiskey smugglers harnessed to their 
 wagon the horses of Descoigne's gift, leading their 
 own, and started to the west. 
 
 140 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 Sergeant Sam, fighting the enthralment of 
 denied sleep, heard the whinny of Descoigne*s 
 cayuse as the Frenchman fled with the police 
 horses. It started him into wakefulness, and he 
 listened for reassuring sounds from the grass field 
 where their steeds fed. It was strangely silent. 
 
 " I wonder if there^s any diviltry up," he mut- 
 tered. But wondering over the problem brought 
 little beyond the continued grave-like calm; so he 
 slipped quietly from his sleeping companions and 
 explored the patch of open prairie. 
 
 Not a horse was there. 
 
 The discovery quickened him into excited move- 
 ment; he ran here and there. Once he careened 
 headlong over yards of turf, his eager feet rudely 
 snatched from under him by an entanglement of 
 dogberry. Somehow the tumble steadied his ruf- 
 fled senses. Beyond doubt the horses had been 
 stolen. 
 
 He hurried to the camp and shared this won- 
 drous discovery with the chief; also enlarged the 
 store of his knowledge by the further development 
 
 141 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 that under the yellow blanket was nothing but 
 grass-land — no Mas-ki-sis. The fragment of Ind- 
 ian humanity had stolen their horses of a cer- 
 tainty, and Wolf Runner must have helped in the 
 robbery. 
 
 It was a performance close cousin to a miracle 
 to take the boy from under their noses and the 
 horses from within their hearing. 
 
 In their opinion Wolf Runner had achieved to 
 the possibility of a hanging; but, alas! in the 
 meantime he had set them afoot, and they 
 were like mastless boats that tossed on an empty 
 sea. 
 
 Then they scurried like rabbits up and down 
 the land, through the tantalizing gloom of the 
 moon's foolish light, and found nothing beyond in- 
 numerable roots and countless ant-hills that played 
 ten-pins with their hastening legs. They might as 
 well have sat in the camp and watched for the 
 dawn — finally they did; and when it came, with 
 the slow solemnity that the breaking day has, they 
 went out and found the broad trail of many horses 
 that followed their leader. 
 
 They pursued the mocking hoof-prints, reviling 
 themselves inwardly for the foolishness of it — for 
 the man that steals horses in the night goes beyond 
 the reaching of men set afoot. And presently 
 they came to the trail of iron-shod wheels cutting 
 
 142 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 in from the direction of the muskeg, and they knew 
 that this was Camoose John, his mark. 
 
 At the tree where Descoigne's cayuse had 
 waited, Malcolm called a halt, and cast about the 
 ground for something that might disturb the utter 
 emptiness of their knowledge. 
 
 " It was that devilish kid," he exclaimed, as he 
 picked from the earth a black and white hawk- 
 feather Mas-ki-sis had cast from his braided hair. 
 The Scot held it aloft in confirmation. 
 
 " And here Wolf Runner tied his cayuse,'' 
 added the inspector, " and they're away together. 
 We might as well chase the rainbow as follow 
 them afoot, and we might as well go back again 
 as seek for the smugglers. Wolf Runner has 
 given them warning, and they're away, with our 
 horses to help." 
 
 Almost mechanically Malcolm passed along the 
 disturbed trail ; the others, empty of wiser action, 
 followed. 
 
 Presently the Scotchman knelt down and ex- 
 amined the trail carefully. 
 
 " I'm botherin' how Camoose got wind of us 
 at all," he said. 
 
 " Why, the little nichie gave them word and 
 they got out — they're all away together." 
 
 " It's not that," answered Malcolm. " They 
 wasn't together here at all; the wagon-track is 
 
 143 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 hours older than the horse-trail. Don't you see 
 the spider-webs in the wagon-rut holdin' lots of 
 dew; and the hoof-prints of our bronchos has 
 hardly any spider-web or dew either. There was 
 no dew fallin' toward morning. I was awake and 
 know that. That's why the horse-tracks are dry. 
 And, besides, our horses was gallopin', and the 
 whiskey outfit trottin' ; they wouldn't be doin' that 
 if they was together — they couldn't do it. No, 
 they got word long before the kid skipped us, 
 hours before." 
 
 " It must have been Wolf Runner, though," 
 commented Lang, " or the boy wouldn't have 
 gone with him." 
 
 " If it was Wolf Runner, somebody from Fort 
 Donald took word to him that we was comin'." 
 
 *'Well," replied the captain, "they're gone now, 
 and I've got to go back." 
 
 Lang had, so to speak, fulfilled his part of the 
 contract with Factor Gourelot, all but the tantaliz- 
 ing variation of Wolf Runner's having purloined 
 their horses instead of allowing himself to be com- 
 placently arrested. 
 
 But, brushing aside the consideration of results, 
 the police captain's duty was paramount — he must 
 hasten back to Fort Donald and proceed to Win- 
 nipeg. So they moodily ate a light breakfast, 
 and, packing on their backs the saddles they had 
 
 144 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 so lately bestrode, took up the trail; a hundred 
 miles of foot- work, and at the end of it covert joy 
 awaiting them at the hands of the aborigines at 
 Fort Donald. It was not a prospect to instigate 
 hilarity, and the quartette, in procession, conducted 
 themselves like pall-bearers. 
 
 Cameron was loping along in front, possessed 
 of an unspeakable discontent; in-toed like an Ind- 
 ian he plodded, the very earth feeling the strong 
 impact of his resentment. 
 
 Suddenly he stopped, crouched down, and 
 peered into the saucer-like prints of hoofs. 
 
 " Someone's been hittin' the trail since our 
 goin\" he said. " He's not long ahead of us," 
 he continued, in monologue; "it's since sun-up — 
 there's no little spider-webs in the tracks." 
 
 " Must be Wolf Runner," commented the ser- 
 geant; " for gall an Indian has got the whole 
 world beat flat." 
 
 " It's pretty rich," added the captain; " to steal 
 our nags and ride one home under our very noses 
 takes the bun." 
 
 "You can't tell," objected Malcolm; "the 
 nichies are always scourin' through the woods 
 like rabbits; it may be just a chance traveller." 
 
 The mocking hoof-prints seemed to jeer at them 
 from the trail as they plodded onward. Even had 
 the Indian appeared a dozen yards ahead, waiting 
 
 145 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 to give them the laugh, they would not have been 
 surprised. 
 
 Five hundred yards short of Vermilion the 
 cayuse tracks left the trail and were almost lost in 
 the matted turf of the unbeaten prairie. 
 
 "A new deviltry! " said the captain, speaking 
 low. " We must split up. Sergeant, you and 
 Cameron trail the horse, and we'll go on to the 
 tepee. Don't follow the cayuse over half a mile, 
 we haven't much time to waste now." 
 
 *' There's no use of stalking the tepee," he 
 added to the constable, as the two proceeded; " if 
 Wolf Runner's there, White'll have nailed him." 
 
 At the lodge Captain Lang called, " Constable," 
 and in his right hand he held a gun ready for 
 emergencies. 
 
 Through the slit of the tepee a man emerged, 
 and Constable White stood erect and saluted. 
 
 "Well?" queried the captain. 
 
 *' He's in there, sir," answered the constable, 
 thrusting his thumb over his shoulder. 
 
 "Wolf Runner?" 
 
 The policeman nodded. 
 
 "When did become?" 
 
 " An hour ago, sir — walked right in on me as 
 I was at grub-pile. He was packin' a jag " 
 
 "Drunk?" queried the captain, in astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 146 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 "Pretty near, sir; he had an empty bottle, so 
 I guess the liquor give out before he got para- 
 lyzed/' 
 
 ** Was the boy with him? '* 
 
 " No, sir; ain't you got him? " 
 
 Even as they talked Malcolm and the sergeant 
 came up with the stolen horse. 
 
 " We found him hobbled in a dip In the prairie, 
 sir," reported Sergeant Sam. 
 
 " Bring out the nichie till I question him," com- 
 manded Lang. 
 
 To the captain's query the Indian explained how 
 he had come by the horse. 
 
 The tale was such a tax on their credulity, such 
 an evident tribute to the stupidity of a white man 
 in general, that the Inspector laughed in derision. 
 
 But where was Mas-ki-sis ? Wolf Runner did 
 not know; he even asked the police officer for 
 knowledge of the boy; they had taken him — 
 where was he? 
 
 Again the Inspector laughed; the whole thing 
 was too patent. Wolf Runner had communicated 
 some signal to the little imp as they slept at the 
 bear's deadfall — even as the sentry slept. Then 
 the two, father and son, wolf and cub, had run 
 off their horses, the kid had carried them on to 
 the whiskey smugglers, and Wolf Runner, circling 
 wide of their camp, had ridden In haste back to 
 
 147 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 his own tepee, perhaps to get grub and speak with 
 his squaw, meaning to clear out again. But Con- 
 stable White, of whom he did not know, had 
 ambushed him. In the clatter of the horse-steal- 
 ing probably Mas-ki-sis had forgotten to tell his 
 father of the redcoat in the tepee. 
 
 Everything was against the Indian. Why did 
 he circle the trail as a man hunts a moose — why 
 did he not ride straight up to his tepee instead of 
 caching the horse, if his tale were true — why was 
 not Mas-ki-sis there with his mother if he had 
 not run off the horses? Did not Wolf Runner 
 come home saturated with the atmosphere of his 
 liquor friends? Bah! they were losing time. 
 Their luck was not all out though, for had they 
 not trapped the chief villain? Onward to Fort 
 Donald; not with celerity, to be sure, but still 
 with fair speed because of the long-striding Scotch- 
 man. They left the saddles with Mi-yah-tis to be 
 sent for. A saddle was all right between one's 
 legs and on a good horse, but on one's back for 
 the matter of a hundred miles it was a thing to 
 be dispensed with. The solitary cayuse was made 
 a party to the pilgrimage. 
 
 As the mixed lot, those of the redcoats, the 
 big Scot, the swarthy Indian, and Inspector Lang 
 athwart the knock-kneed cayuse, moved out in 
 solemn defile, a pair of whiskey-jacks stared at 
 
 148 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 them In amazement from the poles of a meat- 
 drying rack. The blue-gray birds even followed 
 the wondrous procession for a mile, offering de- 
 risive chirps of disapprobation. 
 
 They made Fort Donald in two days, with feet 
 crying out in anguish because of the incessant 
 activity. 
 
 Sergeant Sam had an extended vocabulary of 
 Celtic reproach for people he disapproved of, but 
 long before the white-washed shack that was the 
 Hudson Bay fort glimmered on their vision 
 he had exhausted his rhetoric, and walked 
 in sullen resentment as silent as Wolf Run- 
 ner. 
 
 " My God ! the heathen — the damnable pa- 
 gan ! " Malcolm had iterated over and over 
 again; "there's no trustin' a yellow-skinned hu- 
 man. Yon time of the race he was for drownin' 
 me in the Devil's Lake, then he was a friend of 
 mine; and the now Tm a-ridin' Shank's mare a 
 hundred miles because of his deviltry. My con- 
 science, the heathen! " 
 
 The advent of the wayfarers was like the com- 
 ing of a circus. The post dwellers thronged to 
 the fort and gazed in speechless, unholy rapture 
 upon their humiliation. To be set afoot by the 
 men they had sought was a retribution beyond 
 anything the men of Fort Donald had prayed 
 
 149 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 for. Descolgne and Benoit were in the seventh 
 heaven of exalted triumph. 
 
 That the police had captured Wolf Runner, 
 who was as innocent of the whiskey-running as 
 big Sandy himself, was superb. Had ever such 
 happiness come to Fort Donald — was it not a 
 place favored of the gods? 
 
 Gourelot put on the magisterial air of a chief- 
 justice when the Indian was brought before him 
 for a preliminary hearing. 
 
 And the evidence! Mon Dieul who could 
 doubt the evidence ? Also the police must proceed 
 in the York boat, for the steamer had gone. 
 
 The Indian would go with his captors to Win- 
 nipeg. Their evidence would insure him a long, 
 long rest from villany — a protracted residence at 
 the " Queen's Hotel " — which was Stony Moun- 
 tain jail. 
 
 Gourelot had drunken of the smuggled fire- 
 water, but how was he to know whence it came? 
 Also was he not now like a reformed inebriate, 
 more bitter than one who had never fallen ? And 
 horse-stealing! Perhaps they would even hang 
 Wolf Runner. 
 
 So the police drifted down the Saskatchewan to 
 Grand Rapids, and in all Fort Donald there was 
 only one man of strong discontent — big Sandy. 
 " I dinna believe it; I dinna believe it," he re- 
 
 150 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 peated to Malcolm. " It's yon blue wolf, Des- 
 coigne, that's brewed this uncanny thing; but Til 
 hae him yet — I'll hae him yet, or I'm no' a Hie- 
 landman." 
 
 " I'm afraid Wolf Runner stole the horses, 
 father," declared Malcolm. 
 
 151 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 In the west no one goes afoot to the commit- 
 ment of villany, therefore the man who takes to 
 himself the unearthing of evidence seeks first the 
 horse. 
 
 Logically enough, big Sandy concluded that if 
 Descoigne were at the bottom of this new mis- 
 chief his cayuse would have been an impressed 
 accomplice. In fact the Scot's eye had been tak- 
 ing notes while the police were out chasing the 
 gray goose. He saw that Felix Benoit went no 
 more to Descoigne's, therefore the Frenchman 
 must be away or dead. Sandy's luck was so bad 
 just then that the latter possibility he quickly dis- 
 missed from his mind. 
 
 There were reasons why he should not visit 
 Joe's house and satisfy his curiosity. In that land 
 of self-preservation a man's shack was most em- 
 phatically his castle, and a much smaller bulk than 
 Sandy's big frame would have proved easy for 
 Descoigne at a hundred yards. Also had the bat- 
 tered Frenchman sent a friendly notice, with his 
 
 152 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 compliments, that he would shoot the spiller of 
 their liquor if he kept not off the grass. 
 
 For two days after the police fared forth to 
 the prairie Sandy failed to locate his enemy's 
 cayuse; on the third, just at the little foot-hills 
 behind Fort Donald where the purple prairie- 
 clover grew shoulder to shoulder, he came upon 
 the blue roan ineffably dispirited from the lethargy 
 of overwork. 
 
 " I kenned it, mon, I kenned it,'' Sandy re- 
 peated to himself, as he fished from capacious 
 pockets a bait of precious oats. 
 
 Sandy could have outwitted a wolverine, and he 
 soon had the tired cayuse in the witness-box of 
 his close scrutiny. 
 
 The horse was guiltless of shoes, but the fore- 
 hoofs carried tiny holes and the hollowed soles 
 which go with feet that have been lately shod. 
 The nigh hoof was worn to the extent of a full 
 day's travel shoeless; from the off- foot the iron 
 crescent had been taken but lately. 
 
 "It's vera clear," Sandy muttered; "he just 
 dropped a shoe yonder, an' wi' the cunning o' a 
 serpent pulled the other since he came back. I'd 
 gie twenty skins for this saxpence-worth o' iron, 
 an' forty for yon lost one." 
 
 As he trudged back Cameron pieced it out in 
 his mind. Felix Benoit, who was brother in sin 
 
 153 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 to Descolgne, and also post blacksmith, would 
 have pulled the shoe. 
 
 Now a half-breed throws away nothing but 
 money, and horseshoes were rare as jewels, so be- 
 yond doubt Felix would have carried this asset to 
 his little blacksmith shop. Big Sandy must be- 
 come possessed of that. 
 
 154 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 All day the whiskey smugglers trailed with 
 feverish haste, eating into the western horizon 
 with wondrous speed. The horses they urged 
 with brutal persistency were not their own, and 
 to be cast off at night. Also the outlaws raced 
 for a big stake — their liberty, perhaps their lives. 
 
 To little Mas-ki-sis, perched in the wagon, 
 dumb from the recurrence of so much adventure, 
 his black eyes possessed of the hunted look that 
 comes of habit to a hounded deer, the captors 
 were most kind ; even pity was in the hearts of the 
 rough men for the cub they took so far from his 
 home. 
 
 When the western sky was ablaze with the red 
 light of autumn evening they outspanned and 
 cooked a hurried meal. Then the leader, Ca- 
 moose Jack, talked with much dreaded seriousness 
 to Mas-ki-sis. They hobbled the stolen horses, 
 bidding the boy rest there all night beside the 
 feeding animals, and, in the morning, take them 
 back over the trail. 
 
 The outlaws spelled for two hours; then they 
 155 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 put in their own horses, leaving food for the lit- 
 tle Indian. Camoose patted the boy's shoulder 
 and swung to his seat on the wagon; the horses 
 stretched to the traces with the foolish rush of 
 bronchos, and the load of whiskey was started. 
 In ten yards the driver threw his horses almost 
 on their haunches, and, turning to his companion, 
 said: " Dakota, weVe a pair of nichies. I'm up 
 against it good and hard; the kid ain't got no 
 cover — just stake him with this," and he handed 
 Dakota a gray regulation blanket. 
 
 Then the outfit slipped forward again and be- 
 came obliterated shadows in the big waste of 
 darkened prairie. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis sat crouched like a badger listening 
 to the rumble of the wagon-wheels that grew 
 fainter and fainter, until he was left alone with the 
 tired, feeding horses — a wee lost waif of hu- 
 manity. 
 
 As the animals moved in their feeding, he 
 moved too. He had the Indian's full dread of 
 the dark. Mah-chee Manitou, or Wie-sah-ke- 
 chack, with his evil habit of changing into an ani- 
 mal, would most assuredly find him — perhaps he 
 himself would be turned into a prairie-chicken or 
 a gopher before morning. The hobbled beasts 
 were friends; he clung to them as to brothers. 
 When their stomachs were rounded and taut as 
 
 156 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 tom-toms from the lentil grass, they stretched 
 themselves wearily on the earth and slept with 
 asthmatic gasps. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis crept close to the pinto he had ridden 
 the night before and nestled against his back. As 
 he huddled there, the cayuse reached his nose over 
 and put the small human through a mental cate- 
 chism. It was a suspicious investigation, for the 
 pinto was about to trust himself to the dangers 
 of a sleep. Mas-ki-sis put his little hand up and 
 stroked the ill-formed nozzle of the cow-hocked 
 beast. The pinto gave a sigh of content — of 
 trust, and let his head of archaic design droop 
 lower and lower, till his chin rested on the soft 
 pillow of the much-grassed prairie, and slept in 
 the abnegating thought that at his back was the 
 wise protection of a human friend. The rest- 
 fulness of the cayuse deadened the acute fears 
 of the boy. No wolf would tackle him with 
 the prospect of combat with the hard-hoofed 
 steeds of the prairie; even evil spirits kept aloof 
 from horses. A gentle warmth stretched out 
 from the pinto and lulled the little waif to 
 sleep. 
 
