White Feather 3-Book Bundle. Jennifer Dance
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He stiffly bent over and gently lifted the boy’s downturned face to meet his own. “God go with you, son.”
George felt a warm glow in his chest. It was a sensation that he hadn’t experienced for a long time.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Top Boy Frank was the only one to see George disappear under the seat of the cart. He didn’t tell. Other boys gradually became aware of George’s absence, and by bedtime everyone in the junior dormitory knew. They all ran the risk of punishment for aiding and abetting, but despite this they agreed to bundle clothes into the empty bed and cover them with the blanket. It fooled Mother Hall, who had become increasingly lax with bedtime prayers. She turned out the lights without suspecting a thing.
It wasn’t until the following morning when the boys knelt at their bedsides that the absence of 366 was apparent. All the boys in the Grade Three work crew and those in the junior dormitory were threatened, caned, and threatened some more, but none of them was able to tell when, where, or how George had made his escape, because none of them knew what had happened.
By midday the Indian agent arrived, the midsection of his horse barely visible under the supplies. He was whistling a tune, delighted at the prospect of tracking a child. He enjoyed the challenge of pursuit.
Mother Hall gave him George’s crumpled nightshirt. He offered it to the dog. “Take a good sniff. That’s who we’re after.”
The dog wagged his tail enthusiastically. The agent tried to pack the nightshirt into his already overstuffed saddlebags, but then tore off a strip and pushed it deep into the pocket of his coat.
He yanked the saddle’s cinch a few inches tighter and refastened it, the horse announcing his displeasure by raising a hind hoof and flattening his ears. Then the agent loosened his own belt buckle, letting it out to the final hole so that his trousers slung comfortably underneath his belly.
“He’s got an overnight head start,” Mother Hall warned.
The Indian agent put his foot in the stirrup and started to haul himself into the saddle. “You know I always bring ’em back. So which one am I after?”
“Three-six-six.”
“Horse Thief!” he exclaimed, dropping his weight heavily and causing the horse to grunt. A large grin spread across the agent’s face. “Mrs. Hall, I’m going to really enjoy catching this one. Nobody gets away from me, and especially not Horse Thief.”
Mother Hall waved. “Good luck.”
“Aw, luck has nothing to do with it,” he replied, passing though the gate and pushing the horse into a gentle canter. “It’s skill, my dear, pure skill.”
At first the hound was unable to pick up the scent, but the agent guessed the boy would head home, so he took the trail toward the reserve. He was not blind to the spectacular scenery around him. The fall colours were past their peak, but a few fragile leaves still clung to the branches, and occasional splashes of orange and scarlet fluttered back and forth like Monarch butterflies. He looked up at the clear blue sky and reflected on the beauty of this vast land he now called home. How clean everything was compared with the squalor of London. He rarely thought of his previous life, but now he cast his mind back to the one room his whole family had lived in, so close to the Thames that at low tide the stink of slimy mud pervaded even the smell of frying sausages.
He wondered what his brothers were doing, what he himself would be doing had he not had the guile to cheat another young man out of his boat passage to the new land. He congratulated himself on his accomplishment. Never again would he doff his hat at landed gentry. Having to learn the peculiar Algonquian language in order to communicate with the savages was a small price to pay.
With the sun on his shoulders, the rustle of leaves underfoot, and the smell of horse sweat rising to his nostrils, an uncharacteristic peace settled on his soul. He breathed deeply and sighed. Life was good.
The hound, having found no scent of the quarry, turned to chasing squirrels. But as soon as he caught the boy’s scent, he forgot all about the squirrels and ran with his nose to the ground.
Horse and rider followed, swinging into an easy canter that ate up the miles. When they reached the place where the boy had left the trail to make a fire and sleep for the night, the agent dismounted and stretched while the dog sniffed at the depression in the vegetation. The agent didn’t see the second depression a little deeper into the tangled bush, but the dog had found it at once, enticed by the strong odour that was almost canine, yet wild. It made him tremble. He clamped his tail firmly between his legs.
“Come on, dog. The boy’s long gone.”
The hound was soon following the boy’s scent again, all fear forgotten. He moved fast, racing ahead of horse and rider, who were struggling to keep up. Suddenly he slithered to a halt and backed up. The same wild smell was all around him. It was overpowering. His hackles rose and he bolted back down the trail with a yelp.
The horse stopped dead, shied sideways, and wheeled to the left.
“What the —”
The Indian agent thudded painfully to the ground and the panicked horse galloped toward home. Cursing, the man picked up his hat and slammed it furiously against his leg. Unless he could catch his horse it was going to be a very long walk home.
It was then that he saw the wolf, bigger and redder than any wolf he had ever seen. The animal was half concealed in the bush not ten yards away, staring intently with amber eyes, one ear erect, the other bent in half. In the animal’s cautious but inquisitive gaze the man discerned violence and savagery.
He reached for his gun, but it wasn’t there — it was on the horse! He wanted to run, but his knees were buckling and he knew the great creature would be upon him in a single bound. He’d heard that wolves couldn’t climb trees, so he looked around for one with low branches, but fear of fangs tearing at his nether regions kept him on the ground. He was totally powerless and he knew it. He stood on shaking legs, contemplating his death and the pain that might be involved.
He urinated in his trousers.
As quickly as it had appeared, the wolf was gone.
The sun was low in the sky when the farm carts bumped down the rutted street and pulled into the town square. The Indian agent was waiting for them, rubbing the bruise on his rear end. It hadn’t taken him long to find his horse, nibbling grass at the side of the trail. Worried that the wolf might reappear, he had mounted up immediately and ridden as fast as his sore backside allowed to the nearest town, plotting revenge on the creature that dared to terrorize and humiliate him.
“I’m afraid to tell you —” he started, raising his voice and holding up his hands until the small crowd paid attention “— that one of them poor little Injun run-a-ways from the Bruce County School just got eaten by a wolf.”
The women’s hands flew to their mouths.
“I tried to save the boy. I did the best I could. But out of nowhere a whole pack of wolves showed up and ripped that poor boy limb from limb!”
He dug in his pocket for the ragged strip of nightgown that he had stained with earth and squashed tomato. He held it aloft. “In no time there was nothing left but this!”
The crowd was aghast. The Indian agent had them right where he wanted them.
“Now they’ve had a taste of Injun-boy blood, they’ll be back for more. They’ll come for our babies and our children.”
Suddenly everyone was talking at once, their voices angry and insistent.
“I shot two wolves last month,” a man shouted. “The bounty’s gonna come in real handy.”