The Shaman/Chapter 13
CHAPTER XIII.
Throughout all that swiftly passing time in which our lives had been in jeopardy neither Jack nor I had spoken a word. But now he murmured excitedly, “By God! He's got away with it! He's master of 'em all! The way he killed that chap was as cold-blooded as anything I've ever seen. What were they saying when it happened? What's he told 'em to do now? What's up with us?”
I dropped the curtain and faced him. I began to speak rapidly, explaining what I had overheard when the banging of the front door cautioned me to stop. The sound of a few rapid strides of moccasined feet intervened, and the shaman stood in the doorway—smiling! Actually smiling!
“Finish that, mebbe,” he said. “Nice here, ummh? Warm. But—sorry!—think bes' go quick. Think bes' get ready take trail. Quick!”
He dropped all his indolence and leaped across the room to where his parka was thrown across the back of a chair, jerked it over his body, and clapped his fur cap on his head. “Come!” he ordered, and we gathered our own outer garments and, donning them, followed him. He shouted something to the old woman that I did not catch; but she ran after him and we came together outside where he had opened the door of the outhouse he had used as a kennel and had begun pulling harnessed dogs from the darkness, dragging them to their places alongside the sled rope and snapping them to the rings fastened thereon.
He shouted an order to the old woman to go inside and bring the rifles which he had evidently left in her care. She returned laden with cartridge belts, rifles, and a robe or two. One of the dogs lifted its muzzle and wailed. Peluk silenced it with a savage kick, spoke soothingly to the others and commanded Jack and me to “make hard hold on sled. Mus' run quick.”
He stood at the leader's head restraining it with a hand on its collar and in his native tongue gave the old squaw her final instructions.
“If any one comes to-night you say we are asleep and not to be awakened. If no one comes until to-morrow, you say you know not when we left. Say that over for me!”
Obediently she repeated his words.
“Good,” he said and, releasing the lead dog, sprang to action, and with long, agile strides ran ahead of the team on the outward trail. The sled leaped so impetuously that both Jack and I were compelled to spring quickly to gain a handhold on it. We were jerked forward as empty, light, almost weightless, it responded to the surge and pull of the leaping animals.
I saw as we approached the eastern side of the tiny valley that we were beginning to ascend and were following an old trail. Then we began to climb stiffly up the narrow shelf that could lead to but one pass—that through which we had first entered. The village lay below us, with some of its lights still burning, and I esteemed it fortunate that the camp dogs had not yet settled to rest, but were still howling and yapping; for if silence had prevailed they would have heard our departure and aroused the village with their alarm, We climbed so steadily and at such speed that I, for one, was glad to rest when we reached the narrow gates through which we must pass. Despite the fact that in all that long and strenuous upward journey he had led the way, and had therefore nothing to cling to that might assist him forward, Peluk was far less winded than either Jack or I.
“Wait,” he ordered and went back down the side of the mountain for some distance, where I saw that he assumed an attitude of intent listening as if to learn whether any sounds from below might indicate an alarm. Apparently satisfied he returned to us and said, almost genially, “Very nice. Think mebbe not find out till morning we gone.”
We slid and scrambled down that woeful declivity, landing in a confused bunch of snarling dogs at the bottom, and the shaman straightened the team out and prepared to start. Then as if thinking of something essential, he came back to the sled and unlashed the three rifles that lay in the bottom. He inspected each in turn, made certain that the chambers were full, and, much to my surprise, handed one each to Jack and me, together with cartridge belts that he advised us to buckle on.
“No can tell if chase; but if do—by damn, when me say shootum, you shootum to kill! Unnerstan'? You my friend, see?” he said addressing me. “Me do bes' can for you. No more can do. Me give gun, now, but if me say giveum gun back, no can do more for you, and you giveum back, ummh?”
We instantly caught his meaning, which was that if worst came to worst in the final end, and he himself were overborne, we must for his sake submit. I had found it possible on our way up the long slope to explain to Jack that in the mining camp the shaman's authority as chief had been disputed and rejected. Evidently Peluk feared that if we ever reached the main village it might occur again, leaving him bereft of authority and impotent.