 Once a harsh-voiced loon floated like a lost 
 spirit over the sleeping group, and its whistling 
 lament startled Mas-ki-sis into open-eyed fear. 
 But it was only a loon, a silly, wandering loon 
 
 157 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 with its useless cackle of despair, and he slept 
 again. 
 
 An hour before daylight the boy's bed com- 
 menced to fall asunder; the pinto was admonish- 
 ing his little friend that he meant to arise and 
 garner more of the luscious grass. 
 
 As the horses fed, Mas-ki-sis ate of the bannock 
 and fried bacon the whiskey man had given him. 
 At the first flush of gray he unshackled the horses' 
 legs, the pinto's last, and clambered to his roach- 
 backed spine; then, rounding up the little bunch, 
 he started over the back trail. All day he rode, 
 with one rest at noon for grass-eating. Well on 
 in the afternoon the two horses that had been fol- 
 lowing, feeling in their now empty stomachs the 
 glamour of the clover and wild oat and pea-vine, 
 commenced to loiter by the way. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis pushed on. In the evening he came 
 to the poplar to which Descoigne's cayuse had 
 been tied. The boy slipped from the pinto's back 
 and searched for the feathers he had dropped. 
 They were gone. Had his father, Wolf Runner, 
 found them? Surely not, else he had come seek- 
 ing for his boy. Ah! there was one, blown a 
 little into the bluff by the wind. With boyish 
 thoughtlessness Mas-ki-sis let go the hackamore 
 and ran to the feather. As he stooped to pick it 
 up the glint of a polished horseshoe caught his 
 
 158 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 eye. The Indian instinct told him It belonged to 
 the man who had stolen him and the horses. It 
 was caught In a root that had wrenched it from 
 the hoof of the thief's cayuse. He gave a little 
 whoop of delight. 
 
 At that Instant, like a thousandfold echo of the 
 boy's cry, a wolf's howl came cutting its way up- 
 wind from the forest. 
 
 Left to himself the horse had grazed a little 
 along the trail, and as the wolf-cry fell upon his 
 ear he raised a startled head, the big eyes wild in 
 affright. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis raced for the hackamore; his head- 
 long rush completed the pInto's distress, and he 
 fled In terror, clattering back over the trail by 
 which he had come. Mas-ki-sis realized that 
 nothing would stop the animal until he reached 
 the two of his own kind. The boy, set afoot as 
 decisively as the police force had been, gazed 
 ruefully at the sky that was fast losing its light, 
 and thought of the miles of darkened trail that 
 stretched between him and his mother. How 
 warm the tepee would be ; how cold and dismal the 
 poplar bluff that fringed the bleak muskeg would 
 prove. But to tramp alone for hours and hours 
 over the trail that at night was in the possession 
 of wolves and coyotes, and evil spirits, and surly 
 muskwa, the bear — it was dreadful. 
 
 159 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 His moment of indecision was cut short by a 
 fierce bark dying away into a drawn-out howl; he 
 had almost forgotten the wolves. Their cry 
 sounded nearer this time; they must have winded 
 him and the cayuse. He looked up at the trees; 
 he might perhaps seek safety in one of them. The 
 poplar limbs were so slight he would surely fall 
 out in the night. If he could only cache himself 
 high on a rude platform, as he had seen Wolf 
 Runner cache the meat of a moose. 
 
 Ah, he had it — the bear's deadfall. His father 
 had covered its top with limbs once and made 
 a cache of it. It was close by. His blanket 
 had fallen from the pinto's back; picking it up, 
 still clinging to his horseshoe, Mas-ki-sis scuttled 
 away for the log haven of safety as fast as his 
 little legs could carry him. 
 
 With the blanket corner in his teeth, he climbed 
 a log post and was safe; all but the evil spirits. 
 Safe from the wolves, his boy's mind, made tense 
 by fear, reverted to the ever-present demons of the 
 air, the wicked spirits — surely they abode in that 
 dark muskeg. 
 
 From the poplar forest came the clanging bell- 
 notes of wolves In chase ; they were stealing up the 
 boy's scent like ghouls. Now he could see shad- 
 ows twisting in and out amongst the trees In the 
 gathering gloom. They were working closer and 
 
 i6o 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 closer in circling paths — wary, but relentless. 
 Now they sat on their haunches almost beneath 
 the deadfall — three of them. Their hungry eyes 
 pierced the gloom with covetous glance ; their nos- 
 trils tickled with the tantalizing odor of some- 
 thing cached. Why were the good things of life, 
 the flesh without power of combat, always left 
 high and safe on those degraded log stands? 
 
 Mas-kl-sis could hear the sniffing of his audi* 
 ence; the soft shuffle of their cautious feet, muffled 
 by the yielding grass, as they paced In Impatient 
 longing back and forth, round and round, and up 
 and down — even at times springing against the 
 smooth, barkless posts, as a dog essays a tree In 
 quest of prey. 
 
 A little farther back In the forest a coyote, 
 jackal-like, whimpered plaintively. Why did not 
 his big brothers, the timber wolves, make a kill? 
 — perhaps there would be something for him at 
 the finish. Another coyote echoed his carping 
 lament, and another — until there seemed a cordon 
 of them, keeping back from the wolves, lest they 
 themselves should furnish the feast. 
 
 Mas-kl-sis pulled the blanket over his head, as 
 a train-dog or a fox sleeps with his tall across his 
 nose. There was a slight solace In the presence 
 of his fierce attendants, their din might keep away 
 the muskeg demons. 
 
 i6i 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Once the boy uncovered his head quickly; 
 surely he had heard a voice. As he listened he 
 heard it again, a plaintive whip-poor-will, as the 
 bird of sorrow sailed with soft-rustling wing over 
 the trail that was possessed of the hungry ones. 
 
 Down on the darkened earth were round, gleam- 
 ing balls of fire, the lurid yellow-green eyes of the 
 eager timber wolves. He blotted them out with 
 his blanket again, and tried to sleep. 
 
 Sometimes the animals snarled and snapped at 
 each other; sometimes Mas-ki-sis heard the soft 
 suck of a wolf's breath, as, panting, he jumped at 
 the posts; and again they would yap with impa- 
 tient, gasping barks, and from the outer edge 
 would come an answering chorus of whistling 
 moans from the waiting coyotes. 
 
 For the space of many moons Mas-ki-sis lived 
 through the night. It seemed to him as though 
 something must have happened to the sun — surely 
 the daylight should have come long, long ago. 
 Many times he peeped stealthily from his blanket 
 at the blinking stars that were so all-unconscious 
 of the wolves' wrath. 
 
 At last the stars were surely fading and creep- 
 ing away to sleep; the trees were stepping a little 
 apart from the blurred mass of dark shadow they 
 had been. Yes, day was coming. Fan-like blades 
 of pink and gold shot quivering into the blue-gray 
 
 162 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 vault from which the stars were now lost; the 
 night, harborer of his enemies, was fleeing to the 
 forest before the Sun-God. Small wonder his 
 tribe's enemies, the Blackfeet, had been sun-wor- 
 shippers. In his heart was a hymn of joy. Even 
 the gray mist that had chilled him was brushed 
 aside like a veil by his friend the Sun-God. 
 
 The wolf leader, big and gaunt, fearful of the 
 light, had grown restless. Twice he trotted a lit- 
 tle into the poplar bluff and barked to the two 
 pups to follow him; but they, eager in their hun- 
 ger and foolish in their youth, still prowled close 
 to the bear-trap. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis watched his enemies in apprehension. 
 He thought that with the coming of day they 
 would have gone; but the old dog had almost 
 given up trying to coax the others away, and was 
 now back again, his gray, scraggy muzzle sniffing 
 furtively at the small human on the deadfall. 
 
 The boy saw him suddenly whip about, point 
 his nose up the wind that was rustling the gold- 
 tinged leaves of the poplars, and stand tense as a 
 statue, the crest of black-tipped hair down his 
 spine erect. Floating on the morning air came 
 the sound of something rushing through the 
 forest. 
 
 With a " Yap, yap, yap ! " eager of chase, the 
 dog-wolf bounded into the air and was gone, the 
 
 163 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 two pups at his heels. Mas-ki-sis knew not 
 whether it was a moose or a black-tail that had 
 led his enemies away. It mattered not, they were 
 gone. 
 
 He slipped from his loft and ran through the 
 poplar bluff, and out into the smiling prairie that 
 was coral strewn with the red buds of seeding 
 wild-rose. 
 
 How like a saffron smoked moose-skin the plain 
 was, with its wealth of gold-stained shrub, and 
 grass, and leaf, the boy thought, as the gloom of 
 the forest fell from his spirits. 
 
 And beyond, not so far now, was his mother, 
 Mi-yah-tis. She would no doubt think him dead, 
 eaten by the wolves, or changed into a forest 
 dweller by Wie-sah-ke-chack. Perhaps the police 
 ogama would have told her that he had been car- 
 ried off by horse-thieves. 
 
 He quickened his pace with these thoughts, and 
 ran till something thrust a knife in his side — the 
 pain was just like that. 
 
 The trail cut through a small arm of the mus- 
 keg, and as the boy trudged slower because of the 
 pain, he saw all through the deep-mossed flat a 
 myriad fleet of fairy boats. On every shrub and 
 bunch of reed-grass were gossamer spider-webs, 
 boat-shaped, their holding strands turned to white 
 sails by the clinging dew. It was a beautiful sight, 
 
 164 
 
Mas-ki-sis (the Indian boy). 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 and Mas-kl-sis smiled, for his heart was light be- 
 cause of his escape. 
 
 For three hours his feet beat longingly at the 
 lengthened trail. As he dipped into a hollow 
 from over a hill covered with gnarled, black- 
 spotted jack-pine, he saw a wide figure, made evi- 
 dent by the fierce splendor of a crimson shawl, 
 coming through the grass with heavy vigor. The 
 joy of heaven came to the pagan mind; it was the 
 advent of the sweetest being in all his world — 
 his mother. 
 
 The poor old heart, torn of fear and disconso- 
 late waiting, tried beyond silent endurance, had 
 ached and ached, until its chords, vibrating with a 
 nameless dread, had caught up the call of a de- 
 serted child somewhere off in the waste of forest 
 and prairie, until the mother could find no peace 
 except in unreasoning search, and had wandered 
 down the trail of expectancy in the faint hope that 
 the prairies might yield up her little Mas-ki-sis, 
 and living. 
 
 The boy raced down the slope with a whoop of 
 joy. Even the ponderous squaw quickened into an 
 awkward trot when she saw through the old, 
 bleared, strained eyes the darling that she had 
 given up as lost. 
 
 How she crooned, and wept, and laughed, and 
 stroked the black, matted hair, and held in her 
 
 165 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 big, strong arms the little cub; and for a time 
 the evil that had come to Wolf Runner, and the 
 dreary hours that she had sat alone In her tepee, 
 faded from her mind, and she laid her copper 
 cheek against the little face and was happy. 
 
 Presently the mother made a sling of her shawl, 
 just as she had In the old days when Mas-kl-sis 
 was a tiny cub, and told her boy to ride it on her 
 broad back. He laughed; he wasn't tired; but 
 with strong hands she swung him to her shoulder, 
 the twist of the shawl across her forehead, and 
 trudged on. 
 
 Mas-kl-sis humored her for a little, patting the 
 gray-streaked head. When they had gone half 
 a mile he cried that she was hurting him; and 
 when the mother stopped, he slipped to the ground, 
 and, taking her hand, they plodded back to Ver- 
 milion and the lodge that was devoid of Its master. 
 
 There Mas-kl-sis was made into a prince, a 
 mighty chief ; the big leather sack of pemmican was 
 brought forth, and a sustenance for three men 
 chopped from its brick-like holding. And as it 
 melted in the pan, the gentle odor of saskatoon 
 berries tickled the eager hunger of Mas-kl-sis 
 until, unchecked, he chased a morsel with foolish 
 fingers and burnt them. 
 
 And when he was like a ball, or a bear-cub that 
 had harvested without stint the luscious white sll- 
 
 i66 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 vcr berries, he was rolled in a blanket, and Mi- 
 yah-tis listened to his tale of adventure. 
 
 He had grown old in two days, and already had 
 thought out that the man who had stolen the 
 horses was from the way of Fort Donald, and the 
 horseshoe was to find him. 
 
 The eye of Mi-yah-tis flashed at sight of the 
 iron circlet. And her little Otter had, out of wis- 
 dom, preserved this thing. Yes, the thief was 
 surely of the Company's post — they alone in that 
 territory put metal to the feet of their cayuses. 
 From where had come all this wisdom to the little 
 Otter? 
 
 But poor, tired Mas-ki-sis was even then asleep ; 
 and the Ugly One sat and tried to unravel the 
 tangle of happenings that had come into her sim- 
 ple life. Her mind worked with the reluctant 
 vagaries of a Red River cart. Trouble of this 
 sort had been subject for Wolf Runner's solving. 
 She had chopped the wood, and scraped with the 
 strong moose-shank the hides, and tanned them in 
 a lung-choking smoke. She had carried water, 
 and made the fire, and cooked the food. And now 
 the hours and hours of mental strain produced lit- 
 tle out of all the exertion ; Wolf Runner had been 
 taken for another's crime — taken to the post. 
 
 Simply, like the gray light of a breaking day, 
 the thought that she too should go to the post to 
 
 167 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 be near him came to her. Mas-ki-sis knew what 
 the others did not — even Wolf Runner did not 
 know. 
 
 Yes, she would go. This determination rested 
 her mind; she drifted back in contemplation of 
 the bereft misery of the past two nights. 
 
 The dream of the medicine-man at the naming 
 of Mas-ki-sis had been a red-faced goblin. 
 
 The Blood Lilies were blossomed into red lakes 
 out on the prairie ; a hundred times she had peered 
 forth from her tepee in apprehensive expectancy 
 of seeing the moon sullen in red anger. 
 
 Its silvered peace had reassured her. The lame- 
 ness of disaster would not come to Mas-ki-sis even 
 at the time of the Blood Lilies until the red moon 
 fell upon them, as in the medicine-man's dream. 
 
 Besides, Mas-ki-sis, the Lame One, was yet to 
 be a brave. 
 
 The soothing grace of thankfulness lulled to 
 sleep the tired spirit of the Ugly One, and, with 
 an arm across the boy's shoulder, in gentle guard, 
 the two rested side by side. 
 
 i68 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 In the morning Ml-yah-tis went to Calf Shirt 
 and borrowed his cayuse, for in Calf Shirt's tepee 
 was her sister. 
 
 This equine patriarch had been pack-animal for 
 both families for moons since the unlucky day that 
 Wolf Runner's outfit of dogs had essayed close 
 communion with short-tempered muskwa. The 
 bear had utterly demolished Wolf Runner's trans- 
 port department. 
 
 It was noon when the Ugly One reached back 
 to Mas-ki-sis. Then the tepee was struck, a travois 
 made from Its poles, and all the worldly goods that 
 were Wolf Runner's, even the lodge itself, put on 
 the wheelless vehicle, and with the boy atop, the 
 Cree woman, her slow mind still troubling over the 
 crushing problem, drove the languorous cayuse 
 toward Fort Donald. Mas-ki-sis would tell the 
 police ogama all the truth. 
 
 It was easy to know, If one had wisdom such as 
 the ogamas had, when anyone made straight talk, 
 and spoke not with a forked tongue. Also her 
 
 169 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 wise little Otter had the horseshoe. Not any 
 cayusc that Wolf Runner could have got from 
 Calf Shirt would have iron on its hoofs. 
 
 And the police ogama was a servant to the Great 
 White Mother, and was not of the Company; so, 
 when Mas-ki-sis spoke true. Wolf Runner would 
 be given back to her. 
 
 Plodding, plodding in mind and body, hiding 
 the torturing doubts behind a stolid face, the faith- 
 ful of Wolf Runner came to the post that was 
 empty of the man she sought. Only, a mile back 
 on the trail, which was a good place to camp, she 
 left Mas-ki-sis and the cayuse, and went in alone, 
 because of her forest cunning. 
 
 Yes, Wolf Runner had gone with the police 
 ogama to Fort Garry; everybody knew that. 
 Those who spoke of it when the Cree woman lis- 
 tened knew not whom she was, and said perhaps 
 they would hang Wolf Runner, or perhaps he 
 would only be shot. But it was as true as the 
 everlasting continuance of the Company that he 
 would never return. 
 
 Mi-yah-tis went back to Mas-ki-sis, and together 
 they put up the lodge. The Ugly One put some 
 red streamers on willow sticks to keep away the 
 anger of Mah-chee Manitou. 
 
 She did not know because of reading that all 
 things come to them that wait; but she waited, 
 
 170 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 telling no one what Mas-ki-sis knew, nor of the 
 horseshoe. 
 
 Mi-yah-tis had never been in Fort Donald be- 
 fore, so she was known of no one. She was just 
 an old squaw that fished and made moccasins, and 
 perhaps she had a husband who was away with 
 some trading outfit, or perhaps he was dead. Any- 
 way, she was but an old squaw, that would go 
 away presently as unnoticed as she had come. 
 
 Had Malcolm chanced upon Mi-yah-tis he 
 might have recognized her, or he might not. 
 
 Each time the Ugly One came into the post 
 she heard something. Once somebody said, vin- 
 dictively, that if Wolf Runner were hanged or 
 shot it would serve him right. Even if he were 
 not a horse-thief, he was most certainly a fool. 
 Had he not helped the heretical unbelievers against 
 the little priest, and was not the factor a good 
 Catholic, and was he not the sole arbiter of all 
 their fortunes? Was not he also a magistrate, 
 with the redcoats, the police, to do his bidding? 
 What chance, then, had Wolf Runner to escape 
 some ill- fortune after helping in the downfall of 
 Pere Lemoine? 
 
