Cæsar Cascabel/Part 1/Chapter X
CHAPTER X.
KAYETTE.
[edit]ON hearing the cries, Mr. Cascabel, John, Sander, and Clovy rushed out of the wagon.
“It is this way,” said John, pointing to the edge of the forest which bordered the frontier line.
“Let us listen again!” said Mr. Cascabel.
This was useless. No other cry was uttered, no other detonation followed the first two that had been heard.
“Might it be an accident?” suggested Sander.
“In any case,” answered John, “one thing certain is, that the cries we heard were cries of distress, and that, somewhere about here, there is somebody in danger.”
“You must go and bring help!” said Cornelia.
“Yes, lads, come along,” answered Mr. Cascabel, “and let us be well armed!”
After all, it might not be an accident. A traveler might have been the victim of a murderous assault on the Alaskan frontier. Hence it was prudent that they should be prepared to defend themselves as well as to defend others.
Almost without losing an instant, Mr. Cascabel and John, each supplied with a gun, and Sander and Clovy, with a revolver, left the Fair Rambler to the keeping of Cornelia and the two dogs.
For five or six minutes they followed the edge of the wood. Now and then they stopped to listen: no noise disturbed the silence of the forest. They felt sure, none the less, that the cries had come from this direction, and from no great distance.
“Unless we were the dupes of an illusion?” hinted Mr. Cascabel.
“No, father,” replied John, “that could not be! Hark!—do you hear?”
This time, there was indeed a call for help; it was not the voice of a man, as in the first instance, but that of a woman or a child.
The night was still very dark, and, under the canopy of the trees, nothing could be discerned beyond a few yards.
Clovy had at first suggested taking one of the wagon lamps with him; but Mr. Cascabel had objected to it on the score of prudence, and, on the whole, it was better for them not to be seen going along.
Besides, the cries were now getting very frequent, and sufficiently distinct to guide our relief party.
Indeed it seemed likely that there would be no necessity for going very deep into the woods.
Sure enough, five minutes later, Mr. Cascabel and his three companions had come to a little clearing in the forest. There, two men lay on the ground. A woman, kneeling near one of them, held up his head between her arms.
This was the woman whose cries had last been heard, and, in the Chinook dialect, of which Cascabel had a smattering, she called out:
“Come!—Come!—They have killed them!”
John drew near to the scared woman all besprinkled with the blood flowing from the breast of the unfortunate man that she endeavored to bring back to life.
“This one breathes still!” said John.
“And the other?” inquired Mr. Cascabel.
“The other—I don't know about him!” replied Sander.
Mr. Cascabel stooped to see if the throbbing of the heart or the breathing through the lips betrayed the least remnant of life in the man.
“He is quite dead!” he said.
And it was but too true; a bullet had struck him in the temple; his death must have been instantaneous.
And now, what was this woman, whose language proclaimed her Indian origin? Was she young or old? This could not be seen in the dark, under the hood drawn over her head. But, it would be ascertained later on; she would tell whence she came, as well as the circumstances under which this two-fold murder had been committed. The first thing to be done was to convey to the camp the man who was still breathing and to give him such immediate tending as might perchance save his life. As to his dead companion, they would come and pay the last duties to him on the following day.
With the aid of John, Mr. Cascabel raised the wounded man by his shoulders, whilst Sander and Clovy took him up by his feet. Then turning to the woman:
“Follow us,” said he to her.
And the latter, without any hesitation, walked by the side of the body, stanching with a kerchief the blood still flowing from the wound.
Progress was slow. The man was heavy; and above all, care should be taken to avoid jolting him, It was a living man Mr. Cascabel meant to bring to the Fair Rambler, not a corpse.
At last, at the end of twenty minutes, the whole party reached the wagon without any mishap.
Cornelia and little Napoleona, thinking they might have been attacked, were awaiting their return in deep anxiety.
“Quick, Cornelia!” cried Mr. Cascabel, “some water, some linen, everything that is wanted to stop a hemorrhage or else this unfortunate man will lose all consciousness.”
“All right, all right,” replied Cornelia. “You know I am good at that, Cæser. Not so much talking, and leave him to me!”
She was good at it, was Cornelia; and many were the wounds she had dressed, in the course of her professional career.
Clovy spread out, in the first compartment, a mattress on which the body was laid, the head slightly raised with a bolster. By the light of the lamp in the ceiling, they were then able to see the man's face, already blanched by approaching death, and likewise the features of the Indian woman who was kneeling by his side.
She was a young girl; she did not seem over fifteen or sixteen years of age.
“Who is this child?” asked Cornelia.
“It is she we heard calling for help,” replied John; “she was near the wounded man.”
