The Hunted Outlaw, or, Donald Morrison, the Canadian Rob Roy Part 8

The latter's best friends now saw there could only be one ending. Donald might not be taken alive. But he would be taken, alive or dead. That was clear. The Government could not now retreat. The expedition must be carried to a successful issue. Whatever hope there was for Donald if brought to trial now, there would be none if he shed more blood. But Donald was past reasoning with. These considerations, urged again and again, fell upon dull ears. "I am determined," he said, "to fight it out." He said this with firmly compressed lips. It was useless to persuade.

The expedition was divided into three parties. To cordon the woods would have required an army. The points covered were Stornaway (Major Dugas'

headquarters), Gould and Marsden. Photographs of the outlaw were obtained and distributed among the men. The roads were mud, and the woods filled with soft snow. Infinite difficulty was experienced at every turn. The men were not prepared for roughing it. They required long boots and snowshoes. They had neither. Detective Carpenter, indeed, essayed the "sifters," but he could make little progress, and he did not see the man whose name was upon every lip, and who had just declared to the enterprising reporter who had penetrated to his fastness, "that he would never be taken alive." The several parties contented themselves with scouring the roads, watching the railroad, and searching the houses of sympathizers. This continued for a week, night and day. There was no result. The men suffered great privations. But the duty was new, the adventure was exciting, and the element of peril lent spice to it. And then, was there not the consideration of $3,000? So, at Gould, and Stornaway the men made merry in the few hours' rest allotted to them.

CHAPTER XXIX. DONALD IN THE WOODS OF MEGANTIC.

This romantic region has been proudly termed the Switzerland of Canada.

Its majestic hills--so grandly rugged--its placid lakes, and its dense and undulating forests lend an indescribable enchantment to the companion and lover of nature, who for the first time beholds their supreme beauty. The tree-topped hills in their alt.i.tude are at times lost in the clouds. The lumberman has not yet ventured to their summits.

He contents himself with a house in a more convenient and safer spot.

The monotony of the prevailing quietness around these spots is only broken by the tiny little stream as it meanders on its course to the bottom, where it refreshes the weary traveller who may perchance pa.s.s that way. Tableland there is none except little patches of less than an acre. The environments of this region are peculiarly suited to the nature and tastes of the settlers, who will tell you that they would not change them for all the gold you could offer. The means of access to the villages, away from the railway, are extremely poor. The roads--if they can be so called--offer little inducement to the tourist. The woods adapt themselves to the security of the fugitive at all times and during all seasons. In summer the verdant branches darken the surroundings, while in the winter months the drooping boughs, appealing in their solitude to nature, are sufficient in their loneliness to convince one that to penetrate into their midst is by no means a safe venture.

Yet it was here that Donald spent his days and nights at this period.

Did Donald hesitate whether his bed was to be on feathers or branches?

No. His friends were always his first consideration, and did he for a moment think that by spending a night at a friend's cabin he would endanger their hospitality, he would quietly retire to the woods. His bed consisted of a few balsam branches spread rudely on the ground, with the overhanging boughs pulled down and by some means or other transformed into a bower. This as a means of protection. When the snow covered the ground to the depth of several feet, Donald did not change his couch, but he made the addition of a blanket, which, next to his firearms, he considered his greatest necessity. He slept well, excepting when he was awakened by the roar of a bear or some other wild animal.

Then he simply mounted a tree, and with revolver c.o.c.ked, awaited his would-be intruder. His life in the woods--so full of exciting events--was pleasant and safe. He never for a moment believed that he could be caught were he to remain hidden among the towering pines.

Often--strong man as he was--would he allow his feelings to overcome him when thinking of the possibilities which he believed life might have had in store for him. The constant mental strain under which he found himself seemed to affect but lightly his keen sense of vivacity. Wearily did he pa.s.s some of his time amidst the verdancy of the woods. The sun often rose and set unheeded by the fugitive. When darkness set in he would furtively steal out to a friend's hut, where he would partic.i.p.ate in the frugal supper, and afterwards engage in the family wors.h.i.+p, which is never forgotten by the Highlanders.