 Many little things that the Ugly One heard 
 confirmed her in the habit of a still tongue. When 
 Wolf Runner, who was a brave, and could speak 
 out, had been bundled away like a snared gopher. 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 what chance for her, a slave of a workwoman, to 
 speak ? 
 
 Was it not true, this saying of her people, the 
 Crees, that all the palefaces spoke with a forked 
 tongue, and had in their hearts only hate for the 
 redmen ? For eight moons Mi-yah-tis had thought 
 with favor of the tall moneas — surely he was an 
 ogama — who had held Wolf Runner from death 
 in the blizzard; and then he had come like a thief 
 with the redcoats and taken little Mas-ki-sis, and 
 next her brave, and left her tepee desolate. 
 
 Long ago, when the Crees had lived under their 
 great chief, Sweet-Grass, one who had trouble 
 would go to him and speak, and the truth would 
 always obtain justice. And the Ugly One had 
 heard that the great White Mother of the pale- 
 faces was like Sweet-Grass. Mi-yah-tis knew that 
 she could not speak with the White Mother; but 
 she had heard her people in the tepees talking that 
 at Fort Garry was the White Mother's husband 
 or brother, or perhaps it was only her son. 
 
 Many days it took the reluctant-working mind 
 of Mi-yah-tis to formulate even a visionary plan. 
 If Mas-ki-sis could tell the true tale of the horse- 
 stealing to the Queen's Minor Chief, who was 
 really the Governor, at Fort Garry, then surely 
 Wolf Runner would be sent back home. 
 
 At first this seemed impossible of attainment; 
 172 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 but gradually, day by day, it came into the Ugly 
 One's understanding that Mas-ki-sis might go on 
 the big fire-canoe to Fort Garry and bring Wolf 
 Runner back. The boy must go alone, it would 
 take so long to earn money for the going of both. 
 
 173 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 As the beaver harvests his poplar-bread for the 
 winter, and with scarcely more of reasoning, the 
 squaw of Wolf Runner accumulated funds for the 
 achieving of this tremendous purpose. She tanned 
 the three moose-skins that had been fresh at the 
 going of her brave, and sold them to Factor Goure- 
 lot; but it was a long round to the realization of 
 coin. From the factor she got nothing but trade; 
 so she took tobacco and silk handkerchiefs, and 
 these were sacrificed at half their value for money 
 to some of the post dw^ellers. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis built a little weir in Otter Creek and 
 caught gold-eye, dore, and jack-fish; and he snared 
 prairie-chicken ; and all these beyond their own eat- 
 ing were given in trade. 
 
 Higher up Otter Creek, where cut banks of blue 
 shale notched its tortuous bed, grew spruce and 
 tamarack; and there wapoos, the hare, had his 
 many run-ways. Here Mas-ki-sis put his cunning 
 snares of deer sinew, that, when loosened by push 
 of silly wapoos's empty head, snatched him high in 
 the air till he strangled to death as though he had 
 
 174 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 been a fierce murderer. On the back of wapoos 
 was the fat of rich autumn feeding; and in the 
 tepee that was devoid of its master the pot was 
 kept forever and ever bubbling, to the end that 
 the little brave might eat and grow strong to the 
 reclamation of his father. 
 
 Early as it was, the fur of wapoos was nearly 
 prime, so Mi-yah-tis sun-tanned the pelts, wove 
 them into a warm robe, and traded it to Factor 
 Gourelot for beads and gaudy silk threads. 
 
 With indescribable industry she worked mocca- 
 sins and fire-bags ; and these, too, won a small pit- 
 tance of currency. 
 
 By the dim light of her poplar-wood fire the 
 Ugly One toiled night after night beading a pair 
 of beautiful moccasins for the boy as he slept. 
 
 It was a quaint little touch of sentiment for one 
 so heavy of face as Mi-yah-tis. He was to know 
 nothing of them until the day of his going; then 
 his pride in their beauty would lighten the sadness 
 of his heart at leaving his mother. 
 
 175 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 While Mas-ki-sis and his mother waited for 
 the steamer, hiding the horseshoe with the jealous 
 care that a white owl takes over its two rounded 
 ^ggs, Joe Descoigne's evil mind began to worry 
 because of this same piece of lost iron. Horse- 
 shoes were not so plentiful but that if one were 
 found near the scene of the horse-stealing talk 
 might arise. 
 
 At last his fears goaded him into a journey over 
 the trail in quest of the missing shoe. There was 
 just a small chance that he might happen upon it; 
 if an Indian had found it a plug of tobacco would 
 induce him to part with his treasure. At any rate, 
 a day in the saddle was nothing; so he rode his 
 blue roan in the footsteps he had taken the time 
 of the horse-stealing; but there was only the ever- 
 lasting spread of tawny grass, devoid of the thing 
 he sought. 
 
 The quest seemed so utterly hopeless, that Des- 
 coigne, after he had ridden a few hours, turned in 
 the trail and made his way back to Fort Donald. 
 
 As he forded Otter Creek he saw a tepee. Per- 
 176 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 haps it contained an Indian who had just come 
 over the trail, and might have picked up the miss- 
 ing shoe. 
 
 He turned aside to the lodge, and calling at the 
 door "Ho, nichle!'' put his head through the 
 loose flap, not knowing the Indian woman as 
 Wolf Runner's squaw. 
 
 Bringing forth his tobacco, he filled his pipe 
 and passed the plug over to the Cree woman ; and 
 all the time he was furtively searching every nook 
 and corner of the lodge for the horseshoe. 
 
 As they smoked, Mi-yah-tis was exploring the 
 visitor's face for the familiar something that told 
 her she had seen him before. 
 
 Suddenly she remembered; a little catch In his 
 voice brought It all back; he was Joe Descolgne, 
 who had talked to Wolf Runner outside the tepee 
 at Vermilion. 
 
 Yes, she had come from the way of Vermilion, 
 the Ugly One said. In answer to Descoigne's 
 query. No, her cayuse did not wear the Iron shoes ; 
 for the Frenchman, with subtle strategy, was com- 
 plaining that his horse was lame because there 
 were no shoes In Fort Donald, neither good Iron 
 to make them. If she had two, or even one, he 
 would give her much in trade for It — even If she 
 had found an old one on the trail he would buy it. 
 
 At this Ml-yah-tls's heavy-browed eyes blinked 
 177 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 with a sudden startling of thought. Her slow 
 mind had seen nothing in the visitor's first request; 
 now she knew. She felt like rushing to the hiding- 
 place of Mas-ki-sis's iron clew to see if it were safe. 
 Did this man, who being of Fort Donald was an 
 enemy to Wolf Runner, know of their treasured 
 possession ? 
 
 Little Mas-ki-sis, coming up the path from the 
 rabbit-runs in the creek flats, heard a strange voice 
 as he reached the back of the lodge. He stopped 
 and listened. Had his father. Wolf Runner, come 
 back? 
 
 It was just then that Descolgne spoke of finding 
 a horseshoe. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis's ear had been tutored to a fine dis- 
 crimination in sounds; the rustle of a leaf, the whis- 
 pering of the wind, the call of an animal were all 
 translatable messages to him; so, when the man's 
 voice filtered through the tepee-wall he knew It 
 was the same that had threatened him with death 
 at the horse-stealing. 
 
 He crouched in the silver-leafed wolf-willow 
 and waited for the stranger's going. Presently 
 Descolgne, convinced that the iron he sought had 
 not been found, came from the tepee, mounted his 
 blue roan, and rode away. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis, hugging the earth, wormed his small 
 body to a spot whence he could watch the fa- 
 
 178 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 mlllar-volced man. Yes, surely it was the same 
 who had held him as they walked to the horses 
 that night. Yes, that was the way the horse-thief 
 sat the saddle — riding with one long stirrup, his 
 body tilted to the left, and an arm held high in 
 balance. 
 
 Many men rode that way, but not just that way; 
 there was a something he could swear to, as he 
 could tell the rolling gait of one bear from an- 
 other. 
 
 When the horseman had dipped over the hill 
 rising out of Otter Creek the boy went in to Mi- 
 yah-tis and told her what he had discovered. 
 
 " Yes, it is true, little Otter," the Ugly One 
 answered. " Now you can tell the White Mother's 
 Chief, who is at Fort Garry, that Joe Descoigne 
 stole the horses." 
 
 "Will the White Chief believe the story of 
 Mas-ki-sis?" the boy asked. 
 
 " The great White Mother loves her Indian 
 children, and the Chief, who is at Fort Garry, is 
 her husband, or perhaps it is only her son ; and he 
 is a great chief, and will know whether it is lies 
 or truth when Mas-ki-sis tells him of Joe Des- 
 coigne and the horse-stealing. Yes, little Otter, 
 it is good you go to Wolf Runner. I have spoken 
 of the ways of the big fire-canoe, and anyone can 
 go by giving the canoe ogama this money that 
 
 179 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 they use to make trade. You will not be afraid, 
 little Otter; you will be Mi-yah-tis's brave? '* 
 
 " I will be a little afraid," Mas-ki-sis answered; 
 " afraid of the fire-canoe, for does it not make a 
 howl fiercer than any wolf, mother? Yes, Mas- 
 ki-sis will be a little afraid; but am I not to bring 
 Wolf Runner back, and will I not then be like a 
 brave?" 
 
 " Yes," continued Mi-yah-tis, " it will not profit 
 to speak of the iron here, for there is not one pale- 
 face that is a friend to Wolf Runner. Even the 
 one who is big and strong, like a great chief, and 
 whose eyes were the color of little spring flowers 
 that dwell in bunches — " 
 
 " That held me in his arms in the snow, 
 mother?" queried Mas-ki-sis. *' Bull Moose I 
 call him." 
 
 " Yes, that moneas. And did not Wolf Runner 
 become as a dog in the harness of his sled that he 
 might reach to the fort in defeat of the little father? 
 And did not he, your bull moose, bring the police 
 and take Wolf Runner from his tepee ? They are 
 all evil, little Otter, and if they know we have the 
 horseshoe they will take it, and Wolf Runner will 
 come back no more." 
 
 i8o 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 Malcolm took a journey after the stolen 
 horses. Word had come that they were at Horse 
 Hills, which is the Mecca of all wandering cayuses ; 
 though the why for man knows not; some saying 
 that a grass grows there sweet as that in the horse's 
 heaven, and others holding to the belief that it is 
 a flyless spot; but certain it is, that in the equine 
 brotherhood these hills are of established repute. 
 
 Also Malcolm was admonished of big Sandy to 
 visit the tepee of Wolf Runner to see if the boy 
 had been found. And on the back of a pack-horse 
 he carried a gift of bacon and tea for the woman 
 of Wolf Runner. Besides, there was the other 
 mission of which Sandy spoke to no one but Mal- 
 colm ; he was to search for a horseshoe that might 
 mate the one the father had purloined from the 
 little shop of Felix Benoit, for Cameron had found 
 in the blacksmith's shop the shoe he had surmised 
 had been taken from Descoigne's blue roan. 
 
 Malcolm brought back the horses, and the in- 
 formation that Wolf Runner's squaw had struck 
 her lodge and gone away. 
 
 One day, as Mi-yah-tis was ladling the for- 
 i8i 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 ever-and-ever rabbit-stew from the big pot into a 
 wooden bowl that Mas-ki-sis held in his little hands, 
 the hoarse snort of the steamer's whistle startled 
 her so that she let a portion of the bubbling hquid 
 glaze her boy's hand. 
 
 Quick, quick, it was the fire-canoe ! No time to 
 eat. And yet, stay, her little Otter must not go 
 hungry ; perhaps nobody would offer him food till 
 he came to the presence of the White Mother's 
 son. 
 
 Even the boy's appetite, always present, was 
 gone, frightened away by the shrill call that was at 
 Fort Donald. 
 
 " Eat, my little Otter, eat, eat," the Cree 
 woman crooned, as she made ready his wardrobe ; 
 which was a jacket, and the beautiful white and 
 blue beaded moccasins with the triangle design 
 and the little geometric squares — always four in a 
 line — such beautiful moccasins as had never been 
 seen. But not to put on just then; the mother 
 would carry them wrapped in her head-shawl, and 
 when they were come to the fire-canoe Mas-ki-sis 
 would put them on, and nobody would have such 
 beautiful moccasins as Wolf Runner's little boy. 
 Even the great White Chief at Fort Garry would 
 not have more splendid footwear. He would 
 surely be pleased with little Mas-ki-sis when he 
 saw the moccasins, and the horseshoe, and heard 
 
 183 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 the true story. Then they would not hang the 
 father — or perhaps he was only to be shot — but 
 would send him back to his lodge, and they would 
 all return to Vermilion and give to their friends 
 a tea-dance. See, there in a little casette Mi-yah- 
 tis was already saving up tea out of the trade. 
 
 When the mother unwound many yards of 
 cloth, and held in her big strong hand the dainty 
 creation, the art thing in blue and white and 
 green, that seemed impossible of such coarse 
 fingers, Mas-ki-sis shouted for joy. Then he 
 kissed the heavy face — on the forehead, and the 
 labor-dimmed eyes, and the thick lips. 
 
 Would she bring the cayuse for Mas-ki-sis to 
 ride? No? Well, come little Otter; and to- 
 gether, hand in hand, as they had trudged that 
 other time, the broad-backed squaw and the little 
 Indian boy took up the pilgrimage that led to the 
 shrine of justice that was the great White Mother's 
 officer at Fort Garry. 
 
 183 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 Bruce, the minister, was on the "Saskatoon." 
 He had come down the river from the west on 
 his way to Winnipeg. 
 
 Sandy Cameron had gone aboard to talk with 
 him, begging that something might be done for 
 Wolf Runner; for in the Scot's belief he was inno- 
 cent. He was sure Descoigne was at the bottom 
 of the horse-stealing, and spoke of the blue roan's 
 missing shoe and the one he had in his possession. 
 
 Sandy had said good-by, and Bruce, looking over 
 the rail, saw a heavy-faced squaw of generous size 
 on the clay bank near the gang-plank gazing wist- 
 fully at the huge structure. Beside her stood a 
 little Indian lad. There was nothing in the indi- 
 viduality of the squaw to arrest his attention; it was 
 the moccasins that clad the boy's feet that caught 
 the minister's eye. There was something pathet- 
 ically incongruous in the sudden termination of 
 ragged clothes, cut off, as it were, separated from 
 the brown earth, by the dainty art dream of blend- 
 ed blue and white and green beads. 
 
 Bruce had inherited something of the barbaric 
 184 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 art instinct that had caused his forefathers to 
 evolve the Scotch tartans; also was he not for- 
 ever and ever each day of his life trying to arrest 
 in the minds of his nomadic charges just this sort 
 of inconsistent prodigality? How like an Indian 
 it was I Why did not the little lad go barefooted, 
 and the mother put the value of the moccasins on 
 his back in warm clothing ? Probably he was even 
 half-starved; he was certainly of an unreasoning 
 thinness ; and yet, there he stood in the soiling mud 
 of the river-bank, his feet encased in gaudy cover- 
 ing that Bruce himself would gladly have pur- 
 chased. 
 
 The minister had never seen quite such deli- 
 cately treated bead-work — certainly not on the 
 feet of a boy. Away to the south the Bloods and 
 Peigans worked their beads like that, but all he 
 had seen in the north had been crude In com- 
 parison. 
 
 As Bruce gazed upon the old squaw and the lit- 
 tle boy, his heart full of an angry reproach be- 
 cause of her thriftless attention to display, a les- 
 son came to him with the articulate force of two 
 words that for ages have come down in crushing 
 denunciation : " Thou Fool ! " 
 
 There was a warning toot of the whistle, three 
 deck-hands ran over the gang-plank to loosen the 
 hawsers, and just then the Cree woman, that was 
 
 185 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 wife to Wolf Runner, threw her big strong arms 
 around the little lad, that was Mas-ki-sis, and 
 folded him to her broad breast as though she 
 would keep her little Otter there forever and 
 ever; and down the wrinkled face, with its massive 
 jaws, trickled rivulets of tears, and the boy's 
 breath came in gasps, as though he swung, 
 thorn-held, in the torture-circle of the Sun- 
 Dance. 
 
 Then the big arms swung pendulous, and Mas- 
 ki-sis stole up the gang-plank like a frightened 
 hare. The tableau taught the wise man who was 
 Bruce all the wondrousness of the parting gift of 
 the little moccasins. All the mother had to give; 
 the self-denial to buy the beads; the patient toil 
 that at the end it might be all-beautiful; and the 
 aftermath, the tug at her heart-strings and the 
 tears. 
 
 Where the boy was going did not matter, he 
 was going away — that was all in all to the 
 mother. 
 
 Bruce lost himself for a minute in mental con- 
 templation of the shattered fabric of his wise re- 
 vilings. He was wakened by the bustle of some- 
 body passing over the gang-plank, and the voice of 
 Captain Ball exclaiming: "Them damn nichies 
 make me tired! What does the ould squaw want? 
 Does she think Winnipeg's round the first bend? '* 
 
 i86 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 And the boy with the moccasins was being driven 
 ashore. 
 
 Bruce ran up the steps to Captain Ball, who was 
 near the pilot-house. 
 
 " What's the matter? " he asked. 
 
 " That ould she-wolf of a nichie sendin' that 
 kid aboord wit' half the price av his ticket to Win- 
 nipeg — that's what's the matter, sor." 
 
 " Couldn't you take him on?" asked the min- 
 ister. 
 
 " To starve is it? " queried Ball, half-angrily. 
 
 " Whose bairn is it — ^where's he going? " asked 
 the minister. 
 
 *' Faith the divil — I mane, beggin' your par- 
 don, the Lord knows, an' he won't tell, nayther 
 will the kid." 
 
 " Just hold her for a minute, Captain; I'll away 
 down and have a talk with the squaw." 
 
 " It's all up," moaned Ball, in comic despair; 
 " th' ould hag'll jest kid the preacher, he's that 
 soft-hearted. An' if the rat wants to go to New 
 York, Bruce'll send him." 
 
 The Scotch minister went over the gang-plank 
 with energetic stride. 
 
 "What is it, nichie?" he said in Cree to the 
 squaw. 
 