The latter might be forty-five years old; his beard and hair were turning gray; he was above the middle height, of a sympathetic cast of features, and the firmness of his character could be read even through his closed eyelids, despite the deathly pallor of his face. From time to time, a sigh broke through his lips, but not a word escaped him that would denote his nationality.
When his chest was laid bare, Cornelia was able to see that it had been transpierced by a poniard between the third and fourth ribs. Was the wound a fatal one? A surgeon alone could have said so. What was beyond a doubt was its severity.
However, as the attendance of a surgeon was out of the question under existing circumstances, they should remain satisfied with such attentions as lay in Cornelia's power and such drugs as were contained in their little traveling pharmacy.
This was done, and the hemorrhage, from which death would have quickly followed, was effectually stopped. Later on they would see if, absolutely prostrated as he was, this man might be conveyed to the nearest village or not. And this time, Mr. Cascabel would not trouble to inquire whether it was Anglo-Saxon or not.
After carefully washing the lips of the wound with cold water, Cornelia laid on it some strips of linen steeped in arnica; and this dressing proved sufficient to stop the blood, which the wounded man had lost in such quantity from the time of the attempted murder to his arrival at the camp.
“And now, Cornelia,” inquired Mr. Cascabel, “what can we do?”
“Well, we shall lay this poor man on our bed,” replied Cornelia, “and I shall keep watch over him, to renew the dressing when needs be.”
“We shall all watch him,” said John. “Could we go asleep, do you think? Besides, we must keep on the lookout! There are murderers about!”
Mr. Cascabel, John, and Clovy took the man and laid him on the bed in the inner room.
And while Cornelia stood by the bedside, spying a word that was not spoken, the young Indian, whose dialect Mr. Cascabel did his best to interpret, related her history.
She was, as had been surmised, a native, belonging to one of the independent tribes of Alaska. In this province, to the north and to the south of the big river Yukon which waters it from east to west, you come across numerous tribes, some wandering, others sedentary, and, among them, the Co-Yukons, the chief and the most cruel perhaps, then the Newicarguts, the Tanands, the Kotch-a-Koutchins, and also, more especially near the mouth of the river, the Pastoliks, the Kaveaks, the Primosks, the Malemutes, and the Ingeletes.
It was to this last tribe that the young Indian woman belonged, and her name was Kayette.
Kayette had lost her father and her mother, and had not one relative left. Nor do families alone thus utterly disappear among the natives; whole tribes do so, no trace of which is to be found afterwards in the territory of Alaska.
Such the Midland tribe, which formerly occupied the north of the Yukon.
Kayette, thus left an orphan, had started off toward the south, through those countries of which she had a certain knowledge thanks to her previously visiting them with the wandering Indians. Her intention was to go to Sitka, where she hoped to be engaged as a servant by some Russian official. And surely she ought to have been engaged on the mere recommendation of her gentle, pleasing, honest countenance. She was very handsome, with the least tinge of red in her complexion, dark eyes with long lashes, and a luxuriance of dark hair held up in the hood of fur that she wore over her head.
Of middle height, she seemed graceful and light in spite of her heavy cloak.
Among these Indian races of North America, as is known, the bright and merry-tempered children grow up quickly. At ten years of age, the boys can use the gun and the hatchet skillfully. At fifteen, young girls marry, and, even at that age, prove devoted mothers. And so Kayette was more sober, stronger-willed likewise, than her age would imply; and the long journey she had just undertaken was very evident proof of her strength of character. For a month already she had been on the tramp toward the southwest of Alaska; and she had reached the narrow strip of land, close to the island in which the capital is situated, when, journeying along the edge of the forest, she had heard two reports of fire-arms, followed by cries of despair, at a distance of a few hundred paces.
These were the cries that had reached the ears of the occupants of the Fair Rambler.
Instantly Kayette had courageously plunged into the wood.
And no doubt her approach must have given the alarm, for she barely had time to get a glimpse of two men running away through the thicket. But evidently the wretches would have noticed very soon that they had been scared by a child; and, as a matter of fact, they were already returning to the clearing to rob their victims, when the coming of Mr. Cascabel and his party had frightened them—and, this time, frightened them right away.
In the presence of these two men lying on the ground, one a corpse, the other still breathing, young Kayette had called for help, and the reader knows what had taken place subsequently. The first cries heard by Mr. Cascabel were those of the assaulted travelers, the second had been uttered by the young Indian woman.
The night passed by. Our friends had no occasion to repel an attack on the part of the murderers; they, doubtless, had hastened to leave the scene of their crime.
Next morning, Cornelia could report no change in the state of the wounded man, no cause for less anxiety.