He was always welcome wherever he went. He had no fear of being betrayed. He knew his friends, and trusted them. Were he invited to share the couch of his host, he would first ascertain whether all was safe, and then stealthily enter.

CHAPTER x.x.x. SECOND WEEK OF THE SEARCH--MAJOR DUGAS BECOMES SEVERE.

A week was gone. Donald had not been caught. Major Dugas' policy of conciliation had won personal regard. It had not caused the slightest wavering among Donald's friends. The very men to whom the Major talked every day knew his hiding-place, and could have placed their hands upon him at an hour's notice. They made no sign. Every fresh measure of the authorities was known to Donald, and during the first week--devoted, as we have said, to a rigorous search of the farmhouses likely to be visited by the fugitive--the police repeatedly reached his hiding-place only to find that the bird had just taken wing!

Major Dugas was in his room at the Stornaway hotel. A severe look was in his eye. He had tried conciliation. That had failed. It was idle to expect any a.s.sistance from the people. The better sort--perhaps all of them--would have been glad if the fugitive had surrendered, but they were not going to help the authorities to induce him to do so. Very well. Then they, must be punished for conniving at his outlawry.

High Constable Bissonnette entered for orders.

"I have determined," said the Major, "to arrest all who may be suspected of harboring Morrison. This measure will probably bring the people to their senses. But for their help he must surrender. When that is removed, I am hopeful that we can take him without bloodshed. I will issue the necessary warrants, and I will hand them over to you for execution. The measure is a severe one, but the circ.u.mstances justify it."

The High Constable looked ruefully at his clothing, torn and covered with mud. M. Bissonnette had ample energy. He entered upon the hunt with a light heart. He had not spared himself, and had even ventured into the wood without either long boots or snow-shoes. He was fatigued and dilapidated, but he had not caught Donald.

"All right, your honor," said the High Constable, when the Major has signed a batch of warrants, "I will have these attended to at once."

The High Constable was as good as his word.

The prominent friends of Donald were arrested and conveyed to Sherbrooke Jail, bail being refused.

Major Dugas had committed an error. This measure, undertaken with the proper motive of putting an end to the struggle by depriving the outlaw of all chance of help, was impolitic. It accomplished nothing. The men were arrested, but the women remained. The shelters still remained for the fugitive. A bitter feeling now grew in the common breast against the police--a feeling which the women, whose sympathies were with the outlaw, and who resented the arrest of their husbands, fathers, and brothers, did their utmost to encourage. The police found it hopeless to get a sc.r.a.p of information. The common people even refused to fraternize with them in the evenings when they were gathered round the bar-room of the village hotel.

During this second week the police made a great effort to locate the fugitive. There were constant rumors regarding his whereabouts. He had been seen at Gould. He had slept last night at his Father's house. He had been seen on the edge of the wood. He had been seen to board a train bound for Montreal. The Scotch delight in grim humor. These rumors reached the police at their meals, and there was a scramble for firearms and a rush for the wagons. They reached them at midnight, while they were dreaming of terrific encounters with murderous outlaws in the heart of the forest, and there was a wild rush into the darkness. A few of Donald's nearest friends, who had escaped arrest, and started the rumors to favor the movements of the outlaw, laughed sardonically at the labors they imposed upon the police.

CHAPTER x.x.xI. "MANY WATERS CANNOT QUENCH LOVE."

"Had we never loved sae kindly, Had we never loved sae blindly, Never met and never parted, We had ne'er been broken-hearted."

Ideal love does not ask conventional recognition. Love is not comfort, nor house, nor lands, nor the tame delights of use and wont. Love is sacrifice. Always ask love to pour out its gifts upon the altar of sacrifice. This is to make love divine. But fill the cup of love with comfort, and certainty, and calm days of ease, and you make it poor and cheap. The zest of love is uncertainty. When love has to breast the h.e.l.lespont it feels its most impa.s.sioned thrill. Let there be distance, and danger, and separation and tears in love. Let there be dull certainty, and custom stales its dearest delights.