 As she raised her massive face, in which the 
 small, yellow-tinged eyes looked insufficient, Bruce 
 
 187 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 started, took a step forward, and, peering sharply 
 at her, exclaimed: '^ You — you are wife to Wolf 
 Runner — you are of his lodge? '* 
 
 The impassive, expressionless face answered 
 nothing at all, either in word or look. 
 
 " I say you are of Wolf Runner's lodge," re- 
 peated Bruce, almost crossly; " do you not hear? '* 
 Then softening, " Did you not make the hot soup 
 for me when I was starved with the cold, good 
 woman? " 
 
 The small eyes blinked like a turtle's. 
 
 "And am I not your friend? Come, tell me, 
 what's the trouble ? Will the boy be going to his 
 father? If it is so, my poor woman, I will take 
 him and bring him back again." 
 
 Still the Cree woman, first of all a suspicious 
 Indian, gave no sign of confidence. Was not the 
 speaker a paleface, friend to the moneas that had 
 betrayed Wolf Runner? But Mas-ki-sis was a 
 boy, and children, like animals, know their friends 
 out of intuition, and he, speaking to his mother, 
 said: " I am the son of Wolf Runner, who is a 
 brave; neither did he steal the horses. I will be 
 a brave, even as Wolf Runner is. Mas-ki-sis will 
 go with the ogama to Wolf Runner. The ogama 
 speaks not with a forked tongue, mother, for he, 
 too, saved me when I was dead with cold. Yes, 
 Mas-ki-sis will go." 
 
 i88 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 He held up his face, full of its brave confidence, 
 and the mother, saying nothing, kissed him, and 
 the little bead eyes were blurred out of all dis- 
 cerning. 
 
 " Now, Ogama," the boy said, grasping the 
 Bruce's coat in his fingers, " Mas-ki-sis is ready. 
 You will take him to Wolf Runner, who did not 
 steal the horses." 
 
 " What did I say? " cried Captain Ball, as the 
 two came up the gang-plank. " The minister is 
 a tenderfoot for these worthless divils av nichics. 
 Cast off there, ye lubbers! " — Ball had been cap- 
 tain of a tug in New Brunswick — " take charge, 
 Pilot! Damn the nichies! " 
 
 Then to himself he muttered, for his heart was 
 really of an Irish softness, and he had heard Bruce 
 say it was Wolf Runner's boy: "Sure, if Fd 
 knowed the little divil was an orphan, wit' his 
 father in jail, Td a took him mesilf." 
 
 Then the ponderous sturgeon-nosed steamer, 
 with the full dignity of one of the great Company's 
 possessions, glided down the Saskatchewan to 
 Grand Rapids. 
 
 189 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 The Cree woman grew more hopelessly 
 drooped and squat as the steamer slipped down 
 the rapid river. Even after it had rounded the 
 point and disappeared, she still stood there soli- 
 tary and alone, as though some faint hope clung to 
 her that it might put about and return. 
 
 Nobody in the world had ever felt quite so alone 
 as she did. When Wolf Runner had been taken 
 away, there was still Mas-ki-sis ; now he was gone, 
 and there was no one. 
 
 Without speaking to anyone, without looking to 
 right or left, with her head low hung, she plodded 
 back to the tepee that was like the willow-bluff at 
 Vermilion where they put their dead high on pole 
 platforms. What she was to do she did not know; 
 she had not even thought of herself up to that 
 time; her one idea had been that little Mas-ki-sis 
 must go with the horseshoe and bring Wolf Run- 
 ner back. 
 
 For a day she sat in her lodge crooning a song 
 of pity to Manitou. Once she went out and put 
 more red cloth on the willows to propitiate the 
 
 190 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 wicked spirits. But everywhere there were mem- 
 ories of Mas-ki-sis. There the little run-way he 
 had come up by from the small tamarack muskeg 
 that was the home of wapoos; and in the bank of 
 the creek there were prints of his fingers where he 
 had dug soft clay to make balls for his willow- 
 withe sling. 
 
 And his fish-weir just below the tepee — it was 
 now full of suckers, that swarmed to the shallow 
 water of the creek's side, eating the myriad black- 
 bugs that came always every autumn. 
 
 Mi-yah-tis broke the weir, and the shoal of fool- 
 ish suckers splashed away in affright, as though 
 they escaped one who sought their flesh, that was 
 now worthless in its softness. 
 
 On the smooth earthen floor of the lodge was a 
 little pyramid of antelope knuckle-boncs — Mas-ki- 
 sis's jack-stones. Just there the lad used to sit and 
 play jack-stones with her. Yes, even she, the No- 
 kum, had played with him as though she were a 
 girl. 
 
 The mother gathered up the rude bone play- 
 things and rubbed them against her cheek, then 
 she put them carefully away with the tea that was 
 for the tea-dance at the home-coming of her brave. 
 
 And the old moccasins of the little boy — almost 
 soleless through wear! How glad she was that 
 she had made the new ones so beautiful. But the 
 
 191 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 discarded moccasins, beyond value for use, were 
 precious because Mas-ki-sis had run and laughed 
 and gambolled in them, so they, too, were made of 
 the treasure-hoard. 
 
 Presently the mother stopped in wonderment at 
 her occupation ; instinctively she was packing up — 
 most certainly she was. Her poor tortured spirit 
 was crying out like a caged bird for return to Ver- 
 milion, to the home that had been hers with Wolf 
 Runner and Mas-ki-sis. It was a good thought. 
 In the morning she would take the cayuse and 
 travois to Vermilion. She must take the horse 
 back to Calf Shirt — she had not meant to keep 
 it so long. She would wait at Vermilion for the 
 coming of Wolf Runner, for the trail from Fort 
 Garry came near to that place. 
 
 While the Cree woman's mind was filled with 
 the tremendous responsibility of gathering to- 
 gether the few things that were the household 
 gods of the father, and the little boy, and herself, 
 the loneliness that was in her heart was subdued; 
 but by and by, in the hours when wapoos scurries 
 over the run-ways, and the owl blinks with solemn 
 satisfaction on the darkened earth, she rested, 
 bereft of toil, and Misery came and sat at the fire- 
 side, and mocked her till she cried aloud in anguish 
 after the foolish manner of Indian women who 
 love their children more than sleep. Her wail 
 
 192 
 
Her wail was like that of a she-wolf. 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 was like that of a she-wolf's, hideous in its dis- 
 cordant lack of control. The barbaric lament 
 wandered up the spruce forest that filled the val- 
 ley of Otter Creek, and started a pack of ever- 
 ready coyotes into vociferous echo. 
 
 Even to Fort Donald the night-wind carried the 
 pibroch of these prairie-wolves, and the train-dogs 
 howled back a derisive challenge, till the dwellers 
 relapsed from all hope of sleep. The vibrant pain 
 in the pagan heart of an old squaw had spread its 
 troubled influence over the beasts of the forest and 
 the men of the town. Such is the force of animate 
 sympathy. Surely the dirge of little Mas-ki-sis's 
 going was of extent, and equal unto his endeavor. 
 
 193 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 On the steamer Minister Bruce sought to draw 
 the little Indian waif out of his shy timidity. In 
 the tepee of his mother he had been brave enough 
 at thought of the pilgrimage to his father; but 
 now, listening to the fierce throb of the giant 
 wheel, the harsh commands of the pilot, the swirl 
 of rushing rapids; seeing a cordon of white faces 
 close-drawn about him, and set in the white faces 
 eyes that peered at him as though they would dis- 
 cover his secret — see beneath his cloth jacket and 
 thin print shirt the worn iron shoe that hung from 
 his neck by a cord of shaganappi, he became as shy 
 as a trapped fox-cub. Even with Bruce he was not 
 communicative. Had he not promised his mother 
 that only to the Great Ogama at Fort Garry would 
 he tell the name of the horse-thief — only to him 
 would he show the evidence that no one could 
 doubt? Yet he trusted this friend; his mother had 
 said that all the palefaces spoke lies, but that was 
 because she did not know this ogama who had 
 saved him from death in the blizzard, and was 
 taking him to Wolf Runner when the others had 
 driven him from the fire-canoe. 
 
 194 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 But Ml-yah-tis was wise; she was old, and wis- 
 dom came only with age, and he would hold true 
 to her commands. He would say nothing of the 
 horseshoe, even to this white man who was his 
 friend. 
 
 But Bruce learned from the boy that he meant 
 to find his father and go with him to the Governor 
 to tell the Big Chief that Wolf Runner did not 
 steal the horses. 
 
 The minister knew the Indian would be in 
 Stony Mountain jail, a dozen miles from Winni- 
 peg, so the boy's hopes were impossible of attain- 
 ment. But he would himself take Mas-ki-sis to the 
 Governor, for it was this official the squaw had 
 conjured into a son or husband of the Great White 
 Mother. 
 
 At Winnipeg Bruce had the boy lodged in com- 
 fort, and, having secured an audience with the 
 Governor, took little Mas-ki-sis before the great 
 official. 
 
 The minister acted as interpreter, for the Gov- 
 ernor was not versed in Cree. This seemed a di- 
 rect intercession of Providence, for it gave the lad 
 confidence, and he told his story to Bruce with a 
 simple directness that carried conviction beyond 
 the possibility of the most powerful eloquence. It 
 was just as the Cree woman had named it, the true 
 tale of the horse-stealing. 
 
 195 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 When Mas-ki-sis came in his narrative to the 
 finding of the horseshoe, and brought it forth 
 from beneath his jacket, Bruce cried out in aston- 
 ishment, for he knew big Sandy had the other link 
 in this peculiar chain of evidence. And when the 
 Governor had this collateral from the minister's 
 lips, he was convinced beyond doubt. 
 
 Strangely enough, the beautiful moccasins had 
 appealed to him. Once he had spoken in a lull of 
 the talk, and asked of their origin. " Mi-yah-tis, 
 who is Mas-ki-sis's mother, made them," the boy 
 answered ; and the Governor, speaking to Minister 
 Bruce, said: "People who love such beautiful 
 things as these can't be all bad. People who are 
 horse-thieves and depraved are beyond the power 
 of art. The boy must have a good mother; nor 
 does he speak as though he lived in an atmosphere 
 of lies." 
 
 Also Bruce told of the bhzzard, and how Wolf 
 Runner had cast himself into the dog harness, out 
 of gratitude, and hung true to them even to the 
 gates of Fort Donald. Perhaps that was why 
 Joe Descoigne, out of revenge, had sought to 
 throw all the villany upon the Indian's friendless 
 head. 
 
 The Governor had a son of the age of Mas-ki- 
 sis, and though in justice that should have had no 
 bearing on the case, perhaps it did intrude the 
 
 196 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 father into what should have been a stern, inexor- 
 able administrator of the law. 
 
 At any rate, Wolf Runner was brought under 
 guard the next day from Stony Mountain jail and 
 questioned. If Bruce had not been there he might 
 have preserved the sullen silence with which he had 
 suffered for the crime of someone else; but when 
 the minister told him he was there as a friend to 
 set him free, he spoke. 
 
 Was not he the wronged one ? As he tracked a 
 bull-moose in the forest, had not the redcoats 
 come and stolen away his little Mas-ki-sis — his 
 son, whom he loved even as the white men loved 
 their children; had not the mother wept, and 
 moaned, and cried that her little Otter was dead ? 
 And then the police had come back without the 
 boy, speaking the silly lie that he had stolen their 
 horses. Then they had taken him from his lodge, 
 and cast him into the prison at Stony Mountain, 
 even as the Company had always done with trap- 
 pers who traded not with them. 
 
 When Wolf Runner had ceased speaking, the 
 Governor, turning to his orderly, said: " Bring in 
 Mas-ki-sis, the little boy with the beautiful moc- 
 casins." 
 
 And when the lad was brought and led to Wolf 
 Runner, the Governor, and Bruce, the minister, 
 even the orderly, who was a sinful soldier, must 
 
 197 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 needs turn their backs and busy themselves with 
 some little matter that could not wait another in- 
 stant. The Governor's nose needed a furious 
 blowing — a persistent attention of handkerchief; 
 even a sudden cold got into his eyes and watered 
 them. It was something in the street that called 
 Minister Bruce to the window — such an engrossing 
 something. And where the man who had been 
 thought a horse-thief stood, there was a noise as 
 though a tigress had found her lost cub. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis whispered to Wolf Runner that it was 
 the minister ogama who had brought him, the 
 ogama beside whom Wolf Runner had lain the cold 
 night of the blizzard. 
 
 When Bruce turned from the window, because 
 the Governor had coughed three times, the Indian 
 held out his hand and said: " My people say that 
 Manitou made all the gray-eyed palefaces with 
 forked tongues and bad hearts, but that is a 
 lie." 
 
 Bruce took the Indian's hand in his own big 
 Scotch paw, and the Governor coughed again, nod- 
 ding his head in approbation. 
 
 But the accused man must remain under guard 
 for a little yet, for there was the sending to Fort 
 Donald of a police patrol to bring down big Sandy 
 with his horseshoe, and Joe Descoigne with irons 
 of a different shape on his wrists — even the blue 
 
 198 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 roan of Descoigne's must be brought, that the 
 shoes might be fitted and the evidence completed. 
 And when all this was done, the Frenchman, 
 who was the true horse-thief, went to Stony Moun- 
 tain for three years, and Wolf Runner was to go 
 back with Bruce to the heavy-faced squaw who 
 waited in the empty lodge at Vermilion. 
 
 199 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 Governor Hodge had the Englishman's faith 
 that a boy untutored of masters was of little use 
 in the world; white, red, or black, what mattered 
 the color — education was the thing. His own off- 
 spring, who was the age of Mas-ki-sis, was then 
 at Harrow, in England, receiving allopathic doses 
 of instruction. 
 
 The beautiful blue and white moccasins of 
 Wolf Runner's son somehow instilled into the 
 Governor's mind an idea of violent incongruity be- 
 tween their wearer and an untutored life in the 
 forest. Mas-ki-sis most certainly ought to be edu- 
 cated in a knowledge of the white man's lore. 
 So, before the Reverend Bruce left Winnipeg, the 
 Queen's Executive discussed with him the same 
 matter. 
 
 The minister was not so sure that it would be a 
 good thing for Mas-ki-sis. He had a huge under- 
 standing of things, had the Scotchman. In his 
 mind lurked many quaint, not altogether definitely 
 perfected ideas that the Lord, in His creative wis- 
 dom, had formed all objects, animate and inani- 
 
 200 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 mate, to a preconceived end; his experience had 
 taught him that the farther removed the Indian 
 was from the white man, the happier and better 
 he was. 
 
 This was somewhat anomalous, considering his 
 own mission, and seemed to cast a distinct reflec- 
 tion of uselessness upon the crusade of his Church. 
 But, in reality, Bruce held this view only as re- 
 lating to the forest Indians ; there was still a wide 
 field of endeavor for him. The half-breeds and 
 Company's Indians, who, by virtue of their occu- 
 pation, were always subject to the contaminating 
 influence of the white man, with his whiskey and 
 his diseases and his immorality, was a field populous 
 enough, needful enough of moral supervision from 
 the Church. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis was undoubtedly a pure-blood Indian, 
 and in the Bruce's mind it was a question whether 
 he would not be better left to his Manitou wor- 
 ship and the forest life that would at least bring 
 him to a physical manhood. But the Scot's priest- 
 hood forbade him putting it strongly to the Gov- 
 ernor in this light; it would be like turning away 
 a soul from its chance of salvation. At least it 
 would appeal in that way to Governor Hodge, 
 who was strong on questions of Church infallibility 
 and the utility of civilized training. In fact, the 
 Governor was a forceful man, unaccustomed to 
 
 201 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 being crossed. He had taken an unusual liking to 
 the Indian boy — had already determined to better 
 his condition. Of course, that meant that the bet- 
 terment would be along lines of his own conception. 
 
 The English Governor knew nothing of the 
 world of simple love which filled the heavy-faced 
 Cree woman's heart at Vermilion. Even if he had 
 known, it is not likely he would have allowed crude 
 sentiment of that sort to deflect the manifest des- 
 tiny of the surprisingly bright boy. 
 
 " We'll put Mas-ki-sis to school at St. John's," 
 he said to the Bruce — and he spoke not in a tone of 
 consultation — " and, if I mistake not, the boy will 
 yet make a strong lieutenant to the Good Cause. 
 We'll make a Christian of the little pagan; and 
 he will go back to his own people and save many a 
 soul." 
 
 " I'm afraid it will go hard with Wolf Runner, 
 Your Excellency; he's much attached to the lad. I 
 hardly think he'll consent." 
 
 The Governor smiled in amusement; this sim- 
 ple-minded Scotchman spoke as though it were a 
 matter between two Indians. He was there as 
 Governor to these children of the plains, and to de- 
 cide what was best for them ; he stood in the shoes 
 of their great White Mother. 
 
 But the official was also a diplomat, not given 
 to useless expressions calculated to wound any 
 
 202 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 man's sensibilities; so he answered with evident 
 sincerity: "Yes, yes — of course, of course; we 
 must win over the father — we must explain to him 
 fully that it is for the boy's good. These simple 
 tepee dwellers have really a very keen worldly 
 sense, and we might give Wolf Runner a hint — 
 they are quick to resentment, childishly so — just a 
 hint, that, with his son in our protection, his own 
 outlook will be better." 
 
 " Yes," concurred the minister, " we must send 
 Wolf Runner back satisfied. The boy's mother 
 is eating her old heart out for the lad, I'm 
 afraid." 
 
 Governor Hodge arched his eyebrows slightly, 
 and stole a furtive look at the other's face. Did 
 the Scotchman really believe this sort of thing? It 
 seemed an idea of extreme grotesqueness that an 
 Indian, or even more so, a squaw, should have a 
 troubled heart over anything but food or work or 
 killing. 
 
 The dissimilarity of belief of which the two men 
 were possessed was entirely of environment. Gov- 
 ernor Hodge knew his Indians out of literature; 
 while Bruce had broken bread with them, had 
 slept by the same camp-fire, and had read a little in 
 their hearts. His knowledge, perhaps, was great- 
 er; but the other's authority was supreme. So the 
 Governor's way was the way. Mas-ki-sis remained 
 
 203 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 at school in St. John's, and Wolf Runner went baclc 
 with the Bruce to Vermilion. 
 
