O you're ordered to Fort Mamatawan, Stuart?”
McCloud, the factor at Fort Albany, smiled mysteriously.
“Do your realize?” he continued, “that you'll be living within three miles of the handsomest woman in North Country?”
Gordon Stuart, late factor at Whale River, far on the East coast, and bound for his new billet by way of the Albany and Drowning rivers, looked quizically at the speaker.
“Handsomest woman in the North at Mamatawan—what do you mean, McCloud?”
“I mean just that, man. Buried up on the east coast, you doubtless haven't heard of Mademoiselle Lecroix; but let me tell you, she's the sole topic of conversation here and at Moose when Company men get together.”
“Daughter of the French factor at their Drowning River post, I suppose?” suggested Stuart
“Yes. Hortense Lecroix is her name. Pretty name isn't it? And that's all there is to the story, old man. You'll be lucky if you every get more than a long-distance look at her. Old Lecroix watches her like a wolf— mix with our people at all. You'll have the pleasure of wintering in that God-forsaken country and never so much as a Bon jour, mademoiselle!''' to break the monotony. Fraser was at Mamatawan three years and got just one look at her.”
“Have you seen her yourself, McCloud?”
“Oh, yes, she comes down with the fur-brigade to the French post here every summer.”
“Is she really a beauty, then?” Stuart was growing interested in his fair neighbor-to-be through the white silence of the coming winter on the lonely Drowning
“Man, she's nothing less. If I were her father, I'd keep her in a ten-foot dog-stockade, with good-looking women as scarce as they are in this country.”
Days later, the canoe of the new factor of Fort Mamatawan turned into the portage trail at the foot of the first white-water above the fork of the Albany and Drowning rivers. The Cree voyageurs were unloading the craft when suddenly Baptiste, the head man, looked up with a “Quay! Quay!”Stuart turned from a pack he was lifting from the boat, to see a big Peterboro canoe emerging from the forest on the shoulders of four Indians .
Franch Companee fur-cano'!” exclaimed the head man, turning to Stuart.
The heart of the factor speeded its beat as he recalled the words of McCloud at Albany: “She comes with the fur every summer.”
“What luck!” he thought “She'll be with this outfit. I'll have a good look now.”
Barring a civil exchange of the Cree salutation, “Quay! Quay!” between the French company crew as they laid their canoe on the beach, and the Hudson's Bay men, there was a marked absence of the customary chatter and handshaking which follows the meeting of canoes in the North. The rivalry of the companies for the fur-trade wa plainly reflected in the attitude of their men.
When they had unloaded, Stuart's crew swung their canoe to their shoulders and started over the carry. But Stuart himself had no intention of abandoning his strategic position at the end of the portage. She would doubtless cross at once and wait on the shore for the loading of her. There he would have the chance to prove the truth of the gossip at Albany. There he would stay. So he proceeded to mark time by repacking his private duffle bags.
Shortly the French crew went back for their fur-packs, leaving Stuart alone.
Out of the spruce, down that age-traveled Indian portage, he mused, must come this Rose of the North. Eight years he had spent among the Eskimos and Crees in the solitudes of the east coast. It was eight years since he had been outside and seen a comely white woman at the settlements, for the few white women at Fort George and Whale River, whatever their virtues, were hardly beautiful. So he waited, thrilled with the thought of the daughter of his future rival; Stuart was but twenty-eight, and had imagination.
Presently he heard a woman's laughter back in the forest, and shortly a black-bearded man of middle age appeared, followed by a girl.
Stuart rose, and removing his felt hat, said: “Good morning!”
Lecroix nodded curtly, muttering an inaudible reply; but the girl, meeting the stranger's admiring eyes frankly, returned in the most musical voice Stuart had ever heard, a gracious: “Bon jour, monsieur!”As they passed him, standing bareheaded, a vision of blue-black hair, knotted low on the neck, dusky eyes, and white, regular teeth etched itself into the memory of the Hudson's Bay man.
The two continued up the shore while Stuart's eager gaze followed the graceful figure of the girl, the lines of which not even the heavy corduroy jacket and skirt could quite hide.