"Sam! Sam!" Bela murmured piteously.

The spectators eagerly watched for the final scene of the humorous and original drama. Bela, unconscious of everybody but one man, made a lovely, appealing figure.

"Sam," she whispered, "now you know I your friend. Don' go! Wait little while. Sam--here is the bishop. Marry me, and let them laugh!"

Sam flung off the timid arm. "Marry you!" he cried with a quiet bitterness that burned like lye. "I'd sooner jump into the river!"

Empty-handed and hatless, he strode out of the shack.

"Sam, wait!" she cried, despairingly flying after.

CHAPTER XV

THE NORTH Sh.o.r.e

Into the bay that occupies the north-easterly corner of Caribou Lake empties a creek too small to have a name. To the left of its mouth, as one faces the lake, ends the long, pine-clad dune that stretches along the bottom of the lake from the intake of Musquasepi.

To the right as the sh.o.r.e turns westward the land rises a little and the forest begins. Back of the beach the little creek is masked by thickly springing willows.

An hour after the sun had pa.s.sed the meridian the branches of the willows were softly parted, and Bela's pale face looked through, her eyes tense with anxiety. She searched the lake sh.o.r.e right and left.

The wide expanse of sunny water and the bordering sh.o.r.e were empty.

Rea.s.sured, she came from behind the bushes, walking in the creek, and splashed down to the beach, still keeping wary eyes about her. She carried her gun in one hand, and over the other shoulder the carca.s.s of a wild goose hung limply.

Standing in the creek, she anxiously searched the sand of the beach for tracks. Finding none, a breath of relief escaped her. She flung the dead goose in the sand. From this position she could see down the beach as far as the intake of the little river, two miles or more away.

Careless of the icy water flowing over her feet, she stood for a while straining her keen, anxious eyes in this direction. Finally she made out a tiny dark spot moving toward her on the sand.

She retreated up the creek and crouched behind the willows in the pose of lifeless stillness she had inherited from the red side of the house. The red people in the first place learned it from the wild creatures. She watched through the leaves.

A coyote trotting with his airy gait came along the top of the dune, looking for ill-considered trifles. He squatted on his haunches a couple of hundred yards away, and his tongue hung out.

He saw the dead goose below, a rich prize; but he also saw Bela, whom no human eyes could have discovered. He hoped she might go away. He was prepared to wait until dark if necessary. However, the approach of another two-legged figure along the beach behind him presently compelled him to retreat down the other side of the dune.

Sam appeared trudging through the sand, bare-headed, coatless, tight-lipped. His eyes likewise were fastened eagerly on the dead goose. Reaching it, he stirred it with his foot. Dropping to his knees, he smelled of it. So far so good. Presently he discovered the cause of its death, a wing shattered by a bullet.

Seeing no tracks anywhere near, he concluded that it had fallen wounded from the sky. As such it was treasure trove. He set to work to gather bits of driftwood, and started a fire. His bright eyes and the celerity of his movements testified to his hunger.

From her hiding-place Bela watched him with avid eyes. No mask on her face now. The eyes brooded over him, over the fair hair, the bare throat, the pale, hard young face, that showed the la.s.situde following on violent anger.

Her whole spirit visibly yearned toward him--but she was learning self-control in a hard school. When he began to pluck the goose she set her teeth hard and stole silently away up-stream.

In the Indian village beside Hah-wah-sepi, little, crooked Musq'oosis was squatting at the door of his teepee, making a fish net. This was work his nimble fingers could still perform better than any in the tribe. Meanwhile, he smoked and dwelt on the serene reminiscences of a well-spent life.

While he worked and meditated nothing in the surrounding scene escaped the glances of his keen, old eyes. For some time he had been aware of a woman's figure hiding behind the willows across the stream, and he knew it must be Bela, for there was no canoe on that side, but he would not give her any sign.

In Musq'oosis, as in all his race, there was a coy streak. Let the other person make the first move was his guiding maxim.

Finally the mournful, idiotic cry of a loon was raised across the stream. This was a signal they had used before. Musq'oosis started with well-simulated surprise, in case she should be watching him, and, rising, waddled soberly to his dugout. n.o.body in the village above paid any particular attention to him. He crossed the stream.

Bela stepped into the bow of his boat. No greeting was exchanged. Each had the air of having parted but a few minutes before. Bela had learned Musq'oosis's own manner from him. If he wouldn't ask questions, neither would she volunteer information. Thus the two friends played the little comedy out.

Sitting at the door of his teepee, Bela said: "Let me eat. I have nothing since I get up to-day."

He put bread and smoked moose meat before her, and went on knotting his cords with an unconcerned air.

By and by Bela began to tell her story with the sullen, self-conscious air of a child expecting a scolding. But as she went on she was carried away by it, and her voice became warm and broken with emotion.

Musq'oosis, working away, gave no sign, but the still turn of his head persuaded her he was not missing anything.

When she came to tell how she had fallen upon Sam while he slept the old man was betrayed into a sharp movement.

"What for you do that?" he demanded.

Bela came to a pause and hung her head. Tears dropped on her hands. "I don' know," she murmured. "He look so pretty sleepin' on the sand--so pretty! Moon shine in his face. I am pain in my heart. Don' know w'at to do, want him so bad. I t'ink I die if I got go 'way wit'out him. I t'ink--I don' know w'at I t'ink. Want him, that's all!"

"Tcha! White woman!" said Musq'oosis disgustedly.

During the rest of the tale he muttered and frowned and wagged his head impatiently. When she came to the scene of the hearing in Gagnon's shack he could no longer contain himself.

"Fool!" he cried. "I tell you all w'at to do. Many times I tell you not let a man see you want him. But you go ask him marry you before all the people! What you come to me for now?"

Bela hung her head in silence.

"You got white woman's sickness!" cried the old man with quaint scorn.

"Tcha! _Love!_"

"Well, I am 'mos' white," muttered Bela sullenly. "Why you not tell me 'bout this sickness? Then I look out."

"There is no cure for a fool," growled Musq'oosis.

Bela finally raised her head.

"I am cure of my sickness now," she said, scowling. "I hate him!"

"Hate!" said the old man scornfully. "Your face is wet."

She dashed the tears from her cheeks. "When he ran out of Johnny Gagnon's," she went on, "I run after. I hold on him. He curse me. He throw me down. Since then I hate him. I lak make him hurt lak me. I want see him hurt bad!"

The old man looked incredulous. Questioning her sharply, he drew out the incident of the dead goose. He laughed scornfully.

"You hate him, but you got put food in his trail."

Bela hung her head. "I hate him!" she repeated doggedly.