Love is worthiest when it asks no requital. Minnie knew that all was over. She received short notes from Donald from time to time, and the newspapers kept her informed of the progress of events. She clearly perceived that if Donald did not give himself up, one of the two things must happen--he would either be killed himself by the police, or he would kill one or more of his pursuers, with the certainty of being ultimately caught, and probably hung. In her letters she implored him to give himself up, and not further incense the Government, which was not disposed to be implacable. Finding all her entreaties unavailing, she determined to visit him. This was a bold resolution. It was carried out without hesitation. A more sophisticated nature would have asked--"Will this seem modest?" Modesty itself never asks such a question. Modesty is not conscious. There is no blush on its cheek. Minnie believed that if she could see Donald, she could persuade him to give himself up.

We won't tell you what Minnie wore, nor how she got to Marsden, nor what fears she endured, lest the police, suspecting her as a stranger, should follow her, and discover Donald's whereabouts.

Minnie reached Marsden in safety. It was in the afternoon.

She had written a brief note to Donald, telling him that she was coming.

The meeting took place in his father's house, the old people keeping guard, so as to be able to warn the fugitive should any stranger approach the house.

"Donald!"

"Minnie!"

Then they shook hands.

A mutual instinct caused them to shrink from endearments. Donald was brown, thin, and weary-looking. His pistols were in his pockets, and his rifle slung by his side. He had just come in from the woods.

Minnie looked at him, and the calmness which she thought she had schooled herself to maintain deserted her. She burst into tears.

"Oh! Donald, Donald," she cried, "why will you not end this? If you ever loved me, I beg of you to give yourself up, and stand your trial. Your friends will see that you get fair play. I never believed you guilty of murder. From what I can hear outside, n.o.body believes such a thing. That you should have taken a life is dreadful--dreadful! but that you took it in self-defence I fully believe. For G.o.d's sake, Donald, let the struggle end. You will be killed; or, carried away by pa.s.sion, you may take another life, and then think of your terrible position. Can I move you? Once I could. I love you in this terrible hour as dearly as ever, and I would to G.o.d I could spare you what you must now suffer. But let me try to save you from yourself. Listen to reason. Give yourself up to Major Dugas. Your friends will procure the best legal advice, and who knows but that you may still have a future before you. Let me urge you,"

and she went up to him, and laid her hand upon his arm, while the tears streamed down her cheeks.

Donald took her hand, and kissed it. He was greatly moved. "I can't, Minnie," he said. "I can't do it. I would never get a fair trial. I feel it. No, once arrested, they would either keep me in jail for ever, or hang me. I have baffled them now for nearly a year, and I can baffle them still. They must give up at last."

"But have you not heard," Minnie said, "that they are bringing on fifteen more men from Quebec?"

"Oh, yes," said Donald, smiling sadly it seemed, "I am kept well informed, though they have arrested most of my friends. Let them bring on a hundred men. They can't take me without I'm betrayed."

"And I saw in the papers," said Minnie, with a look of horror, "that if these failed, they would employ bloodhounds against you."

Donald flushed. "I can't believe they would dare to do such a thing," he said. "Public opinion would not stand it. No, I'm not afraid of that."

"Then, must my visit be in vain, Donald?" Minnie pleaded.

"I may be acting unwisely, Minnie," Donald responded, "but I can't agree to give myself up. I feel that I must fight it out as I am doing. What the end will be G.o.d only knows. But I want you to forget me, Minnie.

Forget me, and learn, by and by, to be happy in other companions.h.i.+ps.

You are young, and life is before you. I never thought we would end like this. But it must be. I can't recall what has happened. I am an outlaw.

Perhaps the scaffold awaits me. Your love would have blessed my life. I suppose fate would not have it so."

"Donald, Donald." It was the voice of his mother, who now came quickly in exclaiming, "they are coming towards the house; away to the bush; quick."