It was now that Kayette proved of great utility by going and gathering certain herbs of which she knew the antiseptic properties. She made an infusion of these, and, steeped in this liquid, the dressing did not allow one drop of blood to ooze through.
In the course of the morning, it was noticed that the wounded man was commencing to breathe more freely; but, as yet, they were only sighs—not even broken words—that escaped his lips. And so, it was impossible to learn who he was, whence he came, where he was going, what his business was on the Alaskan frontier, under what circumstances his companion and he were attacked, and who their aggressors were.
In any case, if money had been the motive of their crime, the scoundrels, in their hurried flight on the approach of the young Indian, had missed a fortune the like of which they would hardly ever find again in these solitary parts.
For, Mr. Cascabel having undressed the wounded man, had found, in a leather belt closely fitted around his waist, a quantity of gold coins of American and of Russian currency. The whole amounted to about fifteen thousand francs. This sum was carefully put aside, to be restored to its owner as soon as possible.
As to papers, there were none, save a pocket-book with a few notes, some scribbled in Russian, some in French. Nothing there was, that would help to ascertain the identity of the stranger.
That morning, about nine o'clock, John said:
“Father, we have a last duty to perform toward that unburied corpse.”
“You are right, John, come on. Maybe we shall find on him some writing that may help us. You, Clovy, you had better come, too. Bring a pick and a shovel with you.”
Supplied with these tools, and careful to take their firearms with them, the three men left the wagon, and made their way along that same edge of the wood that they had followed the previous night.
In a few minutes' time, they had reached the spot where the murder had been committed.
What seemed to permit of little doubt was that the two wayfarers had encamped there for the night. There were still the signs of a halt, the remnants of a fire, the ashes of which were still alive. At the foot of a huge fir-tree a quantity of grass had been heaped up, so that the two travelers might have a soft bed to lie on, and indeed they may have been asleep when they were attacked.
As to the dead man, the rigor mortis had already set in.
To judge by his dress, his features, his hard hands, it was easy to see that this man—he might have been thirty at most—was the other's servant.
John searched his pockets. He found no paper. No money was there either. From his belt hung a revolver, of American make, that the poor fellow had not had time to use.
Evidently the attack had been sudden and unforeseen, and the two victims had fallen at the same time.
At this hour, round about the neighborhood of the clearing, the forest was undisturbed by a living soul. After a short exploration, John returned without seeing anybody. It was plain the murderers had not come back, for they surely would have taken the garments of their victim, or at the very least the revolver still hanging on his belt.
Meanwhile, Clovy had dug a grave deep enough to prevent the wild animals clawing out the corpse. The dead man was lowered into it, and John said a few words of a prayer when the clay had been shoveled back over him.
Whereupon Mr. Cascabel, his son, and Clovy returned to the camp. There, while Kayette remained by the wounded man, John, his father, and his mother held a consultation among themselves.
“It is certain,” began Mr. Cascabel, “that if we turn our steps toward California, our man will never get there alive. We have hundreds upon hundreds of miles to get over. The best thing would be to make a shot for Sitka, if those hangable police-folk did not forbid us to set our foot on their territory!”
“And do what they like, to Sitka it is that we must go,” answered Cornelia resolutely, “and to Sitka we will go!”
“And how can we? We wont have gone a mile of ground before we are arrested.”
“No matter, Cæsar! Go we must, and with a bold face! If we meet the guards, we shall tell them what has happened, and surely they could not refuse to this unfortunate man what they did refuse us!”
Mr. Cascabel shook his head with an air of doubt.
“Mother is right,” said John. “Let us endeavor to push on to Sitka, even without seeking at the hands of the officials a permit that they will not give us. It would be a loss of time. Besides, it is just possible that they think we are on the way to Sacramento and that they have gone about their business. For the last twenty-four hours we have not seen one of them.”
“That is right,” answered Mr. Cascabel, “I should not be surprised if they were gone.”
“Unless—” remarked Clovy, who had just joined the discussion.
“Yes—unless—We know the rest!” replied Mr. Cascabel.
John's remark was quite correct, and there was perhaps nothing better to do than take the road to Sitka.
A quarter of an hour after, Vermont and Gladiator were in harness.
After their good rest during this prolonged halt at the frontier, they could measure a fair extent of ground for their first day's work. The Fair Rambler started, and it was with undisguised pleasure that Mr. Cascabel left Columbian territory.
“Children,” said he, “let us keep our eye open, and let it be our weather eye. As to you, John, silence your gun! It is quite needless to proclaim our passage.”
“As to that, the kitchen has no chance of running short!” added Mrs. Cascabel.