When we resumed our flight I fell to speculating on all that I had heard, and the outlook was not reassuring. I had not told Jack, through lack of opportunity, that I had distinctly understood that it was Madame Malitka who had ordered the shaman to destroy all those others who had encroached upon her domain—and who had probably commanded our destruction as well. The inhumanity and deceit of that extraordinary woman seemed nothing less than monstrous, when I recalled how she had bidden us farewell and sent us forth to death. The callous indifference toward human life displayed by the shaman seemed honorable by comparison. He had at least the condonement of being nothing more than a savage by breeding and instinct, and a hunter and slayer of living things; but he had not thus far actually betrayed us. True he had exercised a cunning entirely his own in accompanying us as guide and then over powering us, but had later defended us with merciless loyalty at the risk of his own life. Furthermore, he had not deigned to mention to us the fact that he had that night killed a man in our defense.
This thought led me to another question, which was whether he had slain Tzitka in our behalf or merely to preserve his own authority; whether he might not have surrendered us for execution, after all, had that delegation refrained from supplanting him as chief of the tribe. I could not comprehend his motives nor come to a decision. I had seen him smile with an almost childlike candor when showing me a carved button; smile when he lied to me about his knowledge of firearms; smile to me when telling how for nine days he had trailed over winter snows to kill a white man and native traitors who had accompanied him in that last flight; smile with the same bland visage while standing almost astride the still quivering body of Tzitka, whom he had slain.
And now he had voluntarily handed us rifles and ammunition with the request that if he recalled them we were to surrender without protest, and had called me “friend!”
His actions were too contradictory for me to follow. He had captured us ruthlessly and then preserved our lives. He had lied to rob me of a pistol and then equipped us with firearms.
I had been running like an automaton, clinging to the side bar of the sled that carried no burden other than a single, small bundle lashed amidships. Lifting my eyes to scan our surroundings, everything for a moment seemed unreal, impossible. Yet the moon shone steadfast and serene, illuminating everything, the distant patches of forest, the high glittering mountain peaks, the white expanse of snow over which we fled. A weird picture it must have been to any who could have watched our flight. Yards ahead and with arms bent to his sides ran the huge but tirelessly nimble shape of the shaman; behind him strung out for more yards the steadily leaping forms of great dogs, silver-gray with frost upon fur where they had perpetually galloped through the vapors of their own breaths; and, last of all, came the bounding, careening sled, to which clung two other running shapes, my partner and I. From the lips of men and the panting mouths of dogs came regularly an almost impalpable tiny, ephemeral cloud of steam that speedily froze and fell in snow dust. It did not seem possible that we were fleeing for life—or at least respite—or that we ran from menace behind to meet other and perhaps more inexorable dangers ahead.
I half expected that the shaman would leave the gold trail when he came to the place where we had entered it on our in ward journey; but he did not. Instead we passed it and its scars, flashing by in haste. We ran for perhaps two miles more before he suddenly shouted to the dogs, threw up a hand to us, halted, and came lunging back to speak to us. He was breathing heavily when he stopped and, as usual, ignoring Jack, addressed himself to me.
“Think bes' you keep dogs quiet, ummh? No noise, unnerstan'? Mus' go back small way and lissen, ummh? We come fas' but—mebbe others come more fas'. Mus' make sure, ummh? Wait you, here. Me come back bimeby.”
He slid backward along the moonlit trail, rounded a bend of intervening cliffs, and was lost to sight.
“That old devil is as tireless as a locomotive!” Jack muttered, and threw himself into the sled to rest. “If he's taking us back to Malitka, I think we've got a chance. What did you make out of all that row back there—that you haven't told me?”
I hastened to fill in with hurried sentences all that I had not imparted, reserving until the very last what Tzitka had indicated of Malitka's guilt. I voiced that part carefully, slowly, punctiliously precise in repetition of Tzitka's words. Jack sat up in the body of the sled where he had stretched himself, leaned both elbows on the side rails, and then climbed out.
“Old man,” he said, “I can't believe it! You've not understood everything, or”
“I understood every word they spoke.”
“Then,” he said, after a pause, “why is he taking us back to her village?”
“Taking us back to the village doesn't mean that he's taking us back to her,” I retorted. “Maybe he's taking us through the village. Going on beyond. That this is the best and only way out. Anyhow”
I had no time to say more, for the shaman came tearing down upon us, running as if for life, bawling orders as he came. He did not pause as he came abreast us, but hurried up to the dog team and stirred the animals to action.
“Run! Mus' run!” he shouted back. “Men in camp know we gone. Come fas' with dogs. Hearum plain! Injun run more fas' as white man. Bimeby catch us. Run!”