 The Indian's heart was heavy over parting with 
 the boy; but had not the Governor loosed him 
 from a living death, sent him back to his Mi-yah- 
 tis and his forest-life? Surely that was some- 
 thing. 
 
 And w^hen they came to Vermilion, to the lonely 
 Cree woman waiting in the skin tepee, it had all to 
 be talked over and made soft to her understanding, 
 and the goodness of the White Mother's agent en- 
 larged upon. 
 
 And she, though in her heart was the wail of 
 Hagar, took comfort and strength, because Bruce 
 Ogama, who had twice saved Wolf Runner, and 
 had also warmed Mas-ki-sis in the death-snow, said 
 it was good. Also Wolf Runner was satisfied, so 
 what mattered her loneliness? All her life she had 
 lived in an atmosphere saturated with the prepon- 
 derating man interest. It was an occasion such as 
 the making of a brave — to be withstood without 
 lament. 
 
 Bruce arranged it that Wolf Runner was given 
 employment at Fort Donald. 
 
 That Mas-ki-sis had come into the Governor's 
 favor had effect even with the factor; also, in the 
 way of reparation, something was due to the 
 Indian. 
 
 204 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 In addition, because of the happening to Des- 
 colgne, Wolf Runner was given, with voluminous 
 unstint, a full measure of silent hatred by Felix 
 Benolt and the adherents of Descolgne. 
 
 The Indian drove dogs for the factor, packed 
 furs, and ranged the forest for fresh meat. He 
 and Ml-yah-tis lived In their tepee on the squaw's 
 old camping-ground at Otter Creek. 
 
 With the peculiar nomadic Instinct that Is pos- 
 sessed of the red man, several families had mi- 
 grated from Fort Donald proper to Otter Creek, 
 and the place had attained to the glory of an 
 Indian village. 
 
 All through the winter the Cree woman nursed 
 her loneliness, and fulfilled the mission of her life, 
 which was work. In the little poplar bluff that 
 had been swept by fire till the slim, straight-grow- 
 ing aspens stood barkless and silver-white in the 
 dry air, she cut billets of wood for the camp-fire. 
 She took Mas-kl-sls's rabbit-snares and set them In 
 the old run-ways he had known in the autumn, and 
 brought meat to the larder of her lord. 
 
 When he had satisfied the hunger, which was 
 like unto that of a cormorant, with the rabbit sad- 
 dle, or the breast of a bird, or whatever else was 
 choice and sweet to the tooth, she, too, would, from 
 the rejected, take sustenance, that her strength 
 might remain for the work. 
 
 205 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Outwardly, her life was as aesthetic as the ex- 
 istence of a ground-hog; inwardly, humanly, deep- 
 guarded by an exterior of heavy-faced restraint, 
 her poor old heart talked incessantly of Mas-ki-sis, 
 and strove with crude incapacity to picture him in 
 the school of the ogamas. 
 
 Sometimes, when Wolf Runner was away, she 
 would bring forth the antelope knuckle-bones, and, 
 squatted on the earth-floor, play " jack-stones " 
 with a fancy-created Mas-ki-sis; chide him when, 
 because of some trick of his, she would lose one of 
 the yellow bones. Sometimes she laughed at him 
 and called him pet names; her little Otter — her 
 sleek, fat little Otter. Then the bones would 
 be put away; and, with her red-stone pipe filled 
 with tobacco and kinnikinick, the dried inner bark 
 of the red willow, she would sit and smoke, and 
 talk to Mas-ki-sis, who was at her side; perhaps, 
 even, she could feel his little fingers warm and soft 
 in her own big gnarled hand, that was horn-crusted 
 because of the axe-handle, and the skin-scraping 
 moose-bone. 
 
 She had an art-treasure, a cabinet of rare an- 
 tiques, a little wooden cassette filled with all that 
 had belonged to Mas-ki-sis. His blow-pipe, a hol- 
 lowed alder; his horse-hair snares; his snake-stick; 
 his little snow-shoes; the willow bow with the 
 feathered arrows; a horse-hair fish-line, with bent 
 
 20$ 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 nail for hook; even the old moccasins, made sa- 
 cred by the holes his eager toes had worn: all 
 these were in the cassette, to be overhauled every 
 day of the long winter. 
 
 The Cree mother even made a little manikin 
 from birch-bark, a marionette Mas-ki-sis — a min- 
 iature embodiment of her heart's delight. And 
 because of this harmless toy, which was noth- 
 ing, a tragic happening came down the trail 
 of Fate and lodged in the tepee of Wolf Run- 
 ner. 
 
 In Otter Creek village was the medicine-no- 
 kum, Nistas. She was mother to the wife of 
 Felix Benoit. Now the Evil One has no juris- 
 diction in any community unless he acquires a hu- 
 man agent; and years before — it was at the time 
 of the nokum's birth — the Devil, casting about 
 for a naturally endowed worker, chanced upon 
 Nistas. 
 
 In semblance to humanity her beauty was on a 
 par with that of Mi-yah-tis — she was just as ugly; 
 but inwardly, in all of Dante's Inferno, there were 
 not two spirits more unlike. 
 
 The first manifestation of Nistas's activity was 
 conjugal trouble. 
 
 Now, there is this in truth in an Indian's manner 
 of life: if anything happens, for good or for evil, 
 it is of medicine-making, and of the interference of 
 
 207 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 spirits. Natural causes and hygienic punishments 
 are beyond the pale of his understanding. 
 
 So, when Baptiste Lerocq, the half-breed, dis- 
 covered that his wife was absent-minded, to say 
 the least, in her affection, he declared that some- 
 body had made medicine against him — had cast a 
 spell over Suzette until she preferred David 
 Monkman, whose neck he could most certainly 
 twist — a Monkman was no man at all. But in- 
 stead of twisting the favored one's neck, Lerocq 
 sought for the instigator of his matrimonial trou- 
 bles — the one who made medicine against him and 
 his household. 
 
 Mischief, or the rumor of it, always propagates 
 with frightful rapidity in a small colony; so the 
 very air of Otter Creek village, even into Fort 
 Donald, was electric with a sense of evil emanating 
 from some medicine-worker. It may have been 
 chance or fate, or this contagious something, but 
 in the space of one moon three families were as 
 entirely disrupted as though they had been slaves 
 in the galley of fashion. 
 
 The little father who sometimes came among 
 them had for years besought these people to ab- 
 stain from internal strife. " Love each other, chil- 
 dren," he had admonished them. Bruce's sermon 
 on the animating spirit of love was also not many 
 moons back in their memory; yet one oblique- 
 
 208 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 minded squaw, devoid of human responsibility, 
 trading on their belief in the efficacy of medi- 
 cine-making, had set them all at each other's 
 throats. 
 
 Nistas had the full conviction of the power of 
 her craft; she really believed that the happy sat- 
 urnalia of infelicity was fostered by her crooning 
 chants and her magic working. 
 
 But retribution was brewing for somebody. It 
 was Felix Benoit who spoke of this in the hearing 
 of Nistas. Even Felix himself had an idea as to 
 who was making the medicine — it was the she-bear 
 that was Wolf Runner's squaw. 
 
 Felix was rich in figurative vocabulary; also he, 
 and all the others who had been athirst — devoid 
 of fire-*water since the crusade of big Sandy, bore 
 malice against the house of Wolf Runner. 
 
 Wicked old Nistas was quick to the opportunity. 
 Surely it was Wolf Runner's squaw. Had not all 
 the family feuds originated since her coming from 
 Vermilion? Most certainly it was that forest- 
 dweller, Mi-yah-tis, the Ugly One. Was not 
 Wolf Runner of the Miteo, the sect of evil re- 
 pute? 
 
 Like a prairie-fire started from the spark of a 
 flint that falls in dry grass, this new satanic thing 
 swept through the village with secret force. 
 
 Nistas sought to catch Mi-yah-tis at the medi- 
 209 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 cine-making ; and the Cree woman's glorious affec- 
 tion for Mas-ki-sis, sweet and pure as the prairie- 
 flower's drinking of night-dew, made this design 
 possible. 
 
 2IO 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 It was spring by now. For months the sun had 
 just topped the hills to the south, cutting for a 
 few hurried hours across the sky as though he 
 feared WIe-sah-ke-chack, who shot his bolts of 
 Northern Lights athwart the arched vault. But 
 now, ever encroaching on the citadel of frost, the 
 north, the sun climbed higher and higher each 
 day, and coaxed forth by his gentle warmth the 
 yellow-gold offerings of pea-vine and the fringed 
 crown of dandelion, and the slender stalk of prai- 
 rie-sunflower that by and by would star the earth 
 like a mirrored sky. Close-nestling in new-grassed 
 turf, like sapphire jewels or angel's eyes, the violets 
 peeped in timid joyousness. 
 
 And it was through all this sweetness of creation 
 that NIstas stole like a serpent to the tepee of 
 Wolf Runner. If she went by the little path to 
 the back, and around the side, and suddenly in at 
 the flapping door, perhaps she might see some- 
 thing; if she did not, it was only a visit, and her 
 sudden advent would be nothing; no one ever 
 knocked at a tepee door. If she saw nothing of 
 
 211 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 the medlclne-making, she could come again, many 
 times, and at all hours. She might even listen close 
 to the skin walls sometimes. 
 
 But the influence of Nistas's master, who was 
 the Evil One, was paramount, and as she thrust 
 her yellow face with his sign-manual upon it 
 through the door, Mi-yah-tis was crooning to the 
 little manikin that was Mas-ki-sis. 
 
 As the shadow thrown from the doorway fell 
 across the day-dreamer's lap, she looked up in 
 affright and into a pair of small eyes that were 
 bright with the vindictive cunning of a wolverine. 
 The birch-bark Mas-ki-sis was secreted, though 
 Mi-yah-tis knew the wicked Nistas, staring at her 
 from the sunlight, had seen it. 
 
 Even from Wolf Runner the mother had kept 
 this holy thing, this sweet communion with her lit- 
 tle Otter, and now there were the eyes of Nistas 
 peering into her bared heart — Nistas who was 
 wicked, and of the lodge of Felix Benoit. 
 
 The medicine-worker stepped inside and talked 
 with the other woman, calling her sister; even 
 sought to draw the mother of Mas-ki-sis into tales 
 of medicine-making, that she might tell to the 
 others that the Ugly One boasted of her power 
 for evil. 
 
 But beyond her fancied communion with the 
 boy, Mi-yah-tis was as devoid of imagination as a 
 
 212 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 badger, as materialistic as a sand-hill crane. Mas- 
 ki-sis was the loadstone that drew her out of her 
 slave-like life of utility; apart from him she found 
 the problem of wood-chopping and skin-tanning 
 and bead-working a tax of huge magnitude upon 
 her limited mentality. 
 
 So Nistas was forced to fall back upon her own 
 evil imagination for tales of condemnation. But 
 she was capable; also had she not seen the wife of 
 Wolf Runner making medicine? Had not the 
 Cree woman sought to hide it from her, fright- 
 ened by the sudden discovery? 
 
 The case was too clear; the needed link had been 
 forged in the chain of evidence; an actual eye-wit- 
 ness of the squaw's deviltry obtained. 
 
 The superstitious Indians and half-breeds be- 
 came like a colony of bees that had suddenly dis- 
 covered an enemy in their midst. They planned 
 a most emphatic project of disapprobation for the 
 Cree woman; but, as it happened, the sweet In- 
 fluence of Mas-ki-sis, that seemed so visionary and 
 unreal, saved her from their troublous attention. 
 
 For days, even weeks, the mother had been pos- 
 sessed of an Idea that her little Otter was 111 — that 
 he was calling to her night and day. When she 
 brought forth the little jack-stones and coaxed him 
 Into an unreal presence (all imaginative) , he would 
 sit huddled up, with his big black eyes pleading to 
 
 213 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 her from a thin, pinched face. She had spoken to 
 Wolf Runner, saying that Mas-kl-sis was ill, and 
 that she must go to him. 
 
 And Wolf Runner had answered: " NIchlmous, 
 you are feeling long (which Is the Indian expres- 
 sion for lonesome) — ^you are feeling long because 
 you hear not the voice of our little Otter. Wolf 
 Runner, too, would like to see his brave. Perhaps 
 when It Is warm, and there Is a ration of sweet- 
 grass for the cayuse on the trail, we will go to 
 Fort Garry where Is Mas-kl-sls.'* 
 
 And It happened that when Wolf Runner came 
 to the tepee at sundown the day NIstas had looked 
 through the slltted door, Ml-yah-tis begged with 
 vehemence that they go to Fort Garry. 
 
 Next day, laying In food for the journey. Wolf 
 Runner and his squaw trailed to the south, and the 
 wrath that was maturing In the village was robbed 
 of Its victim. 
 
 214 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 When the villagers knew of the going, NIstas 
 cried: " Did I not say Ml-yah-tis was afraid? Be- 
 cause I have seen her medlcine-making she has 
 gone away, and now we shall have peace." 
 
 And many of them were glad, because If they 
 killed the Cree woman — and surely they would 
 have done so — the meddlesome redcoats, which 
 were the police, would perhaps come and seek to 
 punish them for their administration of justice. 
 But If the wife of Wolf Runner came back again 
 to their village, then — ah I but she would not ; for, 
 as NIstas said, she was afraid. 
 
 Wolf Runner had become possessed of a cayuse 
 and Red River cart, a vehicle which Is a class In 
 itself, a very Ark In antiquity of design. A won- 
 drous structure, guiltless of iron, and held together 
 by rawhide cord, which is shaganappl. Even the 
 wheels wore not tires, and in their hubs was a voice 
 discordant as a long-throated loon's. 
 
 For three weeks the dry wooden axles, athirst 
 for lubricants, walled tremulously as the Cree and 
 his squaw journeyed over the sun-kissed prairie 
 
 215 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 that was sweet from the perfumed breath of 
 awakened flowers and sedge-grass and mint and 
 endless sage. As they passed, a solemn little caval- 
 cade, myriad gophers sat erect, like picket-pins, and 
 stared in wonderment at the two humans. 
 
 The Cree woman was entirely oblivious of the 
 fierce denunciation that attached to their memory 
 at Otter Creek; she knew nothing of the accusation 
 against her. When they made camp, she untan- 
 gled the hungry cayuse from the intricate maze of 
 crude lashings that attached him to the cart, hob- 
 bled his forefeet, and then passed to her house- 
 hold duties. Wolf Runner, exhausted by the 
 arduous role of a brave, rested and smoked his kin- 
 nikinick. 
 
 And, so going, the two came to Fort Garry ; and, 
 like children, by tortuous questioning, found their 
 way to the mission school at St. John's, in which 
 was Mas-ki-sis. 
 
 And Mas-ki-sis was ill. The ether-waves, or 
 whatever it was of telepathy, or perhaps It was 
 only a mother's heart-sore misgiving, were the 
 truth. 
 
 The Cree mother saw him just as she had con- 
 jured him in the tepee at Otter Creek, thin-faced 
 and large-eyed. If she could have seen the school- 
 room set out in rows of human atoms, like the 
 onion-beds of a garden, and have breathed for an 
 
 216 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 hour the stifling, exhausted air that had been 
 sucked empty of all oxygen, she, perhaps, out of 
 instinct, might have known how he had been smit- 
 ten. The windows, closed tight against the life- 
 giving prairie-wind, were like walls of the Inqui- 
 sition. But she saw nothing of these things, knew 
 nothing of them, just found her little Otter a 
 stricken wreck on his small iron cot. And her fool- 
 ish old voice quavered, and her little eyes, that 
 were like bear's eyes, became dim; and she all but 
 fell to her knees as she crouched over him, and laid 
 her cheek, that was the color of buckskin, against 
 his gaunt face. 
 
 Wolf Runner stood erect, frowning; his spirit 
 tortured behind a stoical reserve, which was the 
 proper composure of an Indian in the presence of 
 a hated paleface. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis had no complainings; nothing but 
 the plaint: "Take me back to my home at Ver- 
 milion." 
 
 To him Vermilion — which was but a grassless 
 circlet where the tepee of his childhood had stood 
 near the great muskeg — ^was the sweetest place In 
 all the world. Lying there on the Iron cot with 
 eyes shut, he had pictured the great cotton-wood 
 that shaded the lodge, and had heard the tinkling 
 bell-like song of the starlings that used to come In 
 families, and blink-bllnk-bllnk to the sun as it 
 
 217 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 dipped In the west beyond the great muskeg. Even 
 the solemn strut of the drab-coated cow-bird was 
 more pleasing than the incessant antics of a canary 
 that homed in a wire cage down in the matron's 
 room. 
 
 And in the night-time at VermiUon how often 
 he had answered the whip-poor-will, and had 
 hooted back in mockery at the solemn owl ? And 
 in the spring-time he had listened with a thrill of 
 delight to the whistling whir of the birds of ve- 
 locity — the ducks, as they sped to the Northland. 
 And in autumn the bugle-voiced swans, high in 
 air; and a little later the "A honk-honk, a-honk! " 
 of the gray goose wedging the night, had told him 
 of swirling snow in the Rockies that drove him 
 southward. And perhaps the next night it would 
 be the shriller cry of the waveys. 
 
 And there were pictures of the feathered moss 
 In the great muskeg, coral-beaded by the red ber- 
 ries of the Indian's tea-plant. And there, too, in 
 the hollows where ran little streams, hung the 
 clusters of dark pearls, the black currants, that 
 were sweet to the taste of the crested par- 
 tridge. 
 
 There was a thirst upon him that water seemed 
 not to prevail against. If he could but wander, 
 like a little bear-cub amongst the saskatoon bushes, 
 and eat of the luscious blue-bloomed berries that 
 
 218 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 the Great Spirit had made dear to the heart of 
 every Indian, and of a great abundance, perhaps 
 the parched feeling would pass from his throat. 
 In another month the saskatoons would fruit, and 
 he begged to go back to the Northland. 
 
 " Your little boy has a bad cold," the matron 
 said, speaking through an interpreter; and her eyes 
 flashed searchingly over the physique of Wolf 
 Runner for a flat chest that might have lent a lung 
 weakness to the little one. " For many days he 
 has had a cold; he seems to catch cold so easily. 
 No, it is not our fault." 
 
