The Maid of the Whispering Hills | Page 3

"There is yet life, M'sieu. See! The breath lifts in his sides. Is there
naught to be done when one sleeps, so? He is so strong at the sledges
and he did not whimper,--no, not once,--when DesCaut was beating
him to death. Is there nothing, M'sieu?"
Very pretty she was in her pleading, the little Francette, with her misty

eyes and the frank tears on her cheeks; and McElroy went to the river
and filled his cap with water. This he poured into the open jaws and
sopped over the blood-clotted head, wetting the limp feet and watching
for the life she so bravely proclaimed.
And presently it was there, twitching a battered muscle; lifting the side
with its broken ribs, fluttering the lids over the fierce eyes; for this was
Loup, the fiercest husky this side of the Athabasca.
With pity McElroy gathered up the great dog, staggering under the load,
for it was that of a big-framed man, and entered the post, the little maid
at has side. Near the gate a running crowd met them, for the tale had
spread apace and wondering eyes looked on.
Down to the southern wall where lived the family of Francette they
went, and the factor laid Loup in the shade of the cabin.
"If he lives, little one, he shall be yours," said he, "for he is worth a
tender hand. We'll try its power."
And as he turned away he caught a glimpse of the tall stranger looking
at them from a distance.
Small it was and crowded, this little trading post of the great Hudson's
Bay Company in that year of 1796, and a goodly stream of beaver
found its way through it to the mighty outside world.
Squatted alone on the shores of the Assiniboine, shouldering back the
wilderness with the spirit of the conqueror, it faced the rising sun with
its square stockade, strong and well built, log by log, its great,
brass-studded gate in the eastern centre, its four bastions rising at its
corners.
Here was a little world of itself, a small community of voyageurs,
trappers, coureurs du bois, and a11 those that cast their lot in the wild
places.
Adventurers from the Old World often passed through it on their way
to the farther west, lured by the tales of dreamers who spoke of the
Northwest Passage and the world that opened beyond the setting sun;
renegades of the lakes and forest came for and found its ready
hospitality, and into it came at all seasons those Indians whose skill and
cunning accounted for so much of that great fur trade which made for
wealth in the distant cities beyond the eastern sea.
Too small for a council, it gave allegiance wholly to its factor, young
Anders McElroy, at whose right hand for sage advice and honest

friendship stood that most admirable of men, Edmonton Ridgar, chief
trader and anything else from accountant to armourer. Beneath them
and in good command were some thirty able men whose families lived
in the neat log cabins within the stockade.
With its back to the western wall there stood in the centre the factory
itself, a good log building of somewhat spacious size; its big room,
divided by a breast-high solid railing, with a small gate in the middle,
serving as office and general receiving-place. Beyond the railing, in the
smaller space toward the north, there stood the great wooden desk of
the factor, its massive book of accounts always open on its face, its
hand-made drawers filled with the documents of the Company. Here
McElroy was wont to take account of the furs brought in, to distribute
recompense, and to enforce the simple law. Attached to this room on
the south was the great store-room, packed with those articles of
merchandise most likely to seem of worth in savage eyes and brought,
with such infinite labour by canoe and portage, from those favoured
lower points whose waters admitted the yearly ships--namely, rifles and
ammunition, knives of all sorts, bolts of bright cloth and beads of the
colour of the rainbow, great iron kettles such as might hang most
fittingly above an open fire, and bright woven garments made by hands
across seas.
At the back of the big room was the small one where McElroy and
Ridgar had their living, furnished scantily with a bed and table, an open
fireplace and crane, some rude, hand-made chairs, and a shelf of books.
And to this post of De Seviere had come in the dusk of the previous
night a little company of people.
They were tired and travel-stained, with their belongings in packs on
the shoulders of the men, and the joy of the venturer in their eager
faces.
From far down in the country below the Rainy