And then, as never before, we ran!
It was a long time before I caught any sound other than that produced by our own flight. And then I heard the faint bay of a wolf dog. I pictured a man clinging to a thong of harness, taking great, sweeping strides as the loping animal tugged and assisted him forward.
Peluk's acute ears must have noted that warning, for now he shouted to me, “Come quick. Take lead. Mus' drop back.”
I ran forward, slowly gaining over the dog team until I was by his side.
“You know trail. Follow it,” he shouted. “I go back to holdum. You keep on till bimeby me catchum you. If no catchum you, run! Go Lady's house. Mebbe she help, mebbe no help. You no stop, but run! Always run!”
He jumped to one side and speedily I was left alone, running as he had instructed, with the lead dog's nose close at my heels.
For some minutes I heard nothing more disturbing than the sounds of our own flight. After a while I shouted over my shoulder to Jack to relieve me of the pacemaking, and he surged forward while I fell behind until the sled came abreast and then lurched over on its side bar and caught my breath. I had barely gained it when from behind I heard the sharp explosion of a rifle shot, followed instantly by two others, then by the faint, wailing scream of a man's voice in agony and the wild yelping of a dog in pain. A moment later I heard five shots in rapid succession, as if some one had fired a volley at random. They sounded as if fired from the same rifle. Jack, too, heard them, and suddenly halted the dog team and came running bade to me.
“The shaman's a damned old murderer,” he panted. “But—he's fighting for us, after all—back there on his own—and I don't like it! You go on with the dogs and see if you can't get Malitka to send us help. I'm going back to join Peluk!”
“Go yourself,” I retorted. “If any one can get Malitka to help, it's you—not me! And, what's more, I doubt if she'd do anything for either of us, but she might for the shaman. He's her right hand.”
“Nonsense! Don't be a fool!” he cried, reaching for the rifle that he had laid in the sled when taking his turn in leading the dogs. But mine was already in my hand and I was running from him, shouting that whatever happened one of us must keep the dogs from escaping, as they might prove our last salvation.
When last I saw him he was evidently trying to anchor the sled so that it could not be pulled away by the animals, and was having much difficulty in his task. I ran forward and, as I did so, heard four or five more shots, each sounding nearer, and warning me that I was approaching the point of conflict. Suddenly the unmistakable humming of a bullet sped past my ear, followed immediately by a report, and I threw myself to one side on my belly, bringing my rifle to bear on the trail which was open for perhaps a hundred and fifty yards ahead.
Almost instantly I heard a voice not far distant, that of the shaman, in its usual pleasant drawl, “Ugh! So my friend come back to help me, ummh?”
“Of course, Peluk,” I called back, still keeping my eyes fixed on the white moonlit strip. “Did you think I'd leave you here alone to fight for us?”
“Ummh! Much bes' you run fas' what I told you do; but—me unnerstan'. Friends, we—sure!” He paused a minute and then added carelessly, “Think mebbe me shootum two mans. Sure one. Mebbe when see you come help me they got 'fraid and”
A swift spurt of flame from behind a tree exposed to me his position and from up in front came a scream that could have been nothing other than a death wail. His eyes, keener than mine, had discovered movement, a target, and he had fired. A volley of aimless shots ripped and scarred the tree trunks about us, a dog off in the distance howled as if impatient to be unleashed, and there was a moment's silence. Then the same calm, placid voice went on, as if there had been no interruption at all.
“And they think mebbe bes' not come too close, ummh? Me think mebbe they try come behind. So bes' we run fas', then stop again, ummh?”
It was my turn to interrupt. A dark figure had lifted itself to its feet and started to bound across the trail as if seeking to join companions on the opposite side. When I fired it seemed to be caught in mid-air, bounded convulsively upward and fell in a black heap. The echoes had not died away when the shaman was on his feet and dodging rapidly between the trees and shadows shouting, “That good! Come on!” But to my astonishment he was running toward our enemies instead of from them. Furthermore he bellowed a loud, defiant war cry as he charged, a lone man intent upon coming to close quarters with many men.
I am neither a coward nor a brave man; but for an instant his uncompromising valor jarred me! My own judgment bade me lie still. I don't know what obsessed me in that instant, unless it was a weird and foolish intoxication of fray, but I found myself running as he ran, dodging trees, keeping in shadows, charging forward and shouting like a madman.