 " It is the fault of Mas-ki-sis," the boy added, 
 for in the face of his father was the look the Cree 
 braves wore at the Sun-Dance. 
 
 Wolf Runner answered the interpreter: " Mas- 
 ki-sis is stricken with a sickness. It is not good 
 for Mas-ki-sis to dwell in the lodge of the pale- 
 face — Mas-ki-sis will go back to the lodge of 
 Wolf Runner." 
 
 The father's speech was simple and awkward, 
 and direct; for the way of an Indian is to suffer 
 with few words. 
 
 It was not difficult to get consent for the lad's 
 removal; even the superintendent of the school 
 could understand that there was little profit to any- 
 one in civihzing an Indian if he died in the proc- 
 ess. It usually turned out that way, this misdi- 
 
 219 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 rection of the Creator's intentions; but until the 
 death-seal was set manifest on the victim, there 
 was always a fatuous belief that persistent en- 
 deavor would correct this inconsiderate habit of 
 Nature. 
 
 220 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 In two days Mas-ki-sis started back to the 
 Northland in the wooden cart that sang in his ears 
 a requiem. Before leaving, the matron told the 
 lad that he must be very careful of his health. 
 He hadn't any, really ; the smothering school-room 
 had taken it all from him as a vampire drains its 
 victim; but the matron, thinking not of the incon- 
 gruity, gave him many wise words of useless im- 
 port, and divers bottles of drugs that were as 
 efficacious, almost, as the streamers of red cloth 
 Mi-yah-tis had tied to the willow wands at Otter 
 Creek. 
 
 It may be that the scourge had aged Mas-ki-sis 
 into a wise tenderness, for he asked the matron to 
 tell not to his mother that he had the lung sick- 
 ness — it would cause her unrest; and surely he 
 would get strong again when he went back to the 
 spruce and the birch, and drank of the wind that 
 came through the sweet-smelling sage, and had not 
 the hours of toil over strange books. 
 
 As they journeyed, Mi-yah-tis told Mas-ki-sis 
 
 221 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 why it was that his strength had gone from him — 
 it was because of Nistas. The mother had seen 
 it in the wicked eyes of the medicine-worker as she 
 gazed upon the little birch manikin, that was 
 Mas-ki-sis, that day at Otter Creek. 
 
 The boy nodded his head approvingly; this be- 
 lief would keep Mi-yah-tis from asking questions 
 that must be answered with evasion. Besides, his 
 mother knew many charms and medicines that 
 would stop the evil influence of Nistas; she would 
 be happy thinking he would soon grow strong 
 again. Therefore he answered: " Yes, someone is 
 making medicine against me — perhaps it is Nistas ; 
 or perhaps it is the bear that Wolf Runner killed. 
 The wolves got the head because I did not put it 
 on the tree so that the spirits of the woods might 
 not be angry. Wolf Runner told me to put the 
 head of muskwa on the lone pine at Vermilion, 
 but I forgot." 
 
 Each day the Cree woman's heart shed a little 
 of its despair, for the panacea that was of Heaven, 
 the prairie-wind, balm-laden because of the herbs 
 and the flowers, crept deeper and deeper into the 
 lungs of Mas-ki-sis till it reddened the thin blood 
 a trifle, and he grew stronger. 
 
 Wolf Runner was sullen in his bitterness against 
 the palefaces. Though Mas-ki-sis could move 
 about, all the elasticity of youth had gone from his 
 
 222 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 sinews, and he was like a willow bow that had lost 
 its spring. 
 
 The Indian was even angered against the boy, 
 or rather impatient of his uselessness. Mas-ki-sis, 
 who was to have been a brave, a mighty hunter, a 
 tireless tracker of mooswa, was now but a squaw 
 child. In vain the mother clapped her big scrawny 
 hands in delight, and called the father's attention 
 to every little symptom of improvement in the boy's 
 condition. 
 
 At every camping-ground she put out the pro- 
 pitiating streamers of red cloth. She even spared 
 from their meagre commissariat offerings of food 
 to the spirits, which were promptly purloined by 
 the pair of whiskey-jacks that had cast in their 
 fortunes with them. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis had shouted with delight at the first 
 shrill piping note of these thievish jays. That was 
 the first day out from Winnipeg; whiskey-jack was 
 an old friend, a part of the boy's woodland life. 
 
 223 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 Never was there such a fight against the grim 
 destroyer. 
 
 In the heart of the Ugly One there was forever 
 and ever the subdued cry of Hagar. If Wolf 
 Runner had not been there, this wilderness of the 
 west would have echoed with her cry of despair. 
 
 They trailed slowly, because Mi-yah-tis was al- 
 ways finding sweet water, or dry wood, or good 
 camping-places with buffalo-grass loved of the 
 cayuse, to the end that Mas-ki-sis should not tire 
 from long drives. 
 
 When they came a little farther into the North- 
 land, where the grass reached higher in its growth, 
 Mas-ki-sis slept on beds that were like down. 
 With strong love-hands the mother, going into the 
 low meadows, plucked sweet-grass, and mint, and 
 yarrow, and made a nest for her little Otter. 
 Sometimes it was the feathery ends' of spruce bows 
 woven into the smoothness of cloth; and the in- 
 cense of its balsam lulled him to sleep as though 
 red poppies kissed his weary lids with opium lips. 
 
 In the school they had taught him from books 
 224 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 of the true God — -the God of the soul; and now 
 he was back in the embrace of Pan, who was called 
 Manltou. And while his little pagan mind groped 
 fitfully in the dark over the hard lesson that was 
 impossible of his solving until he fell asleep, the 
 Ugly One sat beside his bed, and wondered if the 
 bad medicine of Nistas's making had been broken 
 by her charms. 
 
 Wolf Runner, who had a Company trade-gun, 
 shot prairie-chicken and ducks ; and the pilgrimage 
 lay through Utopia. That was till they came to 
 Little Beaver River. 
 
 It had rained back at the birthplace of Little 
 Beaver, and he was a brawling, turbulent stream 
 of muddy water. 
 
 Over the ford Little Beaver swirled in sullen 
 sweeps, lashing at the clay banks. 
 
 Wolf Runner looked darkly at the crossing. 
 Not often he hesitated because of difficulty; and 
 there was neither feed nor wood nor anything to 
 make it a place of good camping. 
 
 Then he took the ford, urging the reluctant 
 cayuse with a heavy quirt. Half-way the water 
 washed the animal's belly; the ford had shifted, 
 and in the coffee-colored flood there was no sign 
 whether it was up-stream or down-stream. 
 
 That it was gone demoralized the cayuse, and 
 he tried to turn; this moved the cart back into 
 
 225 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 deeper water, and the flood lifted it till its wheels 
 beat a quivering tattoo on the bottom. 
 
 Mi-yah-tis raised Mas-ki-sis, and held him with 
 one strong arm. They would be together, so be it 
 they reached the other side; or even if they were 
 claimed of the waters, they would still be together. 
 
 Wolf Runner, in his cool wisdom, seemed 
 apathetic, for he sat still, and waited for the re- 
 turn of the cayuse's wandering sense. One stroke 
 of the quirt and the frenzied animal would twist 
 them to destruction. The cart was carrying down- 
 stream; the water banked against its side was 
 sweeping to their knees, and carrying off with a 
 jubilant rush their goods. Now the cart floated, 
 and the grasp of the stream on its upper side was 
 sucking it down. 
 
 Wolf Runner called to the Cree woman, and 
 they both leaned far over the other side. This was 
 three seconds of doing. 
 
 While the cayuse had backed the cart himself 
 in his affright, it seemed a proper horse thing to 
 do; now something was pulling him back into the 
 cold, depressing waters — it was the floating cart — 
 and his obstinacy resented the interference. He 
 plunged forward, and Wolf Runner cheered him. 
 The cayuse actually swam, and the stream was 
 rushing through the cart like a mill-race. Then 
 the horse struck footing, and, splashing the churned 
 
 226 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 waters like a paddie-wheel, he raced up the dip of 
 the bank, and they were freed from the clutch of 
 Little Beaver. 
 
 In the cart there was nothing but the humans, 
 their blankets, and Wolf Runner's gun, which had 
 been lashed to the rail; just these, and the copper 
 tea-pail which swung by its bale from a stake. The 
 blankets were on the seat, anchored by their weight. 
 Little Beaver had failed of their lives, but had 
 sucked into his voracious maw their food and all 
 else. 
 
 The Indian looked ruefully at his looted ve- 
 hicle ; most paramount was the loss of the commis- 
 sariat. He had his gun. A grunt of despair es- 
 caped him; his gun powder-horn, even the bag of 
 shot and tin of powder that had been with the 
 other supplies, were now soaking somewhere in 
 the muddy waters of Little Beaver. 
 
 Instinctively the Indian thrust his hand into the 
 beaded fire-bag that hung from his belt; his fingers 
 touched a box of matches, and he drew a deep 
 breath of relief. It was a mitigation of the dis- 
 aster. Also there was his tin box of gun-caps 
 — glinting baubles with no powder for the 
 gun. 
 
 Disclaiming all responsibility, the erratic cayuse 
 plucked complacently at the prairie-grass. 
 
 Mi-yah-tis was still clutching the little boy con- 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 vulsively; his presence safe, sank into insignifi- 
 cance the prospect of hunger. Her life had been 
 composed of alternate seasons of starvation and 
 rich feeding; they would manage somehow. 
 
 Leaving the cart, Wolf Runner followed the 
 downward sweep of the stream for a mile in search 
 of wreckage. 
 
 One solitary piece of bacon rewarded his effort. 
 On his return they pushed disconsolately along the 
 trail. 
 
 That night their hunger absorbed the salvaged 
 bacon. There was not even the usual waste of 
 gravy for the supper of the birds, whiskey-jack, 
 and his wife. 
 
 In the morning, like the children in the wilder- 
 ness, they gazed upon a wide expanse of territory 
 with eyes tense from the constrained longing of 
 their stomachs. There was not even any cord or 
 sinew to make a snare, or the hungry ones would 
 have snatched many bead-eyed gophers from their 
 holes. An evil chance had caused Wolf Runner to 
 leave the buffalo-knife that usually hung at his 
 belt in the cart that day, else he might have made 
 a snare from his old shaganappi harness. 
 
 It was a mocking fate. On the earth ran much 
 food, and in the air winged prairie-chickens and 
 plover and sand-piper and curlew and ducks, yet 
 they could do nothing but plod on, mile after mile, 
 
 228 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 with the desolation of hunger over them, hoping 
 that they might meet a chance traveller. 
 
 With squeaking complaints and astonished re- 
 vilings the blue-gray whiskey-jacks upbraided the 
 people that neither ate nor shared food with any- 
 one. And at noon, when the humans sat silent and 
 morose while the horse fed, whiskey-jack perched 
 on the cart and peered down at them in deep dis- 
 gust. He, too, would starve, following such a beg- 
 garly outfit. 
 
 When Wolf Runner's party started again, the 
 jays, with shrill invective, deserted them. 
 
 *' Whiskey-jack Is going," Mas-kl-sis said to his 
 mother; " he has flown away because we have no 
 food. I wish I could fly to where there Is eating 
 — I am so hungry." 
 
 " Never mind, little one," Mi-yah-tis answered, 
 " we will soon come to Egg Lake, where there are 
 many nests of the mallard." 
 
 The mother knew that it would be quite two 
 days before they would come to the ducks' breed- 
 ing-grounds. Even then the eggs might all be 
 hatched; but she tried to steel the boy's heart 
 against the depressing hunger. 
 
 Just beyond their reach was food, delicious, lim- 
 itless. They were like city paupers that gazed out 
 of starved eyes through glass barriers that guarded 
 stores of bread and meats. 
 
 229 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The saskatoon berries were of a tantalizing un- 
 ripeness; the tall bushes were white with a plethora 
 of uncolored fruit. 
 
 And little Mas-ki-sis's fevered mouth had set 
 him dreaming of nights for the full-juiced saska- 
 toons. Now he had come to them in unexpected 
 want, and they mocked him. 
 
 230 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 All that day Mi-yah-tis, driven to It by the 
 pathetic hunger of her little pinch-faced Otter, 
 was thinking of a sin against her gods. Ahead of 
 them, close beside the trail, at the little stream of 
 Towatano, rested Grass Head, the Cree. Grass 
 Head was possessed of powder and shot, and other 
 things which they had not ; but Grass Head would 
 never offer them a portion, for he was dead. For 
 two moons he had slept the long sleep, peacefully 
 cached high on the platform which was his bier; 
 and on the posts of the cache were his gun, and 
 the horns of powder and shot. He had been a 
 minor chief, and his tribe had sent him well 
 equipped over the long trail to the Happy Hunt- 
 ing Ground. The Cree woman had seen this 
 cache of the dead on their way to Winnipeg; now 
 she remembered with startling distinctness every 
 detail. The tightly corked buffalo-horn would cer- 
 tainly be full of powder. 
 
 The Ugly One knew that her brave would die 
 like a starved wolf rather than desecrate his tribes- 
 
 231 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 man's grave ; so would she, for the matter of that, 
 but would not little Mas-kl-sis succumb before 
 they — was not he dearer to her than the pleasure 
 of the gods, the traditions of her people? For 
 him could not she almost risk the anger of the 
 guardian spirits of the air? 
 
 This was the evil act she pondered over as they 
 travelled In the wailing, creaking cart through the 
 land all beautiful. 
 
 At times they were In great lakes of blood-red 
 waters — small seas of blood lilies, yellow-hearted 
 and crimson-lipped. 
 
 Mas-kl-sis bathed his eyes, his face, with the 
 flowers; he held them to his heart In rapture. 
 
 "Waugh! Little Brave!" cried Mi-yah-tis; 
 *' 'tis right you love them. Manitou calls them to 
 grow from the blood of the Cree braves who fell 
 in battle. They are the flowers of bravery." 
 
 " I am not hungry," at once cried Mas-ki-sis ; *' I 
 can wait till we come to the lake where are many 
 nests." 
 
 " Huh I Little Otter, the red flowers breathe 
 the spirit of the dead braves." 
 
 The sun was In the west as they passed Towa- 
 tano and Grass Head's place of rest. It threw a 
 sombre shade from the cache across the trail; and 
 as Its shadow darkened the eyes of Ml-yah-tis she 
 shuddered. 
 
 232 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Wolf Runner, looking not at the bier, but with 
 his eyes straight ahead along the trail, said, in a 
 low voice : " A friend who is dead is of little use. 
 If Grass Head were alive he would give Wolf 
 Runner of his powder, for we are hungry." 
 
 When they had gone a little distance, the Ugly 
 One asked Wolf Runner to make camp. But he 
 wished to push farther from the spirit-haunted 
 place where rested the dead Cree; so a little more 
 of travel and he yielded to the squaw. 
 
 Never had the Indian been so helpless, so 
 mocked at by the red gods of the chase. With a 
 knife he could have done many things; he could 
 have made a bow from the willow growing by the 
 creek beds ; he could have made a little figure- four 
 deadfall for gopher; but his hands were as empty 
 as a babe's and as helpless. 
 
 The cayuse, prime cause of the disaster, grunt- 
 ing in satisfaction as he fed, mocked their starva- 
 tion. If they met no one on the trail — if they 
 came to no nests with eggs — well, perhaps the 
 sneering beast would attain to a new use. 
 
 As a dog might have done. Wolf Runner curled 
 himself up to smother in sleep the yearning for 
 food which was not. 
 
 Holding the boy's head on her lap, Mi-yah-tis 
 watched for the slumbering of her husband. 
 
 " Sleep, little one," she said to Mas-ki-sis, draw- 
 233 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 ing the blanket about him; "sleep your hunger 
 away, little Otter, even as Wolf Runner does." 
 
 Then she moved to the other side of their camp- 
 fire, covertly watching the boy. Yes, he, too, was 
 at rest, she thought, and rising, stole away. 
 
 As the Ugly One slipped silently from the fire- 
 light, the emptiness that was because of her going 
 awoke the fitfully sleeping lad, and his eyes fol- 
 lowed the movements of Mi-yah-tis. Now with 
 long strides she was hurrying down the back trail. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis arose, and stepping with the light- 
 ness of a bird, followed. Clear of Wolf Runner 
 he went faster. Presently he called, " Mother! '* 
 
 "What is it, little one?" the mother asked, 
 when he had reached to her side. 
 
 He put his hand in hers and answered: " I, too, 
 am going to the sleeping Grass Head." 
 
 " Why do you talk of this thing, little Otter? " 
 the squaw asked, marvelling. 
 
 " Mas-ki-sis saw Mi-yah-tis when her eyes were 
 on the powder of Grass Head," he answered. " I 
 will talk to Chief Grass Head, and tell him we are 
 starving ; and if the spirits are not angry, then you 
 will take the powder and shot, mother, and to- 
 gether we will bring them back to Wolf Runner." 
 
 The little hand that was in the Cree woman's 
 was warm and did not tremble, though hers that 
 held it shook in fear. 
 
 234 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 As they went forward to the abode of dread, 
 the moonlight twisting their shadows into gro- 
 tesque demons, the boy's presence comforted the 
 Cree woman, who was sore afraid. 
 
 " It may bring evil to — " Mi-yah-tis checked 
 herself. She was thinking of the red moon with 
 its holding of trouble for Mas-ki-sis. *' Manitou 
 may be angry if we take the powder," she finished. 
 
 " The white teacher at the mission told me that 
 when anyone died he went to God, which is Man- 
 itou, and did not need powder nor shot nor the 
 gun. So do not be afraid, mother; Grass Head 
 is not hungry, as we are, and will not be angry if 
 we take his powder." 
 
 " It may be true, little one; but if the spirits 
 call to us in anger we will go away, and leave the 
 powder and remain hungry." 
 
 The four crotched posts of Grass Head's cache 
 stood black in the uncertain moonlight, looking 
 like Indian sentinels guarding the dead chief. 
 
 The two, mother and son, had come to it silently, 
 the spirit fear that was over them hushing the 
 clamor of their tongues. They were standing in 
 the trail gazing with awe upon the death-temple 
 they were about to desecrate. 
 