The country north of Columbia, though rather uneven, is easy for a vehicle, even when you follow the numerous channels which separate the archipelagos on the edge of the continent. No mountains in view, to the furthest limits of the horizon. Now and then, but very seldom, a solitary farm, to which our party carefully refrained from paying a visit. Having studied the map of the country thoroughly, John found out his way easily, and he was in hopes of reaching Sitka without needing the services of a guide.
What was of the utmost importance was to avoid a meeting with any officials whether frontier guards or inland police. Now, along the first stages of the journey, the Fair Rambler seemed to be left entirely free to ramble away as it chose. This was a remarkable thing. And Mr. Cascabel's surprise was only equaled by his satisfaction.
Cornelia put down the gratifying fact to the credit of Providence, and her husband was inclined to do the same. As to John, he was under the impression that some circumstance or other must have altered the proceedings of the Muscovite administration.
Things went on in this way throughout the length of the 6th and of the 7th of June. They were drawing near to Sitka. The Fair Rambler might have made greater speed perhaps, but Cornelia dreaded the jolting for her invalid, whom Kayette and herself continued to tend, one as a mother, the other as a daughter. If, on the one hand, he had not grown worse, it could not be said either that he was much better. The scanty resources of the little pharmacy, the trifle that the two women were able to do for so serious a case and when the aid of a medical man would have been a necessity, all that could hardly be sufficient. Tender care could not prove a substitute for science,—and alas that it should be so! for never did sisters of charity display greater self-denial. Indeed, the young Indian's zeal and intelligence had been appreciated by all. She looked as though she were already a member of the family. She was, in a sort of way, a second daughter that heaven had sent to Mrs. Cascabel.
On the 7th, in the afternoon, the Fair Rambler forded across Stekine River, a little stream which flows into one of the narrow passes between the mainland and the Isle of Baranoff, a few leagues only from Sitka.
In the evening, the wounded man was able to utter a few words:
“My father—yonder—see him again!” he murmured.
These words were said in Russian; Mr. Cascabel had understood them clearly.
There was likewise a name that was repeated several times: “Ivan—Ivan—”
No doubt this was the name of the luckless servant who had been murdered by the side of his master. It was very probable that both of them were of Russian origin.
However that might be, as the wounded man was now recovering both his power of speech and his memory, it would not be long ere the Cascabels knew his history.
On that day, the Fair Rambler had gone as far as the banks of the narrow channel that must be crossed to reach the Isle of Baranoff. And accordingly it became a necessity to have recourse to the boatmen who ply ferries across these numerous straits. Now, Mr. Cascabel could never hope of opening negotiations with the natives of the country without betraying his nationality. It was to be feared that the awkward question of passports should crop up once more.
“Well,” said he, “in any case our Russian will have come to Sitka. If the police send us back to the frontier, they surely will keep their own countryman, and since we began his recovery, it will be the devil if they can't manage to set him right on his feet.”
All this sounded very reasonable; still our travelers were anything but free from anxiety concerning the welcome that was awaiting them. It would be such a cruel blow, now they were in Sitka, to have to turn round and face the road to New York.
Meanwhile, whilst the wagon stood waiting on the bank of the canal, John had gone to make the necessary inquiries about the ferry and the boatmen.
Just then, Kayette came and told Mr. Cascabel that his wife wanted him, and he hastened toward her.
“Our invalid has quite recovered consciousness,” said Cornelia. “He talks, Cæsar, and you must try and understand what he says!”
As a matter of fact, the Russian had opened his eyes and surveyed with an inquiring look the people he saw for the first time about him. Now and then, incoherent words fell from his lips.
And then, in a tone of voice so weak as to be scarcely audible, he called his servant Ivan.
“Sir,” said Cascabel, “your servant-man is not here, but we are—”
At these words, spoken in French, the wounded man replied in the same language:
“Where am I?”
“With people who have taken care of you, sir.”
“But in what country?”
“In a country where you have nothing to fear, if you are a Russian.”
“A Russian—yes—a Russian!”
“Well, you are in the province of Alaska, within a short distance of the capital.”
“Alaska!” murmured the stranger.
And you would have fancied that a feeling of terror had overclouded his features.
“The Russian possessions!” he repeated.
“No! An American possession now!” cried John as he entered the room.
And, through the little open window of the Fair Rambler, he showed the American stars and stripes waving from the flag-post on the coast.
Sure enough, the province of Alaska had ceased to be Russian three days before.
Three days previous, the treaty by which it was ceded to the United States had been signed. Henceforth the Cascabels had nothing more to apprehend at the hands of Russian officials. They were on American ground!