Evidently our attack was so unexpected, so fiercely pushed, so recklessly pursued, that our enemies were bewildered. Six or eight targets suddenly presented themselves there in the moonlight. I dropped to my knee and began firing, long practice with the rifle directing my aim. As if the same targets had presented themselves to the shaman, he too was firing. I don't know which one of us proved the most efficient. I do know that at least three dark shapes lay in the open trail, one of which writhed and rolled in an agony of wounds. I had leaped forward again, and again dropped to my knee to get steady aim at another leaping shadow, when my rifle was seized and twisted upward and the shaman stood over me.
“Me think that enough,” he observed in about the same tone of voice that he might have used if discussing the completion of a carved button. “Think mebbe bes' we run fas' now and find sled. Takeum some time help other Injuns who got what you callum—hit, ummh? By time they get brave again, we gone. Long way down trail, ummh? Come!”
His placidity had its effect upon me. My fighting ardor cooled. When his hand had caught me by an arm and bodily lifted me to my feet as if I were of no weight, he started and ran, still avoiding the open trail, dodging trees, and keeping in shadows, and I ran after him. We encountered a running figure in the open trail and heard Jack's challenge.
“Had a devil of a time fastening up that pack of dogs,” he panted. “Was afraid I'd be too late. Hello, Peluk! You're a game old sport! But—for God's sake, man!—you're hit!”
We sprang together to catch the shaman as he sagged to his knees. We jerked his Mackinaw open, ripped his prized blue flannel shirt down the front and found his undershirt soaked with blood from a nasty wound in the shoulder. By the time we had cleansed it with handfuls of snow he revived and sat up.
“Peluk,” I demanded, “when did you get that?”
“That first shot fired,” he remarked.
“Then why didn't you say something to me sooner?”
“What use. Got heap business when you come.” He struggled to get up despite the fact that we had not yet finished bandaging him with strips of his shirt. “Got more business now. Me no squaw. Man—me! Peluk! Tyune still!”
Between us we supported him—no easy task considering his great bulk—until we reached the sled into which we laid him. He was too weak to do more than protest, but his voice was the same—drawling, pleasant, resonant. It took us five minutes of frantic energy to release dogs and sled, and all the time we momentarily expected to be interrupted by a rifle bullet. None came. When Jack ran ahead to lead the dogs and I fell to the handlebars to steady the sled with its-burden, the shaman was sitting up with his back resting against the incline of the frame and his sturdy legs crossed.
“Been lissenin',” he rumbled. “No can hear nossings. Mus' be native mans got enough. Gone back me think. Give me rifles. Me load 'em up again, so if fools come can shoot more, ummh? Me very sorry no can run. Go more fas'. But good dogs, ummh? Very nice dogs. Go quick. Go strong.”
As we slid away over the trail with the shaman fighting his weakness, weaving from side to side and determinedly forcing fresh cartridges into the rifles, I strove to hear what sounds might come from behind. It was perhaps five minutes before I heard one that I was not likely to forget. It was the high ululation of a timber wolf that had caught a scent. The shaman, too, caught that savage note of-the wild and turned his head sidewise and cupped a hand over an ear. We heard it repeated. From still more distance came an answering wail and then another. Then, faintly, it arose to a scattered choral and sharply there cut in the staccato stabs of rifle shots. The shaman shouted to Jack to stop, and in that waiting pause listened intently. We heard two more shots and savage animal calls, but they were fainter, dying away. The shaman turned his head, settled himself comfortably in the sled and laughed.
“That good joke, ummh? One time wolf chase my white friend, nearly eatum. Now wolf come back chase damn fool Injuns, not us. Sure eat some, mebbe eat all! Very good if do, ummh? Hope so. Me no longer chief, ummh?” And he laughed as cheerfully as if he were unwounded and this one of the most humorous situations in which he had ever found himself. “But bes' we go on now. If wolf no get bellyful, mebbe come finish feed on us, ummh? Go now!”
The old rascal laid there in the sled chuckling for a long time as we fled down the moonlit trail. In time forebodings of pursuit by either wolves or human beings were dissipated and all sounds died away. We entered the final stretch leading through the forest outskirts of Malitka's village before I shouted to Jack to relieve me.
When I fell back to my turn at such rest as was afforded by the sled, the shaman was sound asleep with his great head lolling this way or that when the sled struck a bunch of hardened snow and bounced.