 "Ho, Chief Grass Head!" called Mas-ki-sis 
 from where he stood in the trail; "Wolf Run- 
 ner and Mi-yah-tis and Mas-ki-sis, who are of 
 
 235 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 your people, are starving. The River Spirit has 
 taken the food from Wolf Runner and we are hun- 
 gry. O Chief ! give us of your powder, that Wolf 
 Runner may make a kill of many birds. Be not 
 angry, Grass Head, for we are hungry." 
 
 Where had the little one got all this wisdom, 
 Mi-yah-tis was asking herself; surely the spirits of 
 the air would take pity on Mas-ki-sis, who was but 
 a child. 
 
 "Come, mother," the boy said; "see, Grass 
 Head is not angry." 
 
 Hesitatingly, the woman and the boy stepped 
 from the trail to where the horns of powder and 
 shot hung. 
 
 As Mi-yah-tis stretched her big arm upward for 
 the black dust of desire, Mas-ki-sis was chanting: 
 " O Great Chief! be not angry " 
 
 At that his voice choked in his throat; the hot 
 blood surged to his brain, then ebbed away, and 
 left him cold and powerless in fear. The Cree 
 woman's arm dropped like a broken limb. 
 
 Above, the chief, long dead, slowly raised his 
 head with a soft rustle, and peered down at them 
 from wide eyes that glinted green and yellow and 
 red in the silver moonlight. There was a fierce 
 questioning look in the eyes as they searched these 
 two who came in the night, as if asking why they 
 had come to the sacred grave of a dead chief. 
 
 236 
 
'iM$ 
 
 ^1 
 
 ^■> 
 
 ^T^^^^^^^^BWW^ V _^fa__^^ IMIJML 
 
 
 I^Mi^S 
 
 
 ^^^H 
 
 
 
 ^^^^^^^^1 
 
 
 ^m * 
 
 
 Mas-ki-sis was chanting : **0 Great Chief! be not angry — ** 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The two were powerless of speech in their ter- 
 ror; they were fascinated; their silence drew a 
 shrill, harsh cackle that was a laugh, or a cry of 
 anger, from the face on the bier. 
 
 The voice startled the huge squaw into vo- 
 lition ; she turned heavily to run, still clutching the 
 hand of Mas-ki-sis. 
 
 As she fled, the owner of the eyes, that was only 
 a silly marsh-owl, spread his fan-like wings and 
 swooped off into the haze of the prairie, 
 
 Mi-yah-tis was on the trail, her big flat feet pat- 
 ting it with wondrous activity. 
 
 " Stop, mother! " panted the boy, the spirit of 
 a brave chiding him for his empty fear. " Stop, 
 mother; it is only oo-hoos (the owl), and we have 
 not taken the powder." 
 
 The squaw had been shocked out of her bor- 
 rowed bravery; she wanted to return to Wolf Run- 
 ner, leaving the powder of Grass Head with the 
 chief. But the boy argued: " Is it not true that 
 Grass Head has gone away to the Happy Hunting 
 Ground — is with God, as the teacher said? Would 
 the owl rest on the cache if Grass Head were not 
 gone away? Mas-ki-sis will get the powder — only 
 he can't reach it. Come, we will take it to Wolf 
 Runner." 
 
 Again they went back, strangely enough with 
 less fear than before. The emptiness of their ter- 
 
 237 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 ror because of the silly, short-eared little owl drove 
 from the mind of Mi-yah-tis something of the 
 spirit dread. 
 
 With quick steps she reached the cache, mutter- 
 ing to herself over and over, " Manitou, Manitou, 
 Manitou ! '' 
 
 Grasping the horns, her eyes always on the 
 ground, she plucked them from the post, and, turn- 
 ing with abruptness, hurried to the trail that led to 
 where Wolf Runner slept by the little fire and 
 dreamed of much food. 
 
 Mi-yah-tis hid the booty in her dress, saying to 
 the boy : '' When the sun has made us all of quiet 
 mind, I will give the powder to Wolf Runner." 
 
 As they approached their camp the Indian 
 started up ; but he thought they had been for wood 
 or water, and, with a querulous complaint because 
 of his hunger, he slept again, oblivious of the fan- 
 tastic spirits of imagination that tortured the Ugly 
 One into a wide-eyed restlessness. 
 
 The wanderers up out of Elim were not more 
 astonished the first morning of the manna shower 
 than was Wolf Runner when he awoke and found 
 himself possessed of the power to obtain food. He 
 was also frightened; some great evil would surely 
 accrue to them because of the powder-horns that 
 were robbed from the dead chief. But hunger 
 to the point of starvation is hunger indeed; also, 
 
 238 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 he had not stolen from Grass Head. If Mi-yah- 
 tis suffered for the theft, well, it was of her own 
 doing. 
 
 They had nothing in which to carry the powder 
 and shot unless they retained the horns; and Wolf 
 Runner declared he would put them back on the 
 cache some time. 
 
 That day they feasted as only starved Indians 
 can feast when there is plenty. 
 
 239 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 It was August when the trail-wearied Wolf 
 Runner outfit came once again to Otter Creek at 
 Fort Donald; and the mischief that had smoul- 
 dered almost smokeless fanned suddenly into a fire 
 of fierce resentment. 
 
 After the going of Wolf Runner, big Sandy 
 had heard the malicious slander of the Cree 
 woman's medicine-making. He felt sure that it 
 was a manifestation of revenge originating in the 
 family of Felix Benoit; so he kept his wise old 
 eyes open for the return of the accused ones, that 
 he might ward off the trouble that would possibly 
 be visited upon their quite innocent heads. 
 
 When news of the Indian's return flashed 
 through Fort Donald, surrounded by an atmos- 
 phere of threats, big Sandy and Malcolm went to 
 the tepee of Wolf Runner. 
 
 With rare delicacy the old Scotchman said noth- 
 ing of the medicine-making, but asked Wolf Run- 
 ner to go back to Vermilion. The request only 
 inflamed the sullen Indian's mind, and aroused him 
 to an eloquent denunciation of his enemies. 
 
 240 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 There was something fearfully tragic In Wolf 
 Runner's rhetoric as his own words lashed him to 
 articulate fury. Slowly enough he began to speak : 
 " Once my people, the Wood Crees, were a mighty 
 tribe; to be a Cree was to be a chief. When the 
 Blackfeet stole horses, they stole from other 
 tribes; when they stole from the Crees they died. 
 My people were as the leaves of the forest, they 
 were as the grass of the plain, and our children 
 were as the yellow star-flowers that greet the eye 
 everywhere. The prairie thronged with buffalo, 
 and the buffalo were sweet eating, and made us 
 strong, and we were happy; we had the buffalo- 
 skins to make tepees that were warm, and we 
 laughed at the cold wind, and the snow, and the 
 rain. 
 
 " Our women were chaste; and In all the land 
 there were not more women whose noses had been 
 cut off than this," and Wolf Runner held aloft the 
 spread fingers of his two hands, which meant that 
 in all the Cree tribe were not ten women who had 
 paid the debt of unchastlty by the elision of a nose. 
 
 " The sun warmed the blood of the earth till It 
 grew grass for our horses, and the buffalo, and the 
 antelope; we listened to Manltou; and our medi- 
 cine-men made medicine to the evil spirits to keep 
 from us their anger. 
 
 " We were braves, and in the Happy Hunting 
 241 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Ground are many of our tribe that chase the buf- 
 falo. 
 
 " But the paleface came among us, even as Wie- 
 sah-ke-chack said the gray-eyed people would 
 come, and what is my tribe now — what are the 
 Crees? The palefaces took our lands, and our 
 horses, and our women, and the l)raves of my 
 tribe are as squaws, and work as squaws. And 
 even now they are lean fed like famished wolves, 
 and our women are unchaste as the white women. 
 
 " When the palefaces came first to our lodges, 
 being few in numbers and weak, my people fed 
 them; now, if an Indian asks food of the pale- 
 face he is told ' marse ! * as we speak to our dogs. 
 Unless a brave becomes as a squaw and works, he 
 must die in the cold time, for the buffalo have been 
 driven away and corralled, so that the Indian may 
 be in the power of the paleface. 
 
 " Many moons ago did not your redcoats come 
 to the tepee of Wolf Runner with a lie in their 
 mouths that he was selling the fire-water, and steal- 
 ing their horses — and was not Wolf Runner shut 
 in a stone corral ? 
 
 " But, Sandy Ogama, that of which Wolf Run- 
 ner has spoken, is as nothing to the great misery 
 that has now come to his heart; the Big Ogama, the 
 ogama of the Great White Mother, kept Mas-ki- 
 sis at Fort Garry, and now Mas-ki-sis, who is son 
 
 242 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 of Wolf Runner, and would have been a great 
 brave, will soon pass to the Happy Hunting 
 Ground. The heart of Wolf Runner is heavy with 
 this knowledge; and his heart is full of evil for 
 the palefaces because of this. Perhaps when Man- 
 itou calls Mas-ki-sis, when the cold spirit comes to 
 the lodge and steals Mas-ki-sis away, perhaps 
 Wolf Runner will become even as a fierce wolf, 
 and send many palefaces to the Happy Hunting 
 Ground." 
 
 " Don't let this wickedness possess you, broth- 
 er," said Cameron, in Cree. Then, relapsing into 
 his Scotch-flavored English, he spoke to Malcolm, 
 for the Indian, exhausted by his passion, was silent. 
 
 " Malcolm, lad," said Sandy, " the poor de'il 
 o' a pagan haes muckle truth on his side, though 
 it's fair foolishness his talkin' o' takin' life. It 
 was no the intent o' the Lord for the Injun to be 
 hoosed, or worked like an ass or an ox. An' 
 schoolin' 's fair thrown awa' on such. Hoosed up 
 they jus' die like flies in a bottle; an' the poor 
 bairnie is just stricken wi' the lung disease, an' 
 that's the God's truth — poor little bairnie ! " 
 
 "You're right, father," said Malcolm; "a 
 nichie's a thousand times better nor a breed. A 
 breed's part Injun, part white man, an' altogether 
 devil." 
 
 The Indian broke in again. " And now Wolf 
 243 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Runner is to go back to Vermilion because he is 
 old, like an outcast buffalo-bull that has no place 
 in the herd; and there Mas-ki-sis will die." 
 
 " I dinna ken what to say," declared Sandy to 
 Malcolm. " The breeds and nichies here are like 
 a pack of coyotes; they're thinkin' Wolf Runner's 
 squaw is makin' medicine, an' it's just dootful but 
 what there'll be murder done." 
 
 " We'll get Factor Gourelot to give Wolf Run- 
 ner a job of tradin' at Vermilion," said Malcolm, 
 a bright thought taking him. " An' we must keep 
 a sharp eye that the post people don't break out 
 against him afore he gets away." 
 
 Sandy asked Wolf Runner to keep to himself 
 for a time, and if anything went wrong to come to 
 him. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis had understood a great deal of big 
 Sandy's English ; Cameron had forgotten all about 
 the little lad's having been at the mission school 
 for some months. 
 
 As the two white men walked away, Malcolm 
 said, " Why didn't ye tell the nichie, father, that 
 the camp was all possessed of the idea his squaw 
 was makin' medicine? " 
 
 " I'll no hae onything tae do wi' such godless 
 obsarvance," declared the father; " I'd no even 
 mention It. An', foreby, if I spoke o' It to Wolf 
 Runner while he's greetin' ower the bairn, most 
 
 244 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 like he'd just mak' trouble wi' the ithers. We'll 
 jus' get him awa', quiet like. I'm morally in charge 
 o' Fort Donald, an' I dinna want bluidshed." 
 
 Mas-ki-sis watched the father and son as they 
 went away. When they had passed slowly out 
 of his sight, he sat for a long time looking across 
 the prairie to where the red-splashed sky still 
 flushed from the amorous kiss of the fleeing sun. 
 Miles away on the western horizon a chain of 
 hills lay draped in the red light like a city. Mas- 
 ki-sis was picturing them into the wondrous build- 
 ings he had'seen at Fort Garry. In his hill-city, 
 now silhouetted against the crimson west, were 
 church-spires, slender pencilled pyramids of pur- 
 ple. They were really giant spruce and cedars that 
 cut the sky-line, but the boy was building them into 
 great churches and cathedrals. And perhaps he 
 would soon have to leave all these beautiful things 
 — the summer sky and the long-drawn-out evenings 
 that the Sun-God painted with bright ochre from 
 the land of spirits ; pass from the perfume of the 
 sweet-grass and prairie-clover, the call of the birds, 
 the heart-thrill of the chase, the tender caress of 
 his mother — leave it all, and go to the Happy 
 Hunting Ground, or, as he had been told at the 
 school in Fort Garry, mayhap he would be called 
 to the white man's heaven. 
 
 A wondrous lot of thinking had come to the lit- 
 245 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 tie man since the school matron had told him he 
 must be very careful or he would die of the lung 
 sickness. He remembered there had been tears in 
 her eyes when he asked her not to tell his mother 
 — Mi-yah-tis would only wail at night over this 
 evil. 
 
 As he sat with his dream-face turned to the 
 west a conviction came to him that he would not 
 get well again. His people always died when 
 stricken with the lung disease, they always went to 
 the Happy Hunting Ground. Even now his 
 strength was not coming back to him. No, Mi- 
 yah-tis would soon be without Mas-ki-sis. Poor 
 old Mi-yah-tis, of whom the villagers were talk- 
 ing evil, as the white men had said. 
 
 Then a thought of the danger that threatened 
 from the villagers occurred to him. He would 
 watch, and also plead with Wolf Runner to go 
 back to VermiHon. 
 
 246 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 As the purple light died out of the western 
 sky, and the flowers and the gaudy leaves and the 
 grass lost their Identity of pattern In the gray that 
 spread over the earth, Mas-kl-sis slipped away 
 from the lodge and wandered among the poplars, 
 and on to the tepees of the creek dwellers. In 
 front of the lodge of NIstas an Indian thumped his 
 tom-tom; its sonorous boom was a gathering-call 
 — a summons to the dwellers to meet. Perhaps 
 they were going to gamble, for they often played 
 throughout the whole night. 
 
 As the Indians and breeds assembled, Mas-kl- 
 sis saw there was no preparation for a gambling- 
 bout; there was no circle formed of figures squat- 
 ted on the ground, their knees covered by a blanket 
 under which the player hid the guessing bean. It 
 must be a council, the little lad thought, as he sat 
 In the low bushes and watched. The words of big 
 Sandy rang in his ears — " The breeds and nichies 
 are like coyotes — there'll be murder done.'* What 
 if this gathering was for the purpose of plotting 
 against the lodge of Wolf Runner? 
 
 247 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The boy became fascinated by the terrible Idea ; 
 if he could but find out — could but hear. Well 
 he knew the method of the Crees when one of 
 the tribe was denounced as a witch or a weh- 
 tlgo (one possessed of an evil spirit). The 
 Indians, taking their own safety as justification, 
 acted with barbaric ferocity; the accused one 
 was executed without compunction and without 
 trial. 
 
 Those who had answered the imperious call of 
 the tom-tom had passed into the big lodge of Nis- 
 tas. Night had come, folding its bat wings of 
 darkness about the tepees. Mas-ki-sis crept trem- 
 blingly to the back of the council lodge, and, lying 
 flat on the earth, listened to those who talked 
 within. Surely it was some good spirit, watching 
 over the simple-minded old squaw whose heart was 
 filled with no greater evil than faithfulness to her 
 husband and immeasurable love for her little son, 
 that had drawn the boy within hearing of the su- 
 perstitious ones that plotted in the tepee of Nistas. 
 
 Undoubtedly all the troubles that had come to 
 them were of the medicine-making of Wolf Run- 
 ner's squaw; Mas-ki-sis heard that through the 
 skin walls. Then Nistas told once more of having 
 seen the Cree woman with the little figure that was 
 certainly bad medicine. Now Wolf Runner and 
 his evil woman had come back again, and more 
 
 248 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 trouble would accrue to the good people of Otter 
 Creek. 
 
 There could be no harm in destroying the mis- 
 chief-maker; even if Wolf Runner, and the boy 
 that was Mas-ki-sis, were also killed, there would 
 be no one to tell the redcoats of how they had 
 come by their deaths. The palefaces who were 
 of the Government cared not for the ways of the 
 red men that had been for all time, and would 
 seek to send to Stony Mountain the executioners 
 of the wicked Wolf Runner and his squaw. Had 
 it not been their way, the way of the Crees, even 
 before the time of the great chief Sweet-Grass, that 
 a wehtigo, or one who made bad medicine, should 
 be put to death ? 
 
 And Nistas, who had the wisdom of a carcajou, 
 said that they might take the bodies in a cart to 
 the great muskeg, saying that Wolf Runner had 
 gone away, and nobody would know of their right- 
 eous act. 
 
 Ugh! if Nistas had been a brave, she would 
 have made a great chief because of her wisdom. 
 
 That night, as those in Wolf Runner's tepee 
 slept, this act of justice would be completed; for 
 the faith of the Crees was that one who was killed 
 in the hour of darkness went not to the Happy 
 Hunting Ground. 
 
 Mas-ki-sis had heard enough. He wormed his 
 249 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 thin body away from the tepee, and ran with soft 
 steps a little into the poplar bluff. How was he to 
 save his people? 
 
 Once he started in haste to warn them ; suddenly 
 he stopped. Like a vision all that would happen 
 flashed before the eyes of his mind, made acute by 
 intensity of feeling. The evil ones in Nista's tepee 
 had said: " When Wolf Runner and those of his 
 lodge sleep, we will do this thing." 
 
 Mas-ki-sis knew that until he returned, his 
 mother would keep the little fire ablaze with dry 
 sticks, and would sit and wait for him. Even if 
 the slayers crept close they would see the broad 
 shadow of Mi-yah-tis reflected on the thin walls 
 of the lodge by the fire-light, and would know that 
 they were still awake. If he went now and warned 
 Wolf Runner there would be bustle; perhaps his 
 father, who was of a fierce mind, might refuse to 
 be controlled, and precipitate the evil. If they fled, 
 the others would pursue, and there would be no 
 escape. There was but one hope — Sandy Ogama. 
 Yes, weak as he was, unequal to the task, Mas-ki- 
 sis must race to the shack of their big friend and 
 save his parents. 
 
