Frontier and pioneer life -- Québec (Province) -- Fiction; Historical fiction; Short stories
reaction from the delirium of excited feeling that had sustained her
having set in. Tenderly Hemlock raised her in his arms, and carrying
her to the edge of the swamp, scooped up sufficient water to bathe her
forehead. A few anxious minutes passed, when the pallor began to pass
away, and suddenly opening her eyes, Maggie asked, “What of the dog?”
“Never mind Toga; are you hurt?”
“No; are you?”
“I am as well as ever, and had not my foot slipped after striking the
bear, would have spared you what you did.”
“That does not matter,” said Maggie, simply, “it was God that put it
into my silly head to get the gun and it was His strength that gave the
blow--not mine.”
“I care not for your God,” answered Hemlock in a hollow voice, “I have
known too many who profess to be His followers to believe in Him.”
“Dinna speak sae,” pleaded Maggie.
“Yesterday,” Hemlock went on, “I met the topped crow that clings to Oka
while taking from a squaw her last beaver-skins to say masses for her
dead husband, and I cursed him to his teeth as a deceiver that he may
eat the corn and give back to his dupes the cob.”
Unheeding his words, Maggie rose and went towards the dog, which was
still alive, and began to stroke its head. Its eyes, however, sought
not her but his master, and when Hemlock put down his hand, the dying
animal feebly tried to lick it. At this sign of affection, the eyes of
Hemlock moistened, and falling on his knees he alternately patted the
dog and shook his unhurt paw. “My Toga, my old friend, my help in many
a hunt, my comrade when we were alone for weeks in the wilderness, are
you too going to leave me? You are dying, as the Indian’s dog should
die, in the fury of the hunt. A claw of the bear I shall wrap in a
piece of my wampum belt and put into your mouth, so that Spotted Fawn
may know whose dog you were, and you will serve her and follow her
until I join you in the happy hunting-ground--and that will not be
long.”
As if sensible of what he said the dog whimpered, and with a last
effort placed its head in his outstretched hands. Then it gave a kick
or two, and died.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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