Deep Furrows | Page 7

anxious driver of the grain wagon. "Jailing him only makes a hero of
him and that's the kind of thing the beggar glories in. The
son-of-a-gun!"
One by one throughout the afternoon the miles crept tediously beneath
the wagon. The sun which had steeped the stubble in gold all day had
turned the sky and was poising for its nightly dip below the horizon by
the time the long misty blue line of the Qu'Appelle hills began to creep
from the prairie. When the lone traveller at last could count the deep
shadowy coulees the sun had disappeared, but the riot of after-fires still
burned brightly in the west. He had passed his own place hours before,
but had stopped there only for a change of horses and a brief rest; a
parcel and an important message which he wished to deliver in person
at Fort Qu'Appelle without delay was extending his day's journey.
Six hundred feet below the level of the plain the grassy slopes of the
Qu'Appelle Valley bowled to the blue lakes. Hugging the water's edge,
the buildings of the romantic old fort scattered in the twilight. The
winding trail stood out like a white thread that reached down the valley
towards the Catholic Mission of Lebret.
Before heading into the steep descent the farmer from over Abernethy
way slipped on his heavy cardigan jacket; for behind the rim of the hills

the sunset fires were dying and already the coolness of the October
night was making itself felt. At the mouth of a coulee he spoke to a
solitary Indian, standing motionless before a camp fire. The appetizing
odor of roasting wild fowl reminded him that he was more than ready
for the "bite to eat" which he would enjoy with the good Father
Hugonard at the Indian Mission--he of the dark, gentle eyes, the quick
understanding, the quiet tones. There would be much to talk about.
So it proved. The hour was growing late when finally he bade good-bye
to his pleasant host and resumed his journey in the starlight, refreshed
and encouraged. For here in the seclusion of this peaceful valley, since
the days of the great buffalo herds, Father Hugonard had ministered to
the Indians, starved with them, worked patiently with them through
many seasons of flowers and snows. Nevertheless, out of many
discouragements and privations had this sterling man retained an
abiding faith in the triumph of righteousness in all things.
In the quiet beauty of the wonderful October night was little place for
the anxious thoughts of the day. Bitterness of spirit, the bickerings of
men, commercial Oppression and injustice--these were things far
removed from the planets of the Ages that sparkled like jewels in the
vault of Night. A vagrant breeze whispered in the valley sedges to the
placid lake. High in the air, invisible, migrating wavies winged into the
south, the distant gabble of their passing falling weirdly earthward.
The trail began to ascend sharply. Off to the right the sky was growing
rapidly lighter behind a distant hill and presently a lop of yellow moon
crept slowly over the edge and rose into the air like a broken chalice,
chasing the shadows to their retreats.
As he watched it the driver of the grain wagon recalled again the old
Indian legend that haunted this valley and had given it its name--how,
long ago, a young Indian chieftain was paddling his canoe through
these waters on his way to win a bride when suddenly above "the night
wind's melancholy song" he heard a voice calling him through the
twilight. "Qu'appelle? Qu'appelle?" he answered in French. "Who
calls?" But only his own voice came back in echoes while the gloom of
night deepened and a wan moon rose silently behind the distant hill.

Then when he reached the Indian encampment it was only to see the
death fires lighted on the shore, to hear the wail of women and to learn
that just before her lips had closed forever, his beloved had called for
him--just at the moon-rise. Thus, ever since, the Indians claimed,
strange spirit voices spoke through the lone valley at every rising of the
moon.
Thrilled by the beauty of the valley scene, misty in the moonlight, the
big farmer half unconsciously drew rein and listened. All he could hear
at first was the impatient stamp of his horses' feet, the mouthing of the
bits as the animals tossed their heads restlessly, the clink of the
trace-chains; but presently he sensed a subdued undertone of night
noises that wafted mysteriously over the silver water. It was nothing
that could be recognized definitely; rather was it an impression of
strangely merged minor sounds that grew upon him as imagination was
given play under the influence of time and place. It