 Through the night-gloom the little Indian sped 
 over the mile trail that stretched to Fort Donald, 
 many times the poor, worn-out lungs choking and 
 holding not enough of air to vitalize his body. 
 
 250 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Then he would rest for a few seconds, feaful that 
 his cough would cause someone to stop him. Once 
 — it was near the end of the journey that had 
 lasted for a lifetime, for years and years — as he 
 choked, he put his hand to his lips and something 
 hot and wet splashed against it. How weak he 
 was — how slow he moved ! He was running in a 
 nightmare — his limbs were of lead; and the night- 
 air was heavy with hot ashes or dust, or some- 
 thing that smothered. Surely he had been an hour 
 coming that long, dark, tortuous mile ; and his poor 
 old mother, innocent of harm to anything or any- 
 body, would be slain. " O Manitou ! O God I " — 
 for in the mission they had taught him to pray to 
 God — " just for a little strength to reach Sandy 
 Ogama's shack." After that what came to himself 
 did not matter. 
 
 Running feebly down the one street of Fort 
 Donald, just at the Company's store he struck full 
 into a body of much weight; the shock brought 
 him to his knees. A rough voice cursed him, and 
 a strong hand grasped his collar. Surely Manitou 
 — even God — had forsaken him. The tattered life 
 was so frail that he felt it slipping away. In his 
 ears was the noise of tom-toms, and bells such as 
 braves wore at the Sun-Dance. Was he journey- 
 ing to the Happy Hunting Ground ? 
 
 A rude shake at his collar brought back his wa- 
 251 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 vering senses ; It loosened his lungs so they worked 
 again. He had strength for just one cry. " Ogama 
 Sandy! " he called; and his voice was piteous in 
 its appeal for help. 
 
 Then the rolling thunder of the tom-toms pos- 
 sessed him again ; but it was the noise of heavy feet, 
 and a rough Scotch voice was saying: " What are 
 ye up to with that kid, ye damn' nichie? " 
 
 Mas-ki-sis knew the voice; it was Malcolm's. 
 The hand cast loose from his collar, and its owner, 
 muttering, slipped away in the gloom. 
 
 " O Ogama," said the boy, in Cree, *' those of 
 a bad heart are even now preparing a death for 
 Mi-yah-tis ; I was going to Sandy Ogama." 
 
 " Mas-ki-sis! " exclaimed Malcolm, in astonish- 
 ment; " ye poor little lad! " 
 
 Gathering the boy in his arms the Scot raced, 
 strong-legged, to the shack of his father. There 
 Mas-ki-sis — and Malcolm still had him in his 
 arms — told of the plot. 
 
 " Man, I thocht it — I feared It," commented 
 Cameron. *' Wife, ye'll just watch the balrnie — ■ 
 may the Lord spare the little nichie, for yon's red 
 on his lips, I'm thinkin'." Then the big Scotch- 
 man's voice choked, and, reaching a rifle from the 
 wall above his bed, he handed a shot-gun to Mal- 
 colm. " The Imps o' Satan'll no' do their wicked 
 work the night, please God we're no' too late. 
 
 252 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Nurse the bairn, wife; just haud him in yer arms, 
 an' dinna let him d'e, for he's a Christian." 
 
 " Hurry, Ogama! " gasped Mas-ki-sis. 
 
 *' Come, Malcolm. Dinna let him d'e, wife." 
 And out into the night that was jewelled beyond 
 all count with star gems set high, and that seemed 
 so full of peace and quiet on earth, the two hur- 
 ried. At the Company's Residence, Sandy banged 
 the door with his hard knuckles until it jumped on 
 its hinges. 
 
 As it swung open, Cameron, standing on the step, 
 called to Gourelot, who was just within: " Factor, 
 we're awa' doon tae Otter Creek. The de'ls are 
 for murderin' the ould wife o' Wolf Runner. 
 Hitch up yer buckboard, mon, an' mak' haste 
 doon." 
 
 Before the plump Frenchman, astonished to 
 silence, could find speech, Cameron was lost in the 
 night. 
 
 There was only the rhythmic murmur of the 
 Saskatchewan waters as they glided swiftly by the 
 smooth-worn mud-banks, and over them hung a 
 cloud of white vapor. The face of the land was 
 blotted to an indistinct unison, and the two men, 
 hurrying forward, silent, kept the trail by its hard 
 response to their moccasined feet. 
 
 At a dog lope they went. As they dipped Into 
 the hollow of Otter Creek, Sandy stretched his 
 
 253 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 arm across his son's chest to stay his eagerness. 
 With the silent step of wood-dwellers they contin- 
 ued through the poplar bluff. 
 
 But their caution was unneeded. A small rep- 
 lica of Hades had been originated in the tepee of 
 Wolf Runner. Torches flared on the outside and 
 fierce voices clamored within. 
 
 "We're too late," moaned Sandy; "ma God I 
 we're too late I Into them, lad I If Wolf Run- 
 ner's no' deid, we'll fight for his life." 
 
 With a rush the giant Scotchman charged 
 through the crowd that surrounded the tepee ; the 
 guards were bowled over like ten-pins, and the two 
 white men stood within the lodge, holding their 
 weapons as clubs. 
 
 If Wie-sah-ke-chack himself had suddenly 
 dropped through the opening at the apex of the 
 conical structure the murderous Indians would not 
 have been more startled. 
 
 Wolf Runner and Mi-yah-tis were lying on the 
 ground most securely enmeshed in shaganappi 
 bonds. The tepee was crowded with the tri- 
 bunal. 
 
 At once an angry babel of imprecation went up 
 from many throats. " The paleface dogs ! The 
 sons of dogs! The moneas who before had de- 
 stroyed the fire-water! " And in an instant, from 
 the outside, angry faces were thrust into the tent 
 
 254 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 — the faces of those who had been hurried to earth 
 by the onslaught of the Hielandmen. 
 
 Their own buzzing instilled courage into the 
 Indians; and at best there were but two of the 
 hated white skins. An Indian acts with the erratic 
 irresponsibility of a rattlesnake; and a big Cree, 
 possessed of a sudden desire to distinguish him- 
 self, whipped out a horn-handled buffalo-knife, 
 and, springing forward, lunged at Malcolm's 
 broad chest. The knife would surely have gone 
 home, through a lung at least, had not Sandy's 
 massive fist fallen athwart the brave's nose, to the 
 utter demolition of the latter. 
 
 ** Be quiet, dog o' a nichie ! " roared the Scotch- 
 man, as the redskin pitched headlong to the mud 
 floor. 
 
 "Hold! dinna shoot!" Sandy ejaculated, 
 throwing up the gun that Malcolm had levelled at 
 the crumpled knifer. Then, clubbing his own Win- 
 chester, he glared at the Indians, and said: " The 
 first one that makes mischief, I'll smash him. Ye 
 just talk in peace, friends," he continued, ** for 
 ye'll all get into trouble o'er this." 
 
 It was Nistas, Nistas the much wise, who stood 
 forward; and in her mind was a quick plan that 
 was to save them from the consequences of their 
 frustrated crime. 
 
 " My friends, the ogama is right. We are as 
 255 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 foolish as children. I will speak with a straight 
 tongue, because we are all honest, and if there is no 
 lie, there will be no trouble. We have done no 
 harm," she continued, addressing big Sandy; 
 " Wolf Runner's woman made bad medicine 
 against many of my people. I, who am Nistas, 
 saw the medicine. Then the woman of Wolf 
 Runner went away because Nistas had seen this. 
 Now she has come back, and my people have tied 
 Wolf Runner because he threatened to kill us. We, 
 being afraid of the bad medicine, came to take 
 the woman of Wolf Runner to the factor oga- 
 ma, that he might send her away forever. That 
 is all my people have done — for that we are 
 here." 
 
 " Of all the liars! " exclaimed Malcolm. 
 
 " She's that," commented Sandy; " but ye'll no 
 prove it. Untie them," he commanded, nodding 
 to the bound prisoners. " The factorUl be here, 
 an' we'll see into this." 
 
 And sure enough, as he ceased speaking, Louis 
 Gourelot, having come in his buckboard, and with 
 him being as many men as could cling to the old 
 vehicle, came puiEng and elbowing his way into the 
 tepee. 
 
 " Mon Dieul " he cried; " always trouble from 
 ze nichie. Have they kill somebody, M'sieu 
 Sandy?" 
 
 256 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Cameron explained. Also they must constitute 
 themselves into a court of inquiry. It was all very 
 well to knock flat a charging Indian with a knife 
 in his hand, in fact, it was the proper thing to do ; 
 but the Indians as a body were like children — they 
 believed in the godless medicine-making, which 
 was a play-toy of the devil, according to the Cal- 
 vinist. But still, they, as Christians, and having 
 the welfare of the Company at heart, must humor 
 the pagans, and pacify the many by punishing 
 somebody. 
 
 Sandy, speaking with the factor on the side, de- 
 clared his belief that Nistas had been practising the 
 medicine-making for gain; and to shield herself, 
 and out of revenge against Wolf Runner, had ac- 
 cused Mi-yah-tis. 
 
 " Now," said big Sandy, turning to the Indians, 
 " we must put a stop to the medicine-making; and 
 the factor will just discover the guilty one. Who 
 will speak first? " 
 
 " It is the woman of Wolf Runner,'' said Nis- 
 tas. " See, Ogama, here is the medicine we found 
 where she hid it." 
 
 It was the little birch-bark image of Mas-ki- 
 sis that the mother, out of a yearning love, had 
 dreamed into an actual presence of the boy. Poor, 
 harmless little toy, crude embodiment of her su- 
 perb affection, conjured by the evil Nistas into a 
 
 257 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 condemning instrument that had all but caused its 
 creator's death. 
 
 " What say you, Mi-yah-tis? " asked the factor. 
 
 '* It is only little Mas-ki-sis," pleaded the 
 woman. " When my heart was feeling long, this 
 that was Mas-ki-sis " 
 
 Sandy suddenly remembered something which in 
 the excitement he had forgotten. " Mas-ki-sis is at 
 my shack," he said, speaking to the Cree woman. 
 
 Her eyes lighted up with joy; she had been too 
 frightened to ask for him. 
 
 Then she spoke again : " I think it is Nistas who 
 has cast the evil eye upon Mas-ki-sis, for he droops 
 like the purple moose-flower when the hot wind of 
 the forest-fire passes over it. I think it is Nistas 
 who made the bad medicine in the tepees of Ot- 
 ter Creek; she is a medicine-woman; I am only 
 woman of Wolf Runner, to keep his lodge in or- 
 der and take care of Mas-ki-sis. I did not know 
 that the people spoke ill of me when I went to 
 Fort Garry ; then I came back, and to-night, when 
 it was dark, I went out to look for little Otter — 
 for he was not in the lodge — and these people took 
 hold of me, crying they would kill me because of 
 something. Then the ogama came ; that is all Mi- 
 yah-tis knows." 
 
 " That's no lie," commented Malcolm. 
 
 " Is there another to speak? " queried Sandy. 
 258 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 Then Many Flowers, a Cree woman who had 
 been standing at the door, came forward and said : 
 " O, Ogama, this Evil Spirit that makes trouble 
 is in the lodge of Nistas; and because of that Lit- 
 tle Bear, who is the husband of Many Flowers, has 
 been taken from me. Did not Half Moon give 
 Nistas the tobacco, and the red shawl, and many 
 things to make medicine that Little Bear might sit 
 in her lodge, leaving Many Flowers to cry, and cry, 
 and be alone? That is truth, Ogama, and in the 
 box that is in Nistas's lodge is the bad medicine. 
 It is not the woman of Wolf Runner. She is stupid, 
 like a she-bear that eats many berries; she knows 
 not medicine-making. Many Flowers was afraid 
 and did not speak, but the ogama is here, and she 
 is not afraid now.'' 
 
 " You hear," said Cameron. " If it is the truth, 
 we will find the medicine as Many Flowers says. 
 We will go to the lodge of Nistas." 
 
 There was neither assent nor dissent from the 
 Indians. Nistas, unsuspected of the evil, might be 
 accepted as a leader; but if she were a maker of 
 bad medicine, perhaps they would also put her to 
 death with the clubs, as they would have visited 
 crude justice upon the woman of Wolf Runner. 
 
 " We will go together," said Sandy. And to 
 Malcolm he added: " Dinna let the she-fox gie us 
 the slip tae hide onything." 
 
 259 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 The court was adjourned to the other lodge; 
 and a search brought forth a most complete outfit 
 for the manipulation of spirit influences. Nistas's 
 stock-in-trade was in a small hardwood box, brass- 
 bound on the corners. 
 
 It was Sandy who explored its contents. An 
 elk's tusk carved with strange symbols; a little ivory 
 fish studded with inlaid dots of iron — this had come 
 from the land of the Eskimo ; a string of toe-bones ; 
 a fragment of scalp-lock; and three little packets 
 of human hair bound together: all these barbaric 
 trinkets were brought forth. 
 
 " O Ogama," said Many Flowers, " this is not 
 the medicine of Little Bear — it is that,'^ as Sandy 
 lifted out a roll of red cloth. The Scotchman un- 
 wound yards of the thin strip; and then there was 
 a wrapping of silk-like birch-bark, and the very 
 core of It was two small figures bound together 
 with the hair of NIstas. 
 
 " It is Little Bear," commented Many Flowers. 
 
 '* It Is the bad medicine," ejaculated an old 
 Indian who was versed in such matters. 
 
 " What think you, nichles? " asked Cameron. 
 
 The old Indian of medicine-knowledge spoke: 
 " O, Ogama, NIstas should tell us with straight 
 speech that she has done this thing, so that we may 
 put her to death like a wehtlgo, for that Is the way 
 of our people. If NIstas speaks with a forked 
 
 260 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 tongue, and says she has not done this, we can put 
 no one to death, and the evil will still be upon us." 
 
 " Factor," Sandy said, " they're awfu' pagans. 
 Wha's the proper thing tae do, mon? " 
 
 '' Mon Dieu, M'sieu Sandy, la femme is ze 
 devil always. We mus' take Nistas to ze fort an* 
 p'raps send her to Stony Mountain." 
 
 " I'm thinkin' they'll mak' trouble if we dinna 
 let them kill somebody — they're bloodthirsty de'ils. 
 But I hae a plan." 
 
 " Oui, M'sieu. Always you have ze good plan. 
 If you knock ze nichie flat, that is good; if you 
 feed him, hurrah! Big Sandy is ogama. Tres 
 bien, allez, M'sieu." 
 
 Sanctioned, Cameron spoke to the Indians, say- 
 ing that he would bum the medicine, and make the 
 white man's prayer, which would forever drive it 
 from the camp ; they would send Nistas away, be- 
 cause if she were put to death the redcoats would 
 surely come and hang every one of them. 
 
 This innovation provoked discussion of inter- 
 minable length. It was difficult to understand of 
 their untutored minds why they should be punished 
 if Nistas were cut off from her wickedness. But 
 they were accustomed to bend to the will of the 
 great Company, and in the end Sandy's plan was 
 adopted. 
 
 The white men, when the work of justice had 
 261 
 
The Blood Lilies 
 
 been completed, journeyed back to Fort Donald, 
 taking Nistas with them. 
 
 Speaking to Factor Gourelot, just as they 
 started, Cameron said: " We'll take the auld wife 
 o' Wolf Runner, for Fm thinkin' the puir body'U 
 find Mas-ki-sis deid, or close tae it. Puir body! 
 Man! but the little Indian came like a Christian 
 to save his auld mither. God grant the puir lad- 
 die is no' sae bad; but Fm af eared o' it, mon, Fm 
 afeared o' it. Puir laddie. 
 
 '' Just gie the auld body a lift i' the buckboard. 
 Factor, Fll walk — Fm no tired; an' Malcolm'll 
 walk." 
 
 The buckboard went no faster than the others 
 strode, and together they came to the shack of 
 Cameron. Big Sandy called, " Jeanie ! Jeanie ! " 
 and, when the door was opened, he gently pushed 
 the Cree woman inside, and, closing it, stood with 
 his back to it. 
 
 *' Fll no' go in just yet. Factor," he said. " I 
 dinna want tae look at the little Christian for a 
 bit." 
 
 And when the others had gone, big Cameron, 
 
 huge of structure and great in gentleness, stood in 
 
 the damp night-air, knowing that Jeanie, who was 
 
 a mother, and the Cree woman, who was mother 
 
 to Mas-ki-sis, would be better alone. And above 
 
 him, in the dead-gray wall of night, hung a 
 
 blood-red moon. 
 
 262 
 
By W. A. FRASER 
 
 Mooswa and Others 
 of the Boundaries 
 
 Illustrated by ARTHUR HE MING 
 
 " Takes its place at once beside the Jungle Book. 
 ... A group of stories, capitally told, of the lives 
 and doings of the animals in the great spruce forests 
 and lands lying north of the Saskatchewan River, in 
 northwestern Canada, which, besides being good 
 stories, contain any quantity of interesting informa- 
 tion about the lives of these animals, their relations 
 with each other, their food, and how they build their 
 houses." — Boston Herald. 
 
 *' This book is a delightful picture of the woodland 
 life of the vast stretches of that flank of the Rockies 
 toward the Arctic Circle ... It is one of the best 
 nature books ever published." — Brooklyn Eagle. 
 
 8vo, $2.00 
 Charles Scribner's Sons, New York 
 
By W. A. FRASER 
 
 THE 
 OUTCASTS 
 
 Strikingly Illustrated by 
 ARTHUR HEMING 
 
 '* It has all the charm of the Jungle Book, of which it is 
 in no sense an imitation, of Ernest Thompson Seton, of 
 Gilbert Parker* s tales of the northland. The writing is 
 charming, almost flawless; it is pathetic, curious, interesting. 
 The woodcraft and the intimate knowledge of animal Hfe and 
 habits are a revelation." — Chicago Tribune. 
 
 ** A book worthy to be classed with Thompson Seton* s 
 'Wild Animals I Have Known,' and Kipling's 'Jungle 
 Books.'" — Boston Evening Transcript. 
 
 ** Should be ranked among the very best ... It is full 
 of interest, kindly humor, and is sympathetically and delight- 
 fully told." — Atlanta Journal. 
 
 $1.25 net. [Postage, 10 Cents) 
 
 Charles Scribner's